Expansion.
I feel myself spreading outward, consciousness fracturing to accommodate impossible perspectives. I am in the throne but also the throne.
I am Gwenivere but also the Guardian.
I am singular but also split, viewing reality through eyes that exist in different dimensions.
And through it all, Gabriel's voice:
"Welcome home, sister. Now let's see if your friends can handle the truth of what loves them."
The last coherent thought before the shadows take complete control is a prayer:
Please. Let them survive what I've become.
Then there is only darkness, and the Guardian smiles with my lips.
The Child In The Darkness
~CASSIUS~
The darkness erupts from Gwenivere like a living thing—not the controlled shadows I weave, but something primal and absolute. It surrounds her collapsing form in layers upon layers of writhing void, each tendril carrying weight that makes reality groan.
Her eyes roll back, revealing nothing but white before even that is consumed by spreading black. The sight triggers memory of ancient texts—possession stories always begin with the eyes. But this isn't possession. This isbecoming.
Markings spread across her visible skin like living calligraphy, each symbol pulsing with power that makes my teeth ache. They're not painted on flesh but carved from within, as if her very essence is rewriting itself in a language older than speech. The glyphs glow—first black, then gold, then something beyond color that makes looking directly at them feel like staring into an eclipse.
Power shoots outward in waves.
Not gentle pulses but hammer blows of pure force that seek to unmake anything in their path. The first wave hits like a physical wall. My shadows scream, shredding at the edges where her darkness meets mine. The second wave is worse—heat thatdoesn't burn buterases, threatening to delete the very concept of my existence.
My legs grow heavy. Not tired—heavy. As if gravity itself has decided I need to be closer to the ground. My knees bend without my permission, muscles straining against inexorable pressure.
Is this the true power of a royal destined to rule?
The thought comes with clarity that surprises me, given the circumstances. But something about this moment—about witnessing power that makes my considerable abilities seem like parlor tricks—triggers memory.
My mentor's words, spoken in a time before betrayal made me armor myself in calculated distance.
We stood in the Shadow Oasis, that hidden sanctuary where only the most powerful Duskwalkers could even find the entrance, let alone navigate its tests. The clearing overlooked our lands—vast territories of eternal twilight where shadow given form created forests, mountains, cities of living darkness. Few of our kind ever witnessed this view. Fewer still survived to describe it.
"As a royal child,"he'd said, ancient voice carrying weight of centuries,"very few could ever make you kneel. Especially as one blessed with such a high tier of power in the realms of royalty."
I'd been younger then. Still naive enough to ask,"Is that why no one wishes to be associated with me?"
He hadn't looked at me. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon where darkness met darker darkness in gradients only Duskwalker eyes could distinguish. The silence stretched long enough that I thought he wouldn't answer.
"In a world of wickedness,"he finally said,"sometimes it's better to be alone than to seek companionship."
The words had stung with truth I wasn't ready to accept.
"Who wishes to be comrades with one who would betray you in a heartbeat?"His shadows coiled differently than mine—older patterns, movements that suggested depth I couldn't yet fathom."Strangers, friends, acquaintances. Those are people you can heal from if they hurt you or break your trust."
He'd paused then, and when he continued, his voice carried personal pain.
"But when family does it, it hurts even more. And that's the problem with our kind."
The memory sharpens as another wave of power crashes over me. This one doesn't push—itpulls, trying to drag something essential from my core.
