Chapter 98: The fog
In the royal quarters of Lycanthria, Aveloria and Theron were asleep. The room was dark and quiet.
She did not feel herself fall asleep in the usual way. One moment, there was darkness, and the next she was standing in a place of grey, shifting fog. The ground under her bare feet was neither stone nor soil. It was just grey. All around her, standing at odd angles as if they had grown from the ground, were full-length mirrors. Their frames were tarnished silver, ornate and twisted.
The air was cold and still. The fog clung to her nightdress.
She turned, looking into the nearest mirror. It did not show her reflection. It showed her lying on a stone floor in a dark dungeon, her body broken at an impossible angle, eyes staring blankly. She gasped and stumbled back.
Aveloria looked into another. This reflection showed her on an altar, a sword in her chest, and eyes pitch black. Another showed her drowning in a shallow, muddy pond. Another, her throat slit. Another, a pack of large black wolves tore her flesh apart. Another wasted away to bones in a cell. Each mirror held a different death of her.
"This is the Shadow Realm, child," a voice said. It was familiar, but wrong. It was sweet, like honey, but it coated the inside of Aveloria’s mind. "My domain. Here, time folds. Here, we see all the ways a life can end."
A figure walked out of the fog. She wore a simple gown, and her face was Rowena’s. But the expression was not Rowena’s. It was ancient, and amused, and infinitely weary.
"Who are you?" Aveloria asked, trying not to panic.
"The Witch Queen."
"The Witch Queen?" Aveloria whispered, her breath forming no fog in the chill air.
"A name they gave me," the figure said, smiling with Rowena’s mouth. "I prefer peacemaker. I can give you peace, Aveloria. The struggle is so tiresome, isn’t it? The expectations that come with being a heiress. The four bonds you carry are chains. Heavy, pulling you in different directions. You will never be enough for all of them. You will fracture."
The Queen gestured. The mirrors shimmered. Now they showed images of Theron, Galen, Lucien, and Marek. Each looked at her with disappointment, with anger, with indifference.
"They will see the madness in you before you feel it yourself," the Queen crooned. "The Moon Goddess’s blessing is a flickering candle. It will gutter and die. And you will be left in the dark, alone."
A new, large mirror swirled into focus before Aveloria. It showed a vision of herself. She was in a dark, filthy dungeon cell. Her hair was matted. Her fine clothes were rags. She was crouched in a corner, rocking back and forth, scratching at the stone walls with bloody fingers. She was muttering nonsense, her eyes wide and unseeing. She was utterly, completely mad.
"This is your future," the Queen said, standing beside her, a comforting hand on her shoulder that felt like ice. "This is certain. Unless you let me help you, sever the bonds. Give them to me. I will hold their weight. You will be free. You will have peace. No more fear of madness. No more duty. Just quiet."
The vision was so vivid. The cold of the cell, the smell of decay, the terrifying emptiness in her own reflected eyes. It felt inevitable. The fight seemed so pointless. Aveloria felt her will crumbling. The desire to just let go, to hand over the crushing responsibility, was a tangible ache. Her shoulders slumped. Maybe...maybe peace was worth the price.
"You will be at peace. No bonds. Just you, Alaric, Evander, Serene, and Seraphina. One big happy royal family. Lycanthria at peace."
She opened her mouth, ready to yield.
A voice cut through the fog. It was low, very far away, but piercingly clear. It was her mother’s voice.
"Remember who you are, my child. Protect everything that makes you who you are."
Aveloria stiffened.
"You are not your fear. You are not your end. You are destined for something greater."
The Queen’s icy grip tightened. "Ignore that echo," she hissed. "It is a memory. It has no power here."
But the voice persisted, warm and solid against the cold grey. "Protect the people you love. That is your strength. That is your truth."
Galen’s steady comfort. Theron’s fierce loyalty. Marek’s understanding. Lucien’s challenging fire. They weren’t chains. They were anchors. They were hers. She is the balance. They are the light to fight darkness.
The vision in the mirror of the madwoman flickered. For an instant, Aveloria saw not a dungeon, but a hall filled with light. She saw herself standing, not broken, but whole. Surrounded not by walls, but by people.
She gathered the memory of her mother’s voice. She gathered the feeling of Theron’s warmth around her, of Galen’s vow, of Lucien’s trust, of Marek’s respect. She collected every scrap of love and duty she had ever felt. She balled it all into a fist in her heart.
She looked directly at the Witch Queen wearing Rowena’s face.
"No," Aveloria said. The word was small but solid.
"You need me to help you find peace!" The witch Queen snapped.
Aveloria took a deep breath, and she screamed. "No! I won’t sever my bonds! I won’t give them to you!"
It was not a scream of fear, but of defiance. A raw, decisive rejection of the offered peace, of the false visions, of the creeping despair. The sound vibrated through the Shadow Realm. The mirrors, showing all her terrible deaths and the madness to come, shuddered.
Then they shattered.
Every single one exploded inward at once in a deafening crash of breaking glass. The fog rushed in as if to fill the void, and then, too, it was torn apart by the scream.
Aveloria’s eyes flew open. She was in her own bed, in her own room, gasping for air. Her body was slick with cold sweat. The echo of her scream still seemed to hang in the air.
All of a sudden, there was a loud crack from across the room. The large, decorative mirror above her dressing table exploded. Shards of silvered glass sprayed across the floor, glittering in the moonlight from the window.
Theron jerked up from the bed. His hand swiftly reached for Aveloria, and his eyes were wide with alarm.
"Aveloria!"
His eyes darted between her and the room for a threat, before landing on the destroyed mirror. He saw the sweat on her skin, the terror in her eyes. His large hand came up to cradle her face. "What happened? A nightmare?"
She was trembling. She couldn’t speak. She just nodded, clutching onto the blanket.
His thumb stroked her cheek. Then his eyes fixed on the side of her neck. His expression changed from concern to stark confusion. "Your mark..."
She lifted a trembling hand to her neck, but it burned her. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. It was electrifying.
"It’s... glowing," Theron said, his voice low with awe and unease.
Aveloria looked at him, trying to form words to explain the grey place, the mirrors, the offer. But a wave of crushing exhaustion, heavier than any she had ever known, washed over her. The adrenaline from the scream and the shattering vanished, leaving her utterly hollow. Her eyes lost their focus. The image of Theron’s worried face blurred, then darkened.
"Theron, I..." she began. Then her eyes closed. Her body went limp. She fell back against the pillows, unconscious.
Theron caught her before her head hit the headboard. He felt her pulse. It was intense, steady. She was breathing deeply, as if in a deep sleep. He carefully laid her down, pulling the blankets over her. He stood looking at her for a long moment, his gaze shifting from her peaceful, sleeping face to the glowing mark on her neck, and then to the shattered glass scattered across the floor.
