The moment the heavy double doors creaked open, Alika knew something was terribly wrong.
This wasn't the same hall she had walked through days ago. The space felt warped—elongated, darker, filled with shadows that breathed. Crimson light poured from the dozens of tall, black candles arranged in a circle around the center of the room. Their flames twisted unnaturally, as if recoiling from something unseen.
The scent of the air struck her like a slap. Dried herbs, melted wax… and blood. A lot of it.
Her stomach turned.
Ethan's grip on her wrist was like iron. He didn't speak as he dragged her across the cold marble floor. His eyes were empty. His jaw clenched tight.
"Ethan," she rasped. "Please. Don't do this."
Still nothing. He walked like a man in a trance.
The throne came into view.
Made of blackened wood, ancient and grotesque, it looked more like a sacrificial altar than a seat. Twisting symbols adorned the arms and legs—serpents devouring their tails, wolves with human eyes, flames turned inward. Blood-red velvet cushioned the center, inviting and terrifying all at once.
Beside the throne stood Margaret Blackwell, her figure tall and severe, dressed in a high-collared mourning gown. Her gloved hands clutched a ceremonial dagger. Cold steel and colder intentions reflected in her eyes.
"Just in time," she said. Her voice was calm. Controlled. "The veil is thinnest tonight. She's waiting."
"She?" Alika asked, already knowing the answer.
Margaret smiled without warmth. "The one who wore the crown before you."
Alika froze in place.
"You're not putting me in that throne," she hissed. "This is insane. This isn't a wedding—it's a damn ritual."
Margaret's expression didn't change. "There's no going back now. Your vows sealed more than just your marriage. Your blood—your presence—woke her."
Ethan finally let go of her wrist. Alika stumbled forward, catching herself just before she fell. Her knees hit the stone floor in front of the throne.
> Why is he letting this happen?
She turned to look at Ethan, but he wasn't looking at her. He was staring straight ahead, shoulders rigid. A flicker of pain crossed his face—but then it was gone.
Something inside him had already broken.
"Sit," Margaret ordered.
Alika didn't move.
A strange pressure began to build in the room. The air thickened, pushing against her chest. Her heartbeat thumped louder in her ears. She could hear something—whispers—so faint, like they came from inside the walls.
"Begin the chant," Margaret said, stepping forward. "Or she'll come without your invitation."
Alika clenched her fists. Her fingers trembled.
She remembered the hidden journal. The forbidden words scrawled in blood, tucked between pages stained with tears and burnt wax.
She had memorized the reversal. The words that might break the bond.
Taking a shaky breath, she began to recite them aloud.
> "Let this bond be undone…
Let the veil be closed…
Let the blood be returned to dust…
My soul is not an offering…
My will is mine alone…"
The candles flickered violently.
A low hum vibrated through the floor, like something massive was stirring beneath.
Suddenly—a cold hand clamped around her ankle.
She screamed.
She looked down. A rotting, grey hand had emerged from a crack beneath the throne. Its nails were long and broken. Skin sloughed off the wrist like wet paper. The hand yanked.
Another hand joined it.
Alika was dragged backward across the floor. Her nails scraped stone. She screamed Ethan's name.
He lunged forward, grabbing her arms, pulling against the force beneath.
"Hold on to me!" he shouted.
"Something's down there!" she sobbed.
"I see it!"
More hands appeared.
They clawed at her legs, her waist, trying to pull her into the darkness below the throne.
Then—a sharp gust of cold wind swept through the room.
A flash of blue light erupted in front of her.
The hands screeched and vanished back beneath the floor like smoke fleeing sunlight.
And there—standing in the glow—was a woman.
Young. Pale. Wearing a once-white bridal gown now soaked in dried blood. Her eyes glowed faintly blue, filled with sorrow.
Alika gasped. She recognized the face from a portrait she'd once seen in the hallway.
Clara.
Ethan's voice broke as he whispered, "Clara…?"
The ghost nodded.
"I couldn't stop her, Ethan," she said softly. "I tried. But mother... she gave me to her."
Margaret's face twisted in rage. "You were a failed vessel. You have no right to interfere."
Clara ignored her. She turned to Alika.
"Finish the chant. But be careful. There's more than one spirit awake now."
Suddenly, Alika's body seized. Her head snapped back, eyes rolling white.
A voice echoed from her mouth—but it wasn't hers.
> "She promised me freedom.
She gave me death.
Now I will wear this one instead."
Her smile was cruel. Her eyes—black as void.
"She's inside her," Ethan whispered in horror.
He ran to Alika, cupping her face. "Alika. It's me. Come back. Please fight her."
Alika's hands trembled. Her lips quivered.
Then, suddenly—
A single tear slid down her cheek.
And she screamed: "GET OUT OF MY BODY!"
A blinding pulse of white-blue energy exploded from her chest.
The force sent Margaret and Ethan flying backward. Candles snuffed out all at once. The throne cracked with a groan.
Alika collapsed to her knees, gasping, blood dripping from her nose.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Is it… over?" she whispered.
But Margaret rose, panting, furious. "You've broken the seal. You stupid girl. You've awakened her."
A deep crack echoed from behind the throne.
A hidden panel slid open.
From the shadows, a mirror emerged—tall, arched, framed in twisted black iron. The surface wasn't glass, but something darker—black as oil, rippling like water.
In the reflection stood Alika.
But not her.
This version of her wore Clara's ruined wedding dress. Her eyes glowed red. Her skin shimmered like porcelain.
And standing behind that version—was another shape.
A faceless bride. Her veil stained with blood. Her lips sewn shut with gold thread. Her hand lifted—and pressed against the inside of the mirror.
The glass cracked.
Once.
Twice.
Ethan grabbed Alika's hand. "We have to go. Now."
But before they could move—
Margaret stepped between them, eyes wild. "You opened the gate! You brought her back!"
The mirror shattered.
An explosion of red mist and glinting shards engulfed the room. Clara's spirit screamed as she was dragged back into the broken mirror, her fingers reaching toward Ethan until the last second.
Then—silence.
Alika opened her eyes slowly.
The floor was covered in shattered pieces of mirror.
She leaned down and looked into one.
Her reflection stared back.
Except it wasn't just her.
The reflection blinked—and smiled.
But Alika hadn't moved.
Each shard around her showed a different version of herself—some smiling, some weeping, one laughing silently with blood dripping down her chin.
Her heart pounded.
"She didn't just come through the mirror," Ethan said quietly.
Alika looked at him.
His face was pale. Eyes full of dread.
"She's inside now," he whispered. "Inside you."