Sarah lay sprawled across the altar, her small body motionless, her face slack with the empty stillness of true lifelessness. The thick, crimson trail of blood pooled around her, soaking into the worn stone beneath her. The ritual’s lingering glow cast eerie shadows over her pale skin, making her look almost fragile, as if she had simply gone to sleep—but Henry knew better.

  A hoarse, guttural cry ripped from his throat as he collapsed to his knees, hands shaking violently as he grabbed onto her limp fingers, clutching them as though his touch alone could bring her back. His vision swam with tears, hot and blinding, dripping onto her cooling skin as his breath hitched between ragged sobs.

  "No, no, no—come back, Sarah, please—please—"

  His fingers clenched tighter around hers, but they didn’t squeeze back. The warmth that had always been there was fading. His entire body shook, overwhelmed by the crushing, suffocating weight of failure. He had fought so hard, survived so much, only to lose her now?

  Then—Sarah’s body jerked.

  A piercing, unnatural scream tore through the chamber, splitting the air with a sound so visceral, so inhuman, that Henry reeled back, nearly toppling over. His pulse thundered in his ears as Sarah’s back arched sharply, her limbs convulsing in violent, unnatural spasms.

  And then—her chest began to mend itself.

  The gaping wound trembled, raw muscle and sinew twisting and stitching together in an obscene, unnatural rhythm. Bone knit back into place with a wet, grinding sound. The blood that had spilled onto the altar slithered backward, as if time itself had reversed, sinking back into her skin.

  Henry’s breath caught in his throat. This wasn’t healing—it was something else entirely. Something wrong.

  Sarah’s chest rose in a shuddering gasp. Then, slowly, impossibly, she floated.

  Henry scrambled backward as Sarah’s body rose into the air, her feet leaving the ground with an eerie weightlessness, as though the very force of the ritual was lifting her like a marionette. Her arms hung limp at her sides, her dark hair whipping in an invisible wind, strands curling and writhing as if possessed by a force all their own.

  And then, she opened her eyes. Henry’s breath caught in his throat.

  Her irises—once warm, dark, full of life—were gone. In their place, twin golden flames burned, flickering with a mist-like energy that pulsed and curled around the edges of her sockets. Her lips parted, her breath shuddering, and the wounds that had been carved into her chest began to knit themselves together, the exposed flesh pulling back into place with an almost surgical precision. The archaic tubes that had been attached to her convulsed, shriveling and snapping away, their grotesque work complete.

  Sarah tilted her head, the movement slow, deliberate, unnatural, like a marionette testing its strings. For a heartbeat, she was still, golden mist curling from her fingertips, flickering in the dim light like dying embers. Then she smiled—small, soft, and so terribly wrong.

  “Henry.”

  Her voice hit him like a shock to the system. It wasn’t the cold, cruel taunt of an invader—it was gentle, warm, the way she used to say his name when she was younger, when she needed comfort, when she was scared in the dark.

  Henry’s breath hitched. Something inside him wavered.

  The thing wearing her face took a slow step forward, her bare feet barely disturbing the blood-soaked stone. Her movements were light—too light, as if gravity barely touched her. The golden flames in her eyes dimmed slightly, shifting, morphing into something softer, more human.

  "It's okay, Henry."

  She reached out, her fingers trembling just slightly, as if remembering how to move them. The stiffness in her joints faded with every second, each motion becoming more fluid, more convincing.

  Henry’s body locked in place. The air thickened, his mind screaming at him to move, to reject what he was seeing—but his heart wanted to believe her.

  "You... you died."

  His voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse and uneven, his throat raw from the screams he barely remembered making.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Sarah—his Sarah—shook her head. "No, I didn’t. The ritual... it was never meant to kill me." She took another step, weight barely shifting, like a marionette adjusting to its strings. The hesitance in her limbs faded, the foreign stiffness melting away. She was settling into herself.

  "It was to heal me, to fix me. I feel better than I ever have."

  Henry’s fingers twitched. His whole body screamed at him to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there—but the longer he stared, the more real she seemed. Her voice wasn’t taunting anymore—it was soft, hesitant, careful.

  "I know this is a lot," she continued, her golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "But I'm still me, Henry. I promise."

  His breath shook, pulse hammering against his ribs. He wanted to believe her.

  She stepped closer, her expression so painfully familiar—the same wide-eyed look she’d given him as a kid when she got scared during storms, the same voice that had whispered, Henry, are you still awake? when she had nightmares.

  "You're lying."

  His voice trembled, but it wasn’t the certainty of a warrior—it was the hesitation of someone on the edge.

  Sarah's smile faltered. Her fingers flexed. Her posture shifted—just a fraction of an inch. A fraction too much.

  "I’m not." Her voice pleaded, but something in it felt off. "I don’t want you to be afraid of me." Her hand lifted again, palm up, offering herself in a way that felt so sincere it physically hurt. "Please, Henry. You have to believe me. You’re all I have."

  His throat tightened. His foot moved before he could think—just a step, just close enough to see her face clearly. Close enough for the lie to feel real.

  Then—

  Elara, who had been completely silent until now, suddenly hissed in his ear, her tiny hands clawing into his hair like a warning.

  "Henry, do not. I swear to every unholy thing in this world, if you reach for her, I will bite your ear off and feed it to you like a mama bird."

  Her tone was sharp, cold, completely devoid of her usual playful edge. Henry almost didn’t recognize it. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His eyes were locked on Sarah’s, searching for something—anything—that might prove Elara wrong.

  Sarah's fingers trembled. Her lips parted slightly. Just a hint of vulnerability slipped through.

  "Henry, please."

  His chest ached. He wanted—God, he wanted—to believe her. But then—

  The gold in her eyes flickered. And the spell was broken.

  For the briefest second, it wasn’t Sarah standing before him. Her lips curled—just slightly. Not a smile. Henry's stomach dropped. He hadn’t even realized it, but his hand had already lifted halfway toward hers. His fingers curled into a fist.

  Sarah—or what wore her—sighed. Then her eyes turned molten gold again. “Tch. You were so close.” The softness was gone, replaced by slow, mocking amusement.

  Henry took a sharp step back, heart slamming against his ribs, stomach twisting into knots. The thing wearing Sarah’s face tilted her head, that eerie, knowing smile curving her lips again.

  "You... You---"

  “I almost had you.”

  His pulse roared in his ears. His own hesitation had nearly cost him everything. He’d almost fallen for it. This wasn’t Sarah. This was a monster. And now, it knew exactly how to break him.

  She tilted her head again, slowly, unnaturally, as if testing the movement of a new body. The motion was smooth, too smooth—like a doll adjusting to its joints for the first time. Then, in a voice that was not hers, she spoke.

  “My dearest darling Henry.”

  The words curled around him with a false sweetness, dripping with something darkly affectionate. Sarah—or what wore her body now—turned to face him fully, golden mist curling from her fingertips, her expression too poised to belong to the little sister he had known.

  “But I suppose it’s only fair to reward your stubbornness with the truth,” she mused, tapping a finger to her chin in mock thought. “While you were stumbling through the dark, I was here… creating the Fountain of Youth.”

  Henry didn’t move. He barely breathed. She spread her fingers, golden mist unfurling like ribbons from her palms. “This child was the perfect vessel for me. To find what your modern science never could—immortality.”

  The words barely processed. Henry’s fingers curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms as his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He could barely hear his own heartbeat over the roaring in his ears.

  "Get out of her."

  His voice was low, almost a growl, the only thing he could force past his lips without shattering completely.

  Sarah’s possessed body sighed, rolling her shoulders, stretching her arms as though testing the full range of motion. The golden mist pulsed brighter, flickering light illuminating the satisfied smirk on her lips. "Henry, Henry, Henry."

  Her voice dripped with condescension, amusement curling at the edges of every syllable.

  "You should be thanking me. With this perfected body, your little disease will never consume you. I just have to do the same thing to you. No more pain, no more slow decay—immortality, Henry."

  A chill slithered down his spine. She knew. His stomach churned, muscles tensing, but he forced himself to stay still, to keep his voice level despite the fire burning in his chest.

  “I don’t care about me. Give me back my sister."

  The thing inside Sarah’s body tilted her head again—but this time, the motion was smoother, silkier. Wrong. Like a predator testing its prey. Her golden, mist-filled eyes gleamed with something coldly amused as she watched Henry, as if she had already won. She exhaled, almost lazily. "Oh, Henry, Henry, Henry."

  Her lips curled—not quite a smile. Something else. Something cruel. Her mouth opened, ready to twist the knife deeper—

  A voice cut through the air. Confused. Terrified.

  “Henry? What’s going on? Where am I?”

  The sound shattered everything. Henry staggered, vision tunneling, every nerve in his body screaming. His heart wasn’t just hammering—it felt like it had stopped, like the world had split apart beneath his feet. It was his mother's voice.