The door exploded inward in a shower of splinters.
Elara counted six figures silhouetted against the torchlight—three armored swordsmen, two robed mages with gloved hands already crackling with spellwork, and a lithe woman in leathers twirling a serrated dagger.
"Contract says alive," the lead swordsman barked, "but the bonus is for her head. Your choice, Silverthorn."
Kael's blackfire ignited along his forearm, but the flames sputtered weakly. The crown's weight was draining him. Elara stepped in front of him, silver vines erupting from the floor to form a barrier.
"Funny," she sneered. "I was about to offer you the same choice."
The mages struck first. Twin bolts of crimson lightning shattered her vines, filling the air with the stench of burnt ozone. The swordsmen charged through the smoke, blades gleaming.
Elara met them in a whirl of steel.
Kael fought through the haze of exhaustion, each movement slower than the last. The crown pulsed against his temples, whispering in a voice that wasn't his own:
"Let go. Let me in."
He gritted his teeth. "Not today."
A swordsman lunged at his blind spot. Kael barely dodged, feeling the blade graze his ribs. He retaliated with a backhanded sweep of blackfire—but the flames died mid-motion, leaving only smoke.
The crown laughed.
Elara noticed. She carved through her opponent with a vicious twist of her dagger, then spun toward Kael. "What's wrong?"
"The damn crown—" He gasped as another wave of dizziness hit. "It's fighting me."
Her eyes flicked to the silver circlet, then hardened with resolve. "Then we fight back."
She grabbed his wrist.
The moment their marks touched, the crown screamed.
Power surged through their connected hands—not just magic, but something deeper. The silver vines and blackfire intertwined, forming a hybrid weapon neither had seen before: tendrils of living shadow threaded with razor-sharp thorns.
The lead swordsman barely had time to widen his eyes before the vines speared through his chest.
The remaining hunters froze.
The leather-clad woman backed away, her dagger trembling. "That's not in the briefing..."
Elara bared bloodied teeth. "Run."
They ran.
Kael collapsed to one knee the moment the last hunter vanished down the corridor. The crown's glow had dimmed to a faint pulse, its whispers silenced—for now.
Elara knelt beside him. "Talk to me."
He touched the crown. "It's...hungry. For memories. For pain."
A realization struck her. "Like the Void Mirror."
"Worse." His voice was raw. "It doesn't just show memories. It eats them."
Elara helped Kael lean against the wall. His breathing was steadier now, but his eyes—usually so sharp—were clouded.
"Which memories?" she asked quietly.
He didn't answer at first. Then: "The ones that hurt."
A pause. "Show me."
Kael exhaled sharply. "You don't want to see—"
"I need to." Her grip tightened on his wrist. "We're bound, remember? No more secrets."
The crown pulsed once, reluctantly, before projecting a ghostly image into the air between them:
_A younger Kael, no older than ten, standing over the body of a man with his same dark hair. Blood coated his small hands. His father's last words echoed: "This is what you were made for."_
The memory shattered.
Elara's throat tightened. "You didn't kill him."
Kael's laugh was hollow. "Does it matter? I didn't stop it either."
The crown fed on that guilt—she could see it now. Every pulse siphoned another fragment of his past, leaving behind something colder, harder.
She made a decision.
Elara reached up and slapped him.
The crack echoed through the tomb. Kael's head snapped to the side, the crown tilting precariously. He stared at her, stunned.
"What the hell was that for?"
"For being an idiot," she snapped. "That crown wants you broken. And you're letting it."
She grabbed his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Listen carefully, Arzath. You're not what your father made you. You're not what the god-king tried to turn you into. You're the bastard who survived—and that pisses them all off."
Kael's breath hitched. For a heartbeat, something vulnerable flickered in his eyes.
Then the moment passed, and he gently pried her hand away. "If I didn't know better, banshee, I'd think you cared."
She rolled her eyes. "I care about not being shackled to a corpse."
But when she moved to stand, he caught her wrist—not with force, but with something almost like...gratitude.
The crown remained silent.
They emerged from the tomb hours later, the first light of dawn painting the sky in pale gold. The amulet's chain around their wrists had loosened again, but the markings remained—a permanent reminder of their bond.
Kael touched the crown absently. "We need to find out what this is. Really."
Elara nodded. "And why hunters are still after me when my family thinks I'm dead."
A pause. Then, simultaneously:
"The Library of Thorns."
"The Black Archives."
They stared at each other. Kael smirked. "Same place, different names."
Elara groaned. "Of course you'd call it something edgy."
He shrugged, the crown glinting in the new light. "Race you there?"
She kicked his shin and strode ahead.
Behind her, Kael's laughter echoed—real, unburdened, if only for a moment.
The crown didn't react.
Perhaps, just perhaps, it had met its match.