They surfaced from the catacombs just before dawn.
Zaire could taste the sulfur on the wind, a sure sign that blood magic had been used nearby. The streets of Lower Vaylin still slept, but the air pulsed like a war drum.
Kael moved with a limp, muttering to himself, eyes twitching as if fighting invisible voices.
Zaire didn't ask. He had enough ghosts of his own.
As they reached the edge of an abandoned market square, Kael paused.
"We're being watched."
Zaire didn't respond.
He already knew.
A flicker, just a flicker passed behind a torn banner fluttering in the breeze. Zaire moved fast, cutting around the far stall, blade ready.
But the figure stepped out before he reached her.
And everything inside him stopped.
"Eira?"
She stood barefoot in the center of the square, eyes wide and soft like the last memory he had of her. Same smile. Same lips. Same little scar near her brow.
She didn't move.
"Zaire," she whispered. "You found me."
His blade lowered. His steps slowed.
Kael shouted behind him:
"No! That's not..."
Too late.
Eira lunged not to embrace him, but to stab him.
The dagger scraped across Zaire's ribs, shallow but sharp. He caught her wrist in time to block the second strike.
She didn't cry. Didn't scream.
She laughed.
A cold, mechanical giggle that sounded like metal tearing flesh.
"You always were too soft when it came to me."
He stared into her eyes.
No light. No warmth.
Just a copy.
But gods, they'd made it so real.
"Who made you?" he rasped.
She smiled and pressed her forehead to his blade, still trying to twist in his grip.
"Wouldn't you like to know, traitor prince?"
Zaire gritted his teeth and let go.
Not of her, Of control.
Magic surged through his veins like wildfire.
Raw. Wild. Reckless.
He whispered something ancient. The air thickened. Gravity bent. The false Eira froze mid-breath as violet runes flared in the air around them.
And then, she shattered.
Not exploded. Not burned. Shattered like a mirror hit by a scream.
Her body fell in pieces. Bone. Skin. Echoes.
Zaire collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, blood trickling from his nose and ears.
Kael reached him seconds later.
"I told you," he said gently. "They're making copies. Testing your weakness."
Zaire didn't respond. He was still staring at the fragments — her smile burned into his mind.
Then a second voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Romantic."
Zaire looked up, blade halfway drawn.
A woman stood on the rooftop, dressed in a black coat stitched with a thousand hidden weapons. Her hair was silver like moonlight and tied back in a braid of war. One eye glowed red.
The other was missing entirely.
"Let me guess," she said. "You're the real Zaire. And you just murdered the first girl you ever loved."
Kael groaned.
"Zaire, meet Lirien. Assassin. Spy. And my least favorite drinking partner."
Lirien leapt from the roof and landed without a sound. Her boots didn't even stir dust.
"The cult's been watching you, Ghost Prince," she said. "They know you're unstable. And they're betting on it."
"Why are you here?" Zaire asked, wiping blood from his mouth.
"Because I've got a score to settle with the bastards who turned my sister into a spell-eating husk."
"And because your name is the bait on every whisper chain from here to the Black Maw."
Kael raised a brow.
"So we're a team now?"
"Don't get sentimental," Lirien snapped. "We're aligned. That's all."
Zaire stood, still shaking from the magic backlash.
"Aligned or not… you're both coming with me."
"Where?" Lirien asked.
Zaire looked out at the rising sun. Its red light spilled across the shattered false-Eira like a wound refusing to heal.
"To the one place left that still fears my name."
"The Citadel?" Kael said, eyes wide.
Zaire nodded.
"They started this with me.
Let's see how much they remember about what I left buried."