Light. It burned through the cracks like dawn splitting apart a storm, gold and steady, defiant against the abyss. Clara gasped as warmth seared through her chest—not pain, but something deeper. A reminder. Evelyn's laugh when she teased her. Damien's steady hand when he pulled her out of danger. Even Zeke's cold stare, because beneath it she had always sensed something unspoken: expectation.
She had never believed herself worthy of any of them. But this light whispered otherwise.
Yurin's shadowed form flickered, his crimson eyes narrowing into slits. "Foolish. You think sentiment changes anything? That love saves you? It is precisely what chains you. And I…" His voice deepened into a roar that reverberated across the void, "…am the blade that cuts chains!"
The shadows surged, forming a storm of writhing tendrils, each one tipped with jagged fangs. They lashed toward Clara, fast and merciless.
But Clara didn't run. She raised her trembling hands—empty, bare—and willed the light forward. It flared, condensing into shape, not metal, not fire, but something rawer: a weapon made of memory.
A sword—its blade translucent, its hilt warm, pulsing faintly with Evelyn's voice.
Clara gripped it tight. "No. You're wrong, Yurin. Love doesn't chain me. It anchors me."
The tendrils struck. Clara swung. The blade cut through shadow like dawn slicing mist, each strike ringing with the echo of voices that weren't hers.
Damien's calm, deliberate tone: Hold your ground, Clara.
Evelyn's fire: I'll never let go of you.
Zeke's coldness, reformed into steel: Do what must be done.
The shadows screamed as pieces of Yurin's form shattered, dissolving into fragments that bled red across the void. Yurin stumbled back, his grin twisting into something feral.
"So you've made yourself a toy. But what happens," he sneered, "when your anchor drowns with you?"
He spread his arms. Behind him, the void cracked wide open, revealing a mirror to the outside world. Clara's body—her real body—convulsed violently on the battlefield. Evelyn clung to her arm, her voice ragged from shouting Clara's name. Damien struck at her sword-hand, trying to knock it away without striking her. Zeke stood back, glyphs in his palms glowing, his jaw tight.
But then Clara saw it—her body wasn't just fighting. It was changing. Her skin fissured with black lines, glowing faintly crimson. Wings, jagged and skeletal, tore through her back. A monster in the making.
Her heart lurched. "No…"
Yurin's laughter thundered in her ears. "Do you see it now? That is what you are becoming. Even if you resist me here, the outside cannot wait. Your friends will have no choice but to kill you."
The sword in Clara's hand flickered. For a heartbeat, her grip faltered. Doubt whispered again, feeding the cracks.
"What if they're already planning to do it?" Yurin's voice slid into her ear like poison. "Zeke, especially. You've seen the way he looks at you. Measured. Calculating. He'll strike when the moment comes, and your precious Evelyn won't stop him. They'll end you—and they'll call it mercy."
Clara's breath came sharp and uneven. She looked again at the mirror: Evelyn's tears, Damien's bloodied hand, Zeke's unreadable stare.
Her blade dimmed.
Yurin leaned closer, pressing the advantage. "So why fight me? Embrace me. Together, we can break them before they break you."
The void pulsed. His shadows surged again, enveloping Clara, wrapping around her throat and wrists, forcing her to her knees. The mirror-image of her monstrous body flickered closer, more vivid. The black veins deepened, her reflection snarling with fangs.
Clara closed her eyes, heart pounding, caught between the warmth of her sword and the cold weight of inevitability. What if he's right? What if they're already preparing to end me?
Then—quiet, fragile, but unyielding—Evelyn's voice once more:
"Clara, listen to me. You're stronger than him. Stronger than this."
Her eyes snapped open.
Evelyn wasn't in the void. She was outside. Yet somehow, her words cut through.
The blade surged with light again, brighter than before, steady despite Clara's shaking hands. She shoved against the tendrils, her voice raw.
"You want me to believe I'm hollow? That I'm just your vessel? No. I'm not hollow, Yurin. I'm overflowing. With their voices. With their faith. And you don't get to steal that."
The shadows recoiled as if burned. The crimson cracks in the void shrieked, spider-webbing outward. Clara stood, forcing Yurin back step by step, her sword blazing with every strike.
And then she did something that surprised even herself—she thrust the blade not at Yurin, but into her own chest.
Light erupted.
Yurin roared, staggering as the weapon pierced through Clara and into the void itself, anchoring her form in radiant fire. "What are you doing?" he screamed.
Clara's teeth clenched, tears streaking her face, but her voice was steady. "I'm binding myself. To me. Not to you."
The sword melted into her body, fusing into her very being. Her veins glowed gold instead of crimson, a direct counter to the corruption.
Yurin's form cracked, his shadows scattering like ash. Yet even as he dissolved, his eyes burned brighter.
"You think this is victory?" he hissed. "You've only shackled yourself tighter. And when those shackles break… you'll beg for me again."
The void trembled violently. Light and shadow collided, reality tearing at the seams. Clara screamed—not in fear this time, but in defiance—as everything around her shattered.
And in the outside world, her monstrous body arched violently, golden veins now streaking against the black.