The throne room wasn't made for warmth.
It was made to crush.
Elara stood just behind Kael as the twin doors groaned open. The hall beyond stretched long and narrow, lined with black stone columns and shadow-draped banners that bore the sigil of the Thorne bloodline—three wolf heads and a bleeding moon.
Every step Kael took echoed like a promise.
But Elara's footsteps felt swallowed by the silence.
The throne sat at the far end.
Raised high on a stepped dais.
Carved from bone and obsidian, threaded with silver veins like fossilized lightning.
And behind it—
Hung a portrait.
Framed in iron, almost five feet tall.
A girl.
Pale.
Golden-eyed.
Hair the color of sunlight cut with ash.
Dressed in white.
Smiling slightly.
Her eyes were too wide.
Too knowing.
Too much like Elara's.
She stopped walking.
Froze in place halfway down the hall.
Kael kept moving.
Only when he reached the base of the throne did he turn.
"Elara?"
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Who is that?"
He didn't answer.
She stepped forward.
Toward the painting.
Her boots clicked on the stone, but her pulse was louder.
Each step dragged her deeper into a feeling she couldn't name—like she was walking into a memory she didn't remember making.
"She looks like me."
Kael's jaw tightened.
"That's a trick of the eyes."
"No."
She stopped directly beneath the portrait.
"I have that same mark. On my collarbone."
"She's dead."
"You didn't answer."
Kael walked up the steps toward the throne.
"She was my sister."
Elara blinked.
"You had a sister?"
"Yes."
"And she…"
"She burned. Years ago."
Elara's throat closed.
Something icy curled around her spine.
"You never told me."
"There are many things I haven't told you."
She stepped closer.
Staring up at the portrait.
"I look like her."
"You don't."
"Yes. I do."
"Elara—"
"I'm not stupid."
"No. You're dangerous."
She turned to him.
"I need to know."
Kael was already descending the steps.
Fast.
Deliberate.
He stopped in front of her.
Too close.
Eyes burning.
"I need you to stop."
"Why?"
"Because the truth is poison."
"Then let me drink it."
"You don't want this."
"I want you to look at me and not flinch because of what you see."
Kael reached out.
Gripped her shoulders.
Then, gently, turned her.
He lifted the back of her collar.
Pushed her hair aside.
And stared.
Beneath the fabric of her gown, right between her shoulder blades, the pact mark had spread.
Not just glyphs now.
Not just light.
But shape.
A symbol formed of two halves—one light, one dark—intertwined like a lock and key.
And behind it all, faint but visible:
The echo of another mark.
Older.
Imprinted beneath her skin.
A mark Elara had never seen.
But Kael had.
Because he'd buried it once.
He let her collar fall.
"You're not her."
"But?"
He didn't answer.
"Say it."
His hands slid to her waist.
Gripped tight.
And he leaned in.
Spoke against her ear.
"You're not her. But you're her echo. Her shadow. Her continuation."
Elara's breath hitched.
"You think I'm a replacement."
"No."
"You think the bond reattached to what it lost."
Kael's voice dropped.
"I think it recognized the one who was supposed to be there all along."
She stepped away.
Shaking.
"I don't know who I am anymore."
"Good," he said.
"Why?"
"Because now you can become who you were meant to be."
Later, after the throne room had emptied and the guards had left, Elara returned alone.
She stood beneath the portrait again.
Stared up at the girl with her eyes.
Her mouth.
Her blood.
And whispered, "What did he bury you with?"
The room didn't answer.
But the mark on her back pulsed.
And for a moment—just a breath—
She thought she saw the painting smile.