The scent of sulfur still lingered on Mira's skin.
Though the mountain was behind her, its shadows had followed her home.
She walked alone through the Whispering Woods, leaving the Valley of Mourning behind.
Her fingers trembled from magic withdrawal. Her breath fogged in the cold air.
But her eyes—
They were no longer the same.
They burned with memory.
They shimmered with knowledge.
They held echoes of a queen who had once tried to consume the world.
"You didn't destroy her… but you severed the chain."
Those words from the Ashen echoed in her skull.
The Queen was dormant, yes.
But her influence—her cult—had already poisoned the roots of Mira's world.
When Mira reached the outskirts of Veyrum, the once-bustling capital of the human kingdoms, she found something was wrong.
The city gates were shut.
The air smelled of burning sage and dried blood.
And the sky, though cloudless, felt too dark.
Two guards stood at the entrance, cloaked in red rather than the usual silver armor.
"State your name," one barked.
"I am Mira Ardin," she replied calmly. "Daughter of the Blackthorn House."
They exchanged a glance. A long, uncomfortable silence followed.
"We've had no word of your return," said the other. "Your House was… dissolved."
Mira's heart sank.
"What do you mean?"
"By order of the Council. Your family's estate was seized. All records burned. And your name—"
He hesitated.
"Your name is forbidden."
Mira kept her face neutral, but fury boiled beneath her skin.
They had erased her.
While she fought to sever the Queen's soul, her enemies rewrote her story.
She clenched her jaw. "I demand entry. Or would you like to test whether the forbidden name still has power?"
The guards hesitated—but Mira's eyes were too sharp. Too ancient.
Even the Queen's dormant presence gave her a dark authority.
They stepped aside.
But one of them whispered, "You should have stayed dead."
The capital was different.
Streets were cleaner.
Guards patrolled every corner.
Red banners now draped every tower—the sigil of the newly formed Sanctum Council.
And everywhere Mira walked, people turned away.
Not in hatred.
In fear.
Some muttered under their breath.
Others crossed themselves.
One old woman spat on the ground as Mira passed.
"She carries the Queen's curse," the woman hissed.
Mira kept walking.
This was worse than erasure.
This was propaganda.
Someone had turned the people against her.
And there was only one group twisted enough to do that:
The Cult of Ashlight.
At night, Mira found shelter in the ruins of an old clocktower.
She lit no fire.
Ate little.
And sat cross-legged on stone, the Book of Flesh resting in front of her.
She didn't dare open it.
The last time she had, it had drawn her into the Queen's mirror realm.
But tonight… it moved on its own.
A page flipped.
Blood-inked script appeared:
"They speak her name beneath the palace.
In fire. In whispers. In blood."
"They wear your face."
"They drink from the old chalice."
"They prepare her rebirth."
Mira's heart clenched.
The Queen was asleep, not gone.
And her followers—were building her return.
She moved through the city like a ghost.
By day, she wore a veil and traveled the lower districts, listening to gossip.
By night, she hunted whispers—tracking disappearances, dark gatherings, and forbidden rites.
It didn't take long to uncover the pattern.
Girls were vanishing.
First street urchins. Then merchant daughters. Then noblewomen.
All young. All around the full moon.
The guards said nothing.
The Council denied it.
But Mira saw the signs.
At every site of disappearance—
Ash. Burnt sage. Blood markings in the shape of an eye with three lashes.
The Queen's symbol.
Three nights before the next full moon, Mira found the entrance.
A sewer tunnel behind the old cathedral.
Sealed by magic. Hidden by illusion.
But Mira's blood unlocked it.
The stones rippled like water.
The wall opened.
And a cold, putrid wind greeted her—thick with rot and incense.
She stepped into darkness.
The descent was long.
Deeper than any human construction.
Carved in a spiral.
Lit only by candles made of human fat.
Chants echoed off the walls in a language older than time.
"Blood is rebirth."
"She dreams in silence."
"We are her hands."
"We are her fire."
Mira moved silently, her magic cloaking her presence.
At the bottom, she found a chamber.
Massive. Red. Pulsing.
The walls were alive—woven from bone and skin.
And at its center—
An altar.
Upon it lay a girl. Young. Barely fifteen.
Her hands bound. Her mouth sewn shut.
Her eyes wide with terror.
Around her, twelve figures in crimson robes. Their faces masked in gold.
And behind them—
A statue of the Queen.
Perfect. Beautiful. Terrifying.
Mira stepped into the chamber, voice low and cold.
"Let her go."
The cultists froze.
One turned.
A woman. Masked. But Mira knew that voice.
"Ah… the lost daughter returns," the woman said.
Mira's blood ran cold.
It was Lady Venra, her former mentor. Once a trusted advisor of her family.
Now a traitor. A cult priestess.
Venra lifted her mask.
Her face was older. Cracked by time and corruption.
"You shouldn't have come back," she said. "You severed the Queen, yes. But now we are free to make her anew."
"You're sacrificing children," Mira growled.
"We are offering vessels. She must choose her own body."
"She won't take anyone," Mira said, raising her hand. "Because I'll finish what I started."
The room exploded into chaos.
Flames erupted from Mira's fingertips.
Three cultists screamed as their robes ignited.
Others drew blades etched in dark runes.
Mira dodged, rolled, summoned tendrils of shadow to bind their limbs.
Venra chanted in ancient tongue—summoning a beast from the blood pool behind the altar.
A massive, eyeless hound made of molten bones and screams.
Mira fought it with everything she had.
She summoned spikes of light.
Burned its tongue.
Shattered its skull with raw will.
But her power was running dry.
Until—
The Book of Flesh flew open beside her.
A single page ripped itself free.
And burst into black flame.
Mira's veins glowed.
Her body surged.
She spoke a single word in the tongue of the dead:
"Ashk'elvan."
And the hound exploded—a wave of force knocking every cultist to the ground.
Only Venra remained standing.
Her body broken. Her face half-melted.
Yet she smiled.
"You think this ends with me?" she coughed.
"No," Mira whispered.
"I think it ends with her."
She turned to the altar and severed the ropes holding the girl.
The girl collapsed into her arms, sobbing.
"I think it ends when no one fears the dark anymore."
By dawn, Mira had dragged Venra to the palace gates.
Guards surrounded her, weapons drawn.
But Mira threw the woman's broken body to the steps.
"This is what festers beneath your city," she said. "You let her cult rise."
The guards hesitated.
The High Judge emerged from the gates.
An old man. Pale. Hooded.
"You cannot make accusations without proof," he said.
Mira tossed Venra's mask at his feet.
"She confessed. There are bodies. Altars. Sacrifices. Do you want me to draw you a map in blood?"
The Judge's lip curled.
"You're dangerous."
"I'm necessary."
He narrowed his eyes.
"Be careful, girl. There are worse things than the Queen."
Mira smiled darkly.
"I've met them. I've survived them. And if you're hiding one… I'll end you, too."
That night, the city buzzed with rumors.
That the lost daughter had returned.
That she wielded cursed magic. That she burned a secret cult beneath the streets.
Some called her a savior.
Some still called her a witch.
Mira sat atop the clocktower again.
The rescued girl slept safely nearby.
The Book of Flesh rested beside her.
Its pages were quiet.
But its presence… was always listening.
Mira whispered into the night.
"I won't let her come back."
And far below, deep in the earth—
A single eye opened.
And smiled.