# Chapter 515: The Shadow's Duel
The air in the ruined Cradle tasted of ozone and damp earth, a scent that clung to the back of the throat. Nyra Sableki moved like a whisper across the cracked flagstones, her twin blades, Wraith and Sting, held in a reverse grip. Before her, the shadow coalesced. It was not a mere absence of light but a presence, a density of pure malice that drank the ambient glow from the moss-covered stones. It formed into a humanoid shape, tall and gaunt, its features a swirling vortex of purple-black energy. This was the avatar, a sliver of the Withering King's will given form to guard the heart of the Cradle. It had no face, yet Nyra felt its gaze, a cold, invasive pressure that probed the edges of her mind.
"Talia, on my mark," Nyra's voice was a low murmur, barely disturbing the heavy silence. She could hear the soft scuff of Talia's boots on the other side of the chamber, the faint hum of her Gift building. Lyra was perched somewhere in the skeletal remains of the vaulted ceiling above, a silent predator waiting for her moment. Boro, the human bulwark, stood his ground near the chamber's entrance, his feet planted wide, a low, gravelly sound emanating from his chest as he fortified his Gift.
The shadow avatar tilted its head, a gesture of unnerving curiosity. Then it moved. It didn't run or walk; it flowed, its form elongating across the ten yards between them in a fraction of a second. Nyra reacted on instinct, honed by a hundred Ladder Trials. She dropped low, Wraith sweeping up in a gleaming arc to intercept the shadowy limb that lashed out like a whip. The impact was jarring, a clang of steel against something that was neither solid nor gas. Her blade sank into the semi-solid mass, and for a moment, she felt it connect, but then the shadow simply dissolved around her weapon, reforming a foot to her left.
"Now!" she shouted.
From the shadows near the far wall, Talia struck. She thrust her hands forward, and a barrage of crystalline shards, each one humming with kinetic force, shot toward the avatar. The projectiles were meant to disrupt, to stagger, to create an opening. But the avatar was impossibly fast. It twisted, its body becoming a flat, vertical plane of darkness that the shards passed through harmlessly, embedding themselves in the ancient stone behind it. A low, mocking laugh echoed in their minds, a sound like grinding stones.
*Predictable,* the thought was not her own. It was a cold, alien intrusion. *You always lead with the feint, Sableki. A classic Sable League tactic.*
Nyra's blood ran cold. It knew. It knew her name, her training, her tactics. She pressed the attack, driving forward with a flurry of strikes. Sting, her shorter blade, was a blur of motion, aimed at the avatar's core, while Wraith parried and deflected the counter-strikes that came from impossible angles. The shadow fought with a fluid, terrifying grace, its limbs hardening into obsidian-like blades one moment, then dissolving into intangible smoke the next. Every move she made, it countered. Every feint, it anticipated. It was like fighting a mirror that knew all her secrets and none of its own.
"Boro, the floor!" Talia yelled.
The hulking fighter roared and slammed his fists onto the stone. A wave of yellow energy erupted from him, traveling across the flagstones in a widening circle. The ground beneath the avatar's feet began to shimmer and thicken, turning into a morass of viscous, grabby earth. The avatar stumbled, its form flickering as it struggled to maintain its cohesion.
That was the opening. From above, Lyra dropped, her own Gift—a localized sonic burst—unleashed as she passed the apex of her jump. The air cracked with a deafening boom, a concussive blast that hit the avatar like a physical hammer. Its form distorted violently, scattering into a dozen smaller, shadowy wisps that writhed on the ground before slowly beginning to coalesce again.
Nyra didn't hesitate. She lunged, both blades aimed at the largest mass of shadow. But as she closed the distance, the avatar's form solidified with shocking speed. It was no longer a swirling vortex but a perfect, solid replica of Soren Vale. It wore his face, his tunic, even the faint, tired slump of his shoulders. The only difference was its eyes, which burned with the same malevolent purple light she'd seen in the Spire.
The sight was a physical blow, a punch to the gut that stole her breath. Her falter was all it needed. The Soren-avatar's hand shot out, not with a blade, but open-palmed. It caught her wrist in an iron grip, its touch colder than the deepest winter frost. Pain, sharp and electric, shot up her arm. Wraith clattered to the floor.
"Your concern for him is a weakness," the avatar spoke, its voice a perfect, chilling imitation of Soren's, layered with the King's ancient malice. "A pretty little lie you tell yourself."
She twisted, trying to break free, but its strength was immense. She drove Sting toward its ribs, but the avatar's other hand moved with impossible speed, catching the blade between its thumb and forefinger. The metal screamed as it was bent, the edge warping under the pressure. With a flick of its wrist, it sent the blade spinning away into the darkness.
Nyra was disarmed. She was exposed. The avatar shoved her, and she flew backward, slamming hard against the stone wall. The impact drove the air from her lungs, and she slid to the ground, her vision swimming. The Soren-avatar stalked toward her, its steps slow and deliberate. The purple fire in its eyes seemed to pulse in time with the frantic beating of her heart.
Talia and the others were shouting, launching another assault, but the avatar ignored them. It raised a hand, and a wall of shimmering, distorted air erupted around it and Nyra, deflecting their attacks. The sounds of the battle became muffled, distant. It had created an arena for them alone.
It knelt before her, the face of the man she loved twisted into a mask of cruel triumph. Then, it began to change. The features softened, the line of the jaw sharpened, the eyes bled from purple to a sharp, intelligent green. The hair lightened, shifting from Soren's dark brown to Nyra's own raven black. In a matter of seconds, she was staring at a perfect, mirror-image of herself.
The doppelgänger leaned in close, its breath cold against her ear. It smelled of ash and decay. It reached out a hand and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, a gesture of intimate, horrifying familiarity.
"He sees you, little spy," it whispered, its voice now her own, a sibilant hiss that vibrated in her skull. "He sees your every lie."