Night settled fully over the ruins.
Moonlight spilled through broken arches and collapsed roofs, painting the abandoned palace in silver and shadow. As darkness deepened, the air shifted—lighter for Adriana's body, heavier for her senses. With the ritual complete, something inside her had awakened completely.
She could feel it.
Not see—not yet—but feel.
The palace was not empty.
As they walked through shattered corridors and open courtyards, a dull ache spread through Adriana's chest. It was not her pain alone. It was layered, overlapping, endless. The stone beneath her feet felt cold, soaked with memory.
Then the sounds began.
Not loud. Not clear.
Fragments.
Metal clashing.
Boots striking stone.
Men shouting orders in voices filled with fear and fury.
And beneath it all—
Children crying.
Adriana stopped suddenly, her breath catching painfully in her throat.
"No…" she whispered, clutching at her chest.
The King turned at once. What is it?
"I can hear them," she said, her voice shaking. "Not with my ears… but here." She pressed her palm against her heart. "They're fighting. They're screaming. I can feel them dying."
She staggered, overwhelmed by the weight of it—terror, despair, unfinished lives pressing against her senses all at once. The pain was unbearable, not sharp but crushing, like drowning in memory.
The King's posture stiffened. His gaze swept the corridor slowly, as if he too sensed the echoes—but differently.
This place remembers, he said quietly.
Before Adriana could respond, a sharp crack split the air.
High above them, a loose section of stone broke free from the wall, falling fast—silent and deadly.
Adriana froze.
She did not even have time to scream.
Power surged through her body again—stronger, faster than before. The King moved through her with instinctive force. Her arm lifted sharply, fingers splayed.
The stone shattered midair.
Fragments scattered harmlessly across the floor, reduced to dust and broken pieces before they could reach her.
The power vanished as suddenly as it had come.
Adriana collapsed to her knees, gasping, her body trembling violently. The weight hit her all at once—exhaustion, pain, weakness so deep it made her vision blur.
She pressed her hands to the ground, struggling to breathe.
What happened? the King demanded, confusion cutting into his voice. Why did you fall?
She laughed weakly, the sound breaking apart as tears spilled freely down her face.
"That… that was your power," she said between breaths. "And this—" she gestured helplessly to her shaking body "—this is the cost."
He was silent.
Adriana remained kneeling, gathering what little strength she had left. The palace felt heavier now, its memories pressing down harder with every second.
"You asked me why," she said quietly at last. "Why I performed the ritual."
The King did not interrupt.
"My brother died," she continued, her voice raw. "He died protecting me. I didn't even get to speak to him properly. I wanted… I just wanted to see him once more. To let my parents hear his voice. To say goodbye."
Her shoulders shook as she swallowed back a sob.
"I didn't want power. I didn't want kings or wars or curses. I just wanted my brother."
The silence that followed was different.
Heavier.
When the King finally spoke, his voice was no longer distant or commanding.
You broke the law of worlds for love, he said slowly.
"Yes," she whispered. "And now I'm paying for it."
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly: So am I.
The anger that had burned through him earlier dulled, reshaped by understanding. The palace around them seemed to recede, its echoes softening as the night deepened.
This place no longer serves us, he said at last. And it wounds you.
Adriana nodded weakly. "I can't stay here. Not like this."
Then we return, he decided. For now.
With effort, Adriana rose to her feet. Each step felt heavy, but the night eased the strain just enough for her to move. They turned away from the ruins together, leaving the broken palace behind—its stones silent once more beneath the moon.
As they walked back toward the village, Adriana glanced once over her shoulder.
The palace stood still, abandoned, holding centuries of pain within its walls.
The village lights appeared ahead of them as they returned.
Small lamps glowed near doorways, familiar and comforting, yet Adriana felt no relief. Her steps slowed as the bond tightened again—subtle, warning. The night had deepened, and with it, his presence grew stronger inside her.
We are being watched, the King said calmly.
"I know," Adriana whispered under her breath. "Please—just… stay quiet."
They entered Lunareth just as a few villagers were returning from the wells and late prayers. At first, no one noticed anything strange. Then Adriana stopped walking.
Her posture changed.
Her shoulders straightened. Her chin lifted—not with pride, but with instinct. Her breath steadied unnaturally. The exhaustion she had been fighting moments ago vanished like a lie.
A villager paused.
Then another.
Adriana took a step forward—and her voice, when it came, was not entirely her own.
"Clear the path."
The words were low, firm, unquestionable.
The villagers froze.
Eyes widened. Murmurs spread like ripples through still water.
"Adriana…?" someone whispered.
"What's wrong with her?" another asked.
Inside, panic flared.
Stop, Adriana pleaded silently. Don't speak to them like that.
They stand without permission, the King replied, genuinely confused. This was once required.
Her hands clenched at her sides as she forced control back into her voice. "I'm fine," she said quickly—too quickly. "Please… don't be afraid."
But her body betrayed her.
She turned sharply toward a man who had stepped too close. "You," she said, pointing without thinking. "Step back."
The command carried weight—ancient, practiced.
The man obeyed instinctively.
Gasps filled the street.
Adriana's heart raced. "No—no, I didn't mean—" She pressed her fingers against her temple, whispering urgently. "You are not a king anymore. This is not your land. These people don't answer to you."
They look at you as they once looked at me, he said slowly. With uncertainty. With fear.
"That's exactly the problem," she hissed under her breath. "You cannot rule through me."
The villagers exchanged frightened glances now. Someone made the sign of protection. Another stepped back into the shadows.
Adriana bowed her head suddenly, forcing her body to bend—breaking the posture, breaking the illusion.
"I'm sorry," she said aloud, voice shaking but fully hers again. "I'm unwell. Please… go home."
There was hesitation.
Then, slowly, the villagers retreated, whispering urgently among themselves. Doors closed. Lamps dimmed. The street emptied faster than it ever had before.
Silence returned.
Adriana sagged forward, gripping the wall of a nearby house to stay upright. Her breathing was uneven, her limbs heavy again.
"This cannot happen again," she said quietly. "If they see you through me… they will fear me."
Fear was once respect, the King replied.
"Not anymore," she answered, lifting her head. "This world has changed. And you must change with it."
He did not respond.
But she felt it—the tension within him, the struggle between memory and reality.
They continued walking, slower now, more carefully, both aware that something irreversible had begun.
The King had taken his first steps among the living.
And Lunareth had noticed.
And she knew—deep in her bones—that this was not the end of its story.
Nor of theirs.