The escort's voice sounded inside the circular pantheon, calm and detached.

  She could see very faint outlines of the Umbralyns behind greyed-out windows, observing like spectators at a hunt, their attention sharp and patient, waiting to see a creature strike. She shivered.

  She was prey.

  “You will demonstrate,” he said evenly. “They will see what you are capable of. How far you can push the shards.”

  Lyra’s stomach dropped.

  The air itself seemed to tighten, vibrating along the stone walls. A low hum rose beneath her boots, subtle at first, then coalescing into the sharp, jagged pulse of the Fracture.

  Then it appeared.

  Horror. Death.

  Taller than the Hollow Wraith she had faced before, it emerged from the shadows of the pantheon like a broken scream made flesh, a jagged silhouette slithering and folding in impossible angles.

  Its limbs cracked and stretched unnaturally, folding over each other, sliding along walls like liquid glass. Light refracted from its fractured body into stabbing shards that danced across the stone, making it impossible to focus on any single part. Where eyes should have been, there were hollow, glimmering voids, reflecting her every move back at her.

  A hiss rose — not sound, but a rasping, tearing vibration that scraped along stone and sinew. It crawled forward on hands ending in long, crystalline claws, twisting and folding like a nightmare contorted from shadow and fracture.

  Lyra froze.

  Flashbacks of Julen, his injuries. The moment she'd thought he had died. The way it had moved with lethal inevitability. The gashes across Caelith’s ribs that tore so deep she could see bone. She had survived before only because Caelith had been there.

  Here, she had nothing.

  Except the shards.

  Her eyes flicked to the shards embedded in the floor and walls. She ran as quickly as she could and snatched them, shaping jagged prisms and spires, pointing and thrusting them like weapons. She could feel the Fracture under her hands, quivering, responsive—but without Caelith, her control was brittle. Each formation trembled, untempered, a reflection of her fear.

  The Wraith lunged.

  Its movement was impossibly fast. Its body folded in on itself, twisting midair, scraping the walls with a sound that set her teeth on edge. Its screech — glass-on-bone, hollow, keening — reverberated through her chest, crawling into her lungs, making her gag. The shards lining the walls rattled, shaking in response to the Wraith’s pulse, scattering shards at her feet.

  Lyra thrust the prisms forward, forcing them into a jagged lattice to hold the creature at bay.

  Sparks flew as its claws tore through them. One slashed her shoulder, burning her skin and shredding her sleeve. Pain flared hot and white, and she screamed, a raw, guttural sound that echoed against stone.

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  The Wraith twisted again, faster than she could anticipate, hollow gaze locked on her. Its body scuttled along walls, crawled across ceilings, folded in ways that should have been impossible. The scraping of claws across stone echoed in every chamber of her mind.

  She went cold.

  It knew her. It wanted her.

  And she knew, with the absolute certainty of terror, that if she misstepped even once, she would die.

  A limb shot out. Lyra barely twisted away in time. Shards splintered, biting into her hands. She screamed, the sound cracking as the pain lanced through her fingers, the Fracture pulsing wildly beneath her.

  “Focus,” she hissed, shaping more prisms and spikes, aiming it at the Wraith as it leapt towards her repeatedly. It shrieked again, a sound scraping her eardrums, crawling down her chest into her stomach.

  The Umbralyns watched silently. Cold. Detached.

  Lyra’s heart twisted in anger and fear.

  Why aren't they doing anything? she thought, chest tightening. I'm here to die. They want me dead.

  Her breath came in ragged, panicked bursts. Every cut, every shard slicing her skin, every hiss of the Wraith adapting to her defenses, struck her like fire.

  She ducked, rolled, thrust shards like spears and javelins, trying to weave latticework into jagged cages from the shards that eventually splintered, reformed, and shattered again.

  Her knees burned raw from sliding across stone. Sweat stung her eyes, pain flaring in her arms.

  By what seemed like sheer luck, she managed to hook a shard into the Wraith’s side as it next attempted to strike her. It hissed, faltered for a heartbeat.

  Lyra seized the moment, thrusting as many spikes as she could outward, power beaming from them. Her hands were bloody, fingers trembling, and the power she'd created cracked under the Wraith’s relentless assault.

  She staggered backward, gasping, nearly collapsing.

  Its hollow gaze tracked her every movement as she scrambled backward, weaving, stabbing, thrusting, spinning shards with every ounce of focus she had left.

  The Wraith shrieked, its head snapping toward her as its body twisted unnaturally, crawling along the walls, then launching from the ceiling with soundless intent. Its claws sliced the air where she had been a heartbeat before. Lyra hurled another shard with all her strength. It struck its legs, exploding into splintered light—but the creature barely slowed, surging toward her faster now, silent yet heavy with purpose.

  She stumbled, thrusting shards blindly, no longer fighting to win—only to delay the inevitable. Pain lanced through her side. Blood slicked her palms. Her vision blurred as adrenaline burned through her veins.

  I can’t survive this alone.

  It reached her.

  A breath away. Close enough that she could smell it—cold stone and old blood, something rotten and wrong. Terror reflected back at her from the hollow sockets where its eyes should have been. Death stared at her without blinking.

  This was it.

  She was going to die.

  She closed her eyes and braced herself.

  And finally—

  The Umbralyns moved.

  Not in panic. Not recklessly. Their motions were precise, deliberate, and controlled. I

  nvisible energy surged outward, halting the Wraith mid-lunge. It froze, suspended by unseen force, claws scraping stone, shards vibrating in chaotic tension.

  Lyra sank to her knees, chest heaving, shards rattling at her feet.

  She had survived—but barely.

  One Umbralyn crouched before her, voice low and careful. “You have demonstrated what we needed to see.”

  He turned to the others. “She can wield the shards, and that explains what happened—but she is limited. When alone.”

  Lyra shook her head, furious. “I did what I could. I survived.”

  “Yes,” he said, dismissing her presence with a look. “It was enough to confirm the shards potential. But also enough to confirm the necessity of oversight. She would not have survived without us— without our intervention. Umbralyn intervention.”

  She pressed her palms to the stone floor. Blood covered her hands, leaving red-stained hand prints on the stone. The shards hummed faintly, restless.

  Alone, she realised how vulnerable she truly was. Fragile. Human.

  The other Umbralyns stepped back, scrutiny unwavering. Silence returned, but the Fracture’s pulse throbbed in her veins, reminding her of the danger she had just faced.

  She remembered Caelith’s warning: I will not let them use you.

  A cold fear settled over her chest. Perhaps he had been right. Perhaps the rumors were true. Perhaps this was the Umbralyns’ nature, and she had just glimpsed it in full. And if that was true… where did Caelith fit into it now?

  She pressed her palms harder into the stone, shards humming faintly, and then passed out on the floor.