The shadow of her Hollow self didn't vanish. It lingered—sometimes in reflections, sometimes in dreams. Elara felt it watching, whispering when she doubted herself.
"You're not strong," it would say. "You're pretending to be what you're afraid of."
And part of her feared it was right.
The Shadow Court called another emergency summit. The rebellion had escalated. Three minor lords had vanished. Rumors spoke of ancient pacts being re‑forged outside Aldric's jurisdiction.
Elara sat beside him at the obsidian council table, her expression calm, but her thoughts sharp.
One of the elders stood. "We demand the pact be nullified. The glyph has awakened too far."
Another followed. "Her presence is destabilizing the Veil."
Aldric stood. "Her presence is the only thing holding it together."
Then a third voice—a new one—rose from the shadows.
"She should not sit at this table. She is not of the blood."
The figure stepped forward, shedding his hood.
Elara's breath caught.
It was Lord Daevos—Aldric's former second-in-command. Tall, cruel-eyed, and long-thought exiled.
"She carries the glyph of the Scribes," Aldric growled. "She holds more right than you ever did."
Daevos smirked. "Then let her prove it. Duel me. One soul-marked to another."