The blade was heavier than it looked.
Eleanor held it at arm's length in the pale dawn light filtering through her window. The black metal seemed to drink in the sun rather than reflect it, like it belonged to the night. Ancient runes curled across its length—language she didn't know but somehow understood. Words that weren't words. Promises. Warnings.
In her dreams, she had wielded this blade like an extension of her own arm. In those dreams, blood sprayed across her face, and laughter echoed around her like a chorus of madness. She had woken each morning gasping, one foot still caught in that other world.
Now the blade was here. Real. Solid. Waiting.
Maera had left without another word, slipping away like a shadow at sunrise.
Velmont was changing. The townsfolk no longer looked at her with suspicion, but something worse: reverence. As if she were already crowned. As if the Queen had returned not in spirit, but in flesh—hers.
The mirror confirmed it.
Each day, her eyes darkened further. The deep brown of her childhood had been swallowed by shadow, turning violet at the edges. Her skin grew paler, smoother, her features sharpening subtly into something regal… and inhuman.
The transformation was slow, yet unmistakable.
She tried to fight it.
She tossed the blade into the fireplace. The flames hissed and died.
She buried it in the woods. It was back in her room by morning.
She threw it into the river. It whispered to her in her sleep, called her by name, asked her why she had abandoned it.
It was no longer just a weapon.
It was a part of her.
On the seventh night, she returned to the crypt.
Not out of curiosity—but compulsion.
The Queen was waiting.
No longer a phantom, no longer sleeping in a tomb. She stood amidst the flickering braziers in her full form—tall, beautiful, terrible. Her hair was as black as spilled ink, her gown of smoke and shadow.
She didn't smile this time.
"You've stalled long enough."
Eleanor's fists clenched. "I didn't ask for this."
"And yet here you are," the Queen replied, voice like silk stretched over steel. "I bled, burned, and betrayed heaven itself to preserve my blood. You are the echo of that sacrifice. You are my legacy."
"I'm a person," Eleanor snapped. "Not your puppet."
"You're both."
Eleanor stepped forward. "What do you want from me?"
The Queen's eyes—black holes glittering with stars—seemed to pierce through her soul.
"To reclaim what was mine. Kingdoms forgotten. Thrones shattered. I ruled before time wore names. They buried me in silence. Now… I rise again."
"I won't help you destroy the world."
The Queen laughed—a chilling, lovely sound.
"Who said anything about destruction? I want to reshape it."
"No."
The Queen stepped closer, her cold hands resting on Eleanor's shoulders.
"You will."
Eleanor didn't move. Couldn't.
In that moment, a memory that wasn't hers blossomed in her mind—rivers of fire, cities kneeling, a blade lifted high as red rain fell from the sky. Her body remembered. Her blood remembered.
And a part of her… wanted it.
The next morning, the veil was thinner.
Eleanor walked the streets of Velmont and saw things she hadn't before. Faces beneath hoods. Eyes too wide. Mouths stitched shut with golden thread. The town had changed—or perhaps it had always been this way, hidden from her sight.
Children watched her with smiles too sharp. An old man offered her a rose that bled from its stem. A woman pressed a dead bird into her hand and whispered, "For the Queen."
Velmont was awakening. Or maybe falling back asleep into a dream it had never left.
She needed to leave.
She tried to hike through the woods. They twisted in impossible loops, always bringing her back to the chapel.
She tried to walk the mountain trail. A beast watched her from the trees—tall as a man, cloaked in mist, its eyes burning like twin moons.
She was sealed in. Not with walls. With fate.
That night, she met him.
He appeared at the edge of the graveyard, leaning on a cane of silver bone, dressed in a dark gray coat and a hat with a wide brim. His eyes were mismatched—one human blue, the other gold and slitted like a serpent's.
He smiled like a man who had lived a thousand lives.
"Eleanor Grayson," he said.
"You know me?"
"I've been watching."
"Who are you?"
"Names are dangerous things. But you may call me Ashryn."
She didn't trust him. Not for a second. But he was the first thing in this town that felt alive. Separate from the Queen.
"You're not one of them," she said.
"No," he agreed. "I'm worse."
"Why are you here?"
"To offer a choice."
Eleanor crossed her arms. "I've had enough of those."
"You think the Queen is your curse. But you're wrong. She is just one piece on the board. There are others. Kings. Monsters. Gods long dead and not yet born. You're at the center, Eleanor. The heir of a forgotten throne. If you don't rise, something worse will."
"And I'm just supposed to trust you?"
He tapped his cane once against the ground. The air shimmered—and for a moment, the veil between worlds tore.
Eleanor saw a throne of rot. A crown made of living worms. A man with no skin screaming songs in a voice that turned the stars black.
When it was over, she was on her knees, retching.
Ashryn crouched beside her. "That's what comes if you do nothing."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Play the game. Pretend to be her heir. Learn her secrets. And when the moment is right… kill her."
Eleanor stared at him. "I can't kill her."
"Then you'll become her."
The days passed like years.
Eleanor played the role. She walked among the townsfolk. She touched the blade. She stood beside the Queen at dusk as offerings were laid at their feet—blood, teeth, broken bones.
She learned the ancient tongue, spoken in reverse and breathed through clenched teeth.
She drank from the cup of echoes. She read the black scripture sewn from flesh.
She changed.
But she remembered Ashryn's warning. She gathered knowledge. She watched for weakness.
And the more time she spent with the Queen, the more she realized something.
The Queen was not whole.
There were cracks. Subtle ones. Gaps in her memory. Moments when she gazed into the fire and whispered a name Eleanor couldn't quite catch. She spoke of betrayal, not in rage but sorrow.
And in her sleep, the Queen wept.
Eleanor began to suspect that the Queen was not just a monster—but a prisoner too.
On the thirteenth night, Eleanor found the hidden chamber.
Beneath the chapel, deeper than the crypt, behind a wall that wept blood when touched. The blade guided her. The runes lit the way.
Inside, a circle of mirrors surrounded a black altar. Each mirror showed a different version of herself—some younger, some older, some twisted beyond recognition.
In the center was a book. Bound in human skin. Written in blood.
She opened it.
Her name was the first word.
The Queen's real name was the last.
Speaking it aloud would shatter the pact.
But it came at a cost.
Ashryn appeared again, flickering like a flame.
"You found it," he said.
"Her true name."
"Are you ready?"
Eleanor's hand trembled. "No. But I have to try."
He nodded. "Be careful. She was once a god."
Eleanor turned the page.
The mirrors cracked.
That night, the Queen summoned her.
They stood on the edge of Velmont, where the forest met the mist.
"Do you know why I chose you?" the Queen asked.
"Because I'm your blood."
"No," the Queen said. "Because you're strong."
Eleanor waited.
"When they turned against me, it wasn't fear that drove them. It was envy. They saw what I could do. What I was. And they wanted it for themselves. So they buried me. But they couldn't kill me. Because they needed me. Just as you do."
"I'm not you."
The Queen looked at her with something close to sadness.
"You will be. Or you will die."
Eleanor stepped forward. "Then kill me."
The Queen raised a hand. Then hesitated.
"You have her eyes," she whispered. "The one who betrayed me."
And in that moment, Eleanor understood.
The Queen wasn't looking at her.
She was looking at someone else.
Someone she had once loved.
The blade pulsed in Eleanor's grip.
She spoke the name.
"Aeryth Kal'Virelle."
The wind died.
The Queen's body stiffened. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
The world cracked like ice.
A scream echoed through eternity—and then the Queen vanished.
The blade fell from Eleanor's hand.
Silence returned.
She woke in her room.
The sun was shining. The sky was blue.
Velmont was empty.
No townsfolk. No whispers. Just dust and silence.
Eleanor walked the streets alone. The chapel was gone. The crypt sealed. The forest parted for her.
She reached the edge of the town.
And saw a road.
Open.
Free.
She could leave.
But she didn't.
The blade was still with her.
And so was the voice.
Not the Queen's. Not anymore.
Her own.
Not the Queen's. Not anymore.
Her own.
"I am the heir. Not of a throne. But of choice."
She turned away from the road.
And walked into the mist.