Let's get this out of the way:
Belladonna does not share.
Not her throne, not her title, and definitely not her emotionally unstable glitch-ridden almost-fiancé who may or may not have just become the legal embodiment of mythological soup-based reincarnation theology.
"You declared him what?"
The Echo Tribunal tried very hard not to flinch. This was difficult, because Belladonna's tone had the particular cadence of someone who could casually commit high treason with a butter knife and justify it with lineage.
"Shared Sovereign," repeated the Head Arbiter, his voice doing a limbo competition with fear. "Joint ascension. Mask of Echo recognizes both you and Kael as co-ruling echoes of this iteration."
Belladonna blinked. "I'm sorry, are you telling me I now share a divine title with the same man who once flirted with a turnip because he thought it was a person?"
"It was a person," Kael muttered from behind her. "Temporarily."
The Head Arbiter looked at Belladonna like a rabbit cornered by a sentient guillotine. "We did consider separate realms of influence, but the Mask's vote was unanimous."
Belladonna pinched the bridge of her nose. "Let me guess. Soup cult politics again?"
"Actually," the Spoon chimed in, floating smugly between them, "this was pre-soup. Pure metaphysical mask nonsense."
Kael raised a hand. "Can we go back to the part where I'm now royalty again against my will? Also, do we get hats? I feel like this needs hats."
"No," said Belladonna, with the practiced speed of someone who has denied many hat-based power grabs.
They reconvened in the Soup Cult Parliament Hall, which had recently upgraded from "tent with aggressively painted ladles" to "ornate marble amphitheater covered in broth-based murals."
Fluffernox presided from the high chair.
Literally.
It was a high chair. He had refused anything else.
"Order, order," meowed the divine chaos cat, slapping a whisk against a stack of divine decrees. "Today's meeting shall begin with the topic of shared sovereignty, followed by emotional breakdowns, and then snacks."
Kael leaned over to Belladonna. "See? Very professional."
She glared. "I hope the whisk strikes you where your dignity used to be."
"Joke's on you," he whispered, "I never had any."
First on the agenda: define the shared roles of the Echo Sovereigns.
Second: determine if they were legally allowed to hate each other.
Third: soup.
The Cult Elders (which consisted of three nuns, a sentient soup ladle named Gerald, and a turnip wearing a monocle) presented the proposal scroll.
Kael read aloud:
"By divine right of mutually involuntary mask entanglement, Belladonna of the Veiled Rose and Kael of Glitchy Soupness shall henceforth reign as co-Sovereigns of Echo, bound by contract, destiny, and a suspiciously binding potluck clause."
Belladonna stared at it for five full seconds before exhaling the breath of a woman who had once trained to lead armies but now led parades of spoon-waving soup cultists.
"Absolutely not."
"Counterpoint," Kael offered, "I already signed."
"What."
He held up an inkwell.
"It was offered in exchange for a warm pastry and the promise I wouldn't have to attend another masquerade."
Belladonna turned to the Spoon. "You are his lawyer, aren't you?"
"No," said the Spoon, who was definitely his lawyer. "I'm his spiritual consultant-slash-therapist-slash-vessel guardian-slash-baking assistant."
"You're enabling him."
"Yes. But politely."
As per soup law, the co-Sovereigns were required to undergo the Rite of Harmonious Stirring.
This involved cooking a soup together while psychically linking their emotional states.
This was a terrible idea.
The pot sat between them in the sacred kitchen, bubbling ominously. Every emotion fed into it. Every grudge. Every unresolved flirtation. Every time Kael had tripped over Belladonna's expectations like a rogue narrative beat.
Kael added carrots. They sizzled with awkward tension.
Belladonna stirred. The broth turned purple with barely restrained judgment.
"You're thinking about that time I fell off the tower, aren't you."
"You landed in a cake."
"It was my birthday."
A bubble rose and popped.
It smelled like shame and rosemary.
Halfway through the Rite, the broth began speaking in glitch-tongues.
"THE MASK AWAKENS."
"SOUP KNOWS YOUR SECRETS."
"BELLADONNA HAS A DREAM JOURNAL."
She froze. "It does not know that."
"Page four," the soup gurgled smugly. "Kael. Shirtless. Hero pose."
Kael blinked. "I—wait. Hero pose? Really?"
Belladonna hurled a ladle at the soup.
By the end of the ritual, the kitchen had collapsed into a full memoryscape.
They stood in a reconstructed version of their first duel. The one where Kael accidentally reversed gravity and they both fell into a fountain.
Kael looked around. "Ah. This again."
Belladonna crossed her arms. "You said I had the emotional range of a tax document."
"To be fair, you stabbed me with a macaroon."
Silence.
And then Belladonna laughed.
It was a real, unguarded sound. Short. Sharp. Shocked out of her like lightning in a library.
"This is impossible," she said.
"Yeah," Kael agreed. "But it's ours."
Back in the real world, the soup had turned gold.
A good sign.
The Spoon hovered above it, solemn. "The Rite is complete. Emotional compatibility: 62%. Emotional volatility: 189%. Congratulations. You're toxic, but functional."
Belladonna groaned. "Can I renounce divine title and open a bakery?"
"You can," said Kael gently, "but you'd miss yelling at people too much."
She sighed. Then, slowly, took his hand.
"If we have to share power... then we do it on my terms."
Kael nodded. "Agreed. Which means?"
"No more impromptu flirtations with vegetables."
He pouted. "Even eggplants?"
"Especially eggplants."
The Tribunal finalized the paperwork. The Cult cheered. Fluffernox declared nap time mandatory.
And somewhere deep within the System, another mask fragment glowed.
Because for the first time, Kael and Belladonna weren't just surviving their myth.
They were writing it.
Together.