The air beneath Lysimar was thick with secrets, secrets older than memory itself, buried in stone that groaned under the weight of forgotten blood. Deep within the palace’s foundation, where even dust dared not settle without permission from some unseen force, lay a chamber no map had ever marked and few alive could name. The walls pulsed faintly as though they were still breathing after centuries of silence; moss like filaments crept across them in patterns that seemed to shift when one looked too closely. This place was neither tomb nor temple but something between, its purpose lost, its power waiting.

  Emily Loriet had found it by chance, or perhaps not at all. The old texts she’d unearthed from the royal archives spoke of “the Wellspring” and a pact sealed in blood that could reshape kingdoms or break them entirely. Most scholars dismissed these as superstitions; Emily saw opportunity. She did not wait for permission, nor seek allies, only her own reflection in obsidian mirrors scattered through this hidden hall like fractured stars.

  The ritual began with the scent of burning lilies, not their usual white beauty but blackened petals curled inward, consumed by a darkness that clung to them even as they burned on an altar carved from stone so dark it seemed to drink the light around it. Emily knelt before the artifact at its center: a crystalline shard jagged enough to cut through bone and sharp with purpose. She had no time for hesitation; her hands trembled, but not in fear.

  “Khtonos,” she whispered, though there was nothing left of sound beneath this earth except what she gave it herself. “I offer you the breath that sustains Lysimar. Take it.”

  The shard responded before any words could be spoken, its surface rippling like oil on water as if something vast and unseen had been drawn to her voice. The chamber darkened, not from absence of light but because its presence now filled every shadowed corner with a weight so heavy that even the air seemed reluctant to move.

  Emily’s breath came in shallow gasps. She pressed both palms against the altar, feeling the cold seep into her bones as if it were an extension of herself rather than something external. The energy around her thickened, thicker still when she began to chant from memory: a language older than any known tongue that resonated deep within stone and flesh alike.

  The Gloomroot answered first, its tendrils crawling up through the floor like veins in skin until they coiled tightly around Emily’s legs. She did not flinch; instead, her eyes narrowed as she focused on their movement. These were no ordinary roots, they pulsed with a sickly green glow that seemed to draw vitality from everything it touched.

  Then came the blood, hers. Not spilled but extracted through an intricate array of sigils etched into stone and air alike until they formed glowing patterns around her body, each one linking back to something she had once held dear: memories of laughter in moonlit gardens (the lilies that hadn’t yet begun their slow decay), the taste of wine mixed with danger as she’d plotted against those who sought to keep her caged. Each sigil hummed faintly before shattering like glass, leaving behind a trail of crimson droplets on stone and air.

  Cinderblooms erupted from beneath Emily’s feet almost instantly, thorned flowers that seemed alive in their grotesque beauty as they twisted toward the ceiling with desperate hunger. They bloomed into existence without any visible roots or stems, growing too quickly for anyone to stop them before they began pulsing like beating hearts across walls and floors.

  And then... she changed.

  Her reflection no longer matched what was on her face, her eyes darkened until their pupils were almost black holes that swallowed light instead of reflecting it. A chill surrounded her as though the air itself had turned against warmth, its edges sharp enough to cut through even fabric with unseen blades. The energy around her shifted from a suffocating weight into something more dangerous: control.

  The pact was sealed not just in words but in action, Emily’s power now bound to Khtonos’ will and vice versa as if they were two halves of the same broken whole. She rose slowly, each movement deliberate despite how much energy she had poured into this moment. Her gaze swept across what remained of her body; nothing was left that could be called human anymore.

  It wasn’t until then, until Emily looked up from where she stood with such stillness it almost seemed like time itself held its breath, that someone else stepped through the door at a cautious distance, their presence so foreign to this place they might as well have been walking into hell while wearing armor made of sunlight and hope.

  Nine Pyrot.

  He had followed whispers in court, snippets about missing supplies from barracks that shouldn’t be used for anything but routine maintenance or rumors among those close enough to the palace not yet caught by its shadowed grip on Lysimar’s people. He’d tracked them here through a trail of broken promises and misplaced trust, each step bringing him closer until he reached this place with more questions than answers.

  And now, standing in front of what had once been his princess but was no longer anything close to that, her silhouette bathed in an eerie glow from the Cinderblooms surrounding her like they were some kind of twisted crown, he felt something die inside himself. Not fear exactly; rather a deeper understanding that everything he thought about Lysimar, its people, and even Emily herself had been built on lies too grand for him to comprehend.

  “What have you done?” his voice was barely more than breath against the thick silence around them but it carried all of his anger without any need for volume.

  Emily turned slowly until her eyes met his, eyes that no longer held warmth or humanity, just an empty void filled with something far worse: purpose and power beyond anything he had ever known.

  “I did what was necessary,” she said, the words so cold they might as well have been ice forming on a glass of wine. “You don’t understand.”

  But Nine understood perfectly now, not because Emily told him but because every step toward this moment had prepared them both for something far greater than either could have imagined when he first saw her standing at that gate with those lilies in hand, ready to take control of Lysimar’s fate.

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  The Cinderblooms around Emily grew more vibrant as she stepped forward, each petal glowing like a warning bell ringing out through the chamber. They twisted and turned until they formed what looked almost like wings but were too jagged for any creature he had ever seen in this world or another one beyond it.

  “You’re not my princess anymore,” Nine said, his voice breaking slightly as if even saying those words was painful to him. “You're something else entirely.”

  Emily’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, only the coldness behind them remained sharp enough to cut through stone and soul alike.

  “Perhaps I never was.”

  The chamber trembled, not from any external force but because Emily had become its center, an anchor for Khtonos’ power. The air thickened with shadow as if reality itself recoiled at her presence. Nine felt it in his bones: the weight of what she’d unleashed wasn’t just physical; it was a wound carved into Lysimar’s very soul.

  “You think this is freedom?” he challenged, stepping closer despite the fear curling around him like smoke from dying embers. “You’ve made yourself part of that rot.”

  Emily tilted her head slightly, as if considering his words with detached curiosity rather than anger or regret. Her voice was calm now, too calm for someone who had just bound herself to a force older and more corrupting than the Gloomroot itself.

  “Freedom is an illusion,” she said softly, almost mournfully. “The kingdom crumbles under its own weakness, while I... I take what’s necessary.”

  Her gaze flicked down to her hands, long fingers that now seemed too pale against their surroundings, veins darkened as if they carried something other than blood through them. She flexed one slowly, watching the way shadows clung to it like ink spilled on parchment.

  “I’ve seen what lies beneath,” she continued, voice steady but laced with a strange reverence. “Khtonos isn’t destruction, it’s inevitability. And I...I am its vessel.”

  Nine clenched his fists at his sides, nails biting into palms as he fought the urge to lash out or flee. The woman before him wasn't just changed; she was unrecognizable, a stranger wearing Emily's face and voice like a mask crafted by someone who had never known her.

  “You’re not even trying to save this place,” he accused, his words sharp enough to cut through the oppressive silence between them. “You’ve given up on Lysimar entirely.”

  Emily’s expression didn’t change, no anger, no regret, just that same cold detachment she’d shown when ordering civilians abandoned or knights sacrificed in Chapter 3. It was as if this moment had always been inevitable for her; a culmination of choices made long before he could have stopped them.

  “Save it?” She laughed softly, the sound like glass shattering against stone. “Lysimar is already dead. I’m just... giving its soul to something that won’t let it decay anymore.”

  The Cinderblooms around her flared brighter at those words, petals unfurling in violent bursts as if responding to her intent. They pulsed with a sickly light, casting long shadows across the chamber walls and making everything seem slightly out of focus, like reality itself was warping under their influence.

  “You’re no better than the Gloomroot,” Nine said bitterly. “You’ve traded one form of corruption for another.”

  Emily’s eyes narrowed then, for the first time since he’d entered, something flickered behind them: a trace of emotion that might have been anger or maybe even sorrow. But it was gone too quickly to be certain.

  “Better?” she echoed, her tone mocking now as if his words were so ridiculous they didn’t deserve an answer. “Do you think the Gloomroot chooses this? It’s not a choice, it’s survival.”

  She stepped closer then, each movement deliberate and unnervingly graceful despite how much power she had just absorbed. The chamber seemed to shrink around her as if instinctively bending to her will.

  “You were always so afraid of change,” Emily said softly, almost like an afterthought. “But fear is a luxury I can no longer afford.”

  Nine’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching even tighter until he felt the bones in his hands protest. He wanted to scream at her, demand answers about what had driven her here, but something held him back. Not just because of the power she now wielded but also because part of him still remembered who she used to be.

  “You don’t have any idea what you’re doing,” he said finally, voice low and tight with frustration. “You think this makes you strong? You’ve just made yourself a prisoner in your own body.”

  Emily tilted her head again as if considering his words, or perhaps testing them for weakness. Then she smiled once more, that same cold expression now tinged with something almost like amusement.

  “You’re still so human,” she murmured, stepping closer until the shadows between them seemed to stretch and coil around their feet like living things. “You think strength is about control... but it’s not.”

  She reached out then, not physically, but through that dark energy now woven into her very being, and for a fleeting moment, Nine felt something shift inside him: an absence of warmth he couldn’t name or explain.

  “You don’t understand what I’ve become,” she whispered. “But you will soon enough.”

  The chamber seemed to pulse with the weight of those words as if Khtonos itself had heard and approved. The Cinderblooms around them flared again, their glow brighter now, no longer just a warning but something more ominous: an announcement that Lysimar’s fate was no longer in its people's hands.

  Nine took a step back automatically, his heart pounding against the confines of his chest like it wanted to escape through his ribs. He could feel Emily watching him still, her gaze unreadable as if she were trying to see something beyond what he showed on the surface, something deeper that even he didn’t understand yet.

  “You can walk away,” she said quietly now, almost gently. “But don't think for a second you’ll be safe.”

  And with those words hanging between them like a promise and a threat, Nine realized this wasn’t just about Lysimar anymore, it was about the choice he would have to make next: whether to fight against what had become of her or accept that some things were beyond saving.