Freya left the flat before dawn.
She didn't tell anyone.
The silver threads linking the ten sisters hummed softly—enough that they'd feel her absence, but not enough to wake them from the post-ritual exhaustion. She slipped out the side door, coat buttoned high over bare skin, red hair tucked under a hood. The London streets were still dark, fog thick as smoke, streetlamps glowing like dying stars.
She needed to hunt alone.
The echoes were loudest when the others were near—crowding her mind with their own whispers, their own power. Alone, she thought she could silence them. Prove to herself she wasn't the weak link. Prove to Lilith she could be trusted.
She chose her target carefully: Marcus Hale, a mid-level financier who laundered money for the Sovereign's human pawns. Not a kingpin, but corrupt enough. His flat was in Shoreditch—modern loft, security cameras she could dodge, no guards. Easy.
She moved like a shadow—speed borrowed from Seraphina, stealth from Nadia. The threads let her feel the others sleeping—safe, for now.
She slipped into Hale's building through a service entrance—elevator to the 12th floor. Door lock picked in seconds.
Inside: minimalist luxury—glass walls, black leather, city lights glittering beyond.
Hale slept in his king bed—shirtless, sheets low on his hips.
Freya shed her coat—naked beneath, silver veins flickering darker than the others. She climbed onto the bed—straddling his waist.
He woke with a start—eyes wide.
"Who—?"
She clamped a hand over his mouth—other hand sliding down his chest, nails raking skin.
"Shh," she whispered. "This won't hurt… much."
She kissed him—hard, claiming. He thrashed—then froze as the thread snapped taut.
His soul was oily, black—flashes of bribes, ruined lives, quiet deals in back rooms.
Freya ground against him—slow, deliberate—feeling him harden beneath her.
She unzipped him—guided him inside in one smooth glide.
He groaned into her palm.
She rode—controlling the pace, clenching to pull the thread.
Power surged—dark, intoxicating.
The echo hit—Marcus's voice in her head: You're no better. You take. You kill. Join us. Hide with us.
Freya faltered—hips slowing.
Another whisper—Sovereign's deeper voice: You were always weak. The doubter. The one who breaks.
Her veins darkened—shadows crawling under skin.
She fought—riding harder, clenching tighter.
Marcus's soul poured—orb emerging, dark and pulsing.
She absorbed it—power flooding her.
But the echo didn't fade.
It grew.
Freya came—shuddering, cry muffled against his neck.
Marcus slumped—empty husk.
She dismounted—breathing hard, veins flickering wildly.
The whispers became a chorus—Marcus, the banker, the trafficker, the Sovereign—all screaming inside her skull.
Run. Hide. Betray them. Save yourself.
She stumbled to the bathroom—mirror reflecting a woman she barely recognized. Silver veins blackening at the edges, eyes crimson but clouded.
She gripped the sink—knuckles white.
"I'm not weak," she growled.
The Sovereign's voice—clear, intimate: You are. And you will prove it.
Pain exploded—psychic attack targeted, vicious.
Freya dropped to her knees—hands clutching her head.
Visions flooded: the sisterhood dead—Lilith's throat slit, Seraphina broken, Irina bleeding out, Vesper burning. All because Freya hesitated. All because she doubted.
Then—worse: visions of herself leading them to slaughter. Herself as the Sovereign's vessel—crowned in shadow, harvesting her sisters' souls.
She screamed—raw, broken.
The threads flared—distant, panicked.
The others felt it—waking in the flat, hearts racing.
Lilith's voice in her mind: Freya—where are you?
Freya couldn't answer—pain too much.
She crawled to the bedroom—Marcus's husk staring blankly.
The whispers grew louder: Kill them. Take their power. Be free.
She grabbed her dagger—hand shaking.
The door burst open—Lilith, Seraphina, Irina charging in—threads blazing.
Lilith saw her—dagger raised, veins blackening, eyes wild.
"Freya—no!"
Seraphina blurred—tackled her—knife clattering.
Irina pinned her arms—strength unyielding.
Lilith knelt—cupped Freya's face.
"Fight it. Come back to us."
Freya thrashed—tears streaming.
"I can't… it's too loud… he's in my head…"
Lilith kissed her—hard, desperate.
The threads surged—nine others joining from the flat—power flooding.
Seraphina held her down—mouth on Freya's neck—biting, marking.
Irina's hand slid between her thighs—fingers thrusting deep, curling.
Lilith's tongue on her clit—sucking hard.
The others—distant but linked—channeled strength.
Freya bucked—orgasm crashing through pain.
The Sovereign's whisper screamed—then faded.
Freya collapsed—sobbing.
The black edges receded—veins silver again.
Lilith held her—rocking.
"You're safe. We've got you."
Seraphina kissed her forehead. "Never alone."
Irina gripped her hand. "We fight it together."
The lattice steadied—threads bright.
But Freya's whisper—barely audible:
"It's not gone. It's waiting."
Outside—thunder rolled.
The Sovereign smiled.
And somewhere—Nadia's faction stirred.
The fracture was coming.