Alora’s fists clenched, her heart thudding hard in her ears. The dark coiled at her fingertips, restless, waiting, and she hated how easily it responded to the thought. She hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t wanted a throne carved from shadow or a birthright steeped in blood.
She had spent her life being sent away. Hidden. Bound. Told what she must never become.
And now the mountain itself had named her.
Calla circled her, boots crunching against the stone. “Vorak is not a king you can outthink or outmaneuver,” she said flatly. “He is a storm. He does not negotiate. He does not hesitate.”
She stopped in front of Alora, dark eyes sharp. “If you stand in his path afraid of what you are, you will be torn apart. Not because you are weak—but because you refuse to acknowledge what is already inside of you.”
Her voice dropped, quieter but no kinder. “Trust yourself, or you will be nothing more than a leaf caught in his wake … exactly like your mother.”
Alora hissed, fangs bared.
Calla smirked and backed away. “Oh? Did that anger you? Good. Now summon armor and strike me.”
Shutting her eyes, Alora inhaled a deep breath. Smoke curled over her skin, reforming itself into armor. Not as elegant as the Harbinger’s, but it was a start.
Calla nodded, “Now, a weapon. Anything you imagine will be, your magic is an extension of yourself.” She demonstrated by conjuring twin chakram, the edges glowing with purple magic.
But Alora had struggled with that spell.
Calla’s weapon cracked against Alora’s bracers, sending a sharp jolt through her arms. She staggered, barely regaining her footing before the next blow came.
“Distraction can mean death on the battlefield,” Calla snapped. “What is occupying your mind?”
“Nothing,” Alora grumbled, sweat clinging to her back.
“Then summon your weapon or my next strike might hit flesh,” the demoness growled. “Emotions can be a weapon. Use them or fall with them.”
Alora gritted her teeth and charged. Shadows surged behind her, sluggish and clumsy, reflecting her fractured focus. Calla easily swiped through them and hit her with a spinning kick. Alora hit the moss with a heavy thud.
Fingers digging into the grass, Alora’s throat caught. “I can’t do this?—”
Laughter drifted from the pond again. The last of twilight caught the gold in Theia’s eyes. She was smiling gently at Zuma and he took her hand.
It twisted something in Alora’s chest. Longing. Grief.Jealousy.
She clenched her fists, teeth grinding. Guilt shadowed the feelings. She wasn’t cross with Theia but with herself. She couldn’t go to Rune without her light magic, and she couldn’t summon a damned portal with her shadows.
How would she ever fight Vorak?
Clenching her teeth, Alora looked up when Calla’s blade lashed down and she snarled. Letting her rage and frustration crest over her.
The chakram froze above her head, caught in a wall of darkness that flared upward from Alora’s feet, sizzling with crimson light. It knocked Calla back a full pace.
The clearing went still as Alora stood.
The shadows quivered, then gathered into her hand, curling and writhing until they formed into a weapon. A black glaive, Nightstone-sharp, glyphs glowing along its edge in flickering red. A weapon born tomaim.
And her armor had also elevated.
The leather had been replaced with beautiful black chest plate veined in crimson. Gilded in engraved thorns and tiny scarlet flowers. Matching gauntlets and greaves fitted seamlessly to her arms and legs.
The armor she had been gifted during Samhain.
A cold sensation crawled up Alora’s spine. Fear. Not of the power—but of howrightit felt. Once her will decided, the dark answered without hesitation. As if it had always been waiting for her to stop pretending that she didn’t already belong to it.
Calla’s eyes glowed with pride and cold satisfaction. “There she is. You’re finally listening.”
