The Fallen Bridge
Cold wind howled through the cavern as Jacob slammed into the obsidian bridge. The collapse had dropped them into a chasm where violet crystals pulsed like diseased hearts. Tara groaned nearby, her gloves shredded from clawing at the rocks.
"Next time," she spat blood, "warn me before the damn floor disappears."
The bridge trembled. Silas pressed his palm against the stone, his storm-magic flaring. "This was no accident. Someone triggered the collapse."
Light exploded above them. Lysandra hovered in the abyss, her once-golden robes now streaked with black veins. The staff in her hands crackled with unstable energy—half-light, half-shadow.
"Lysandra?" Jacob reached out.
Her reply came in twin voices—one hers, one something older: "You shouldn't have followed me."
The Corruption Revealed
Tara's dagger deflected Lysandra's first blast. The spell hit the wall, exposing rusted metal conduits beneath the rock.
"Look at her neck!" Silas yelled.
Through Lysandra's flying hair, Jacob saw it—purple-black tendrils creeping up her spine. The same corruption from the murals in Chapter 3.
"She's not just infected," Silas muttered. "Alaric's using her as a conduit."
Lysandra screamed as her magic destabilized. The bridge shattered.
Throne Room of the Damned
Jacob caught Lysandra's ankle as they fell, crashing through stained glass into a circular chamber. Four shattered thrones stood at the cardinal points, their armrests carved with crow sigils.
Memories flooded Jacob's mind the moment his skin touched hers:
A child-Lysandra watching Alaric plunge a Shard into her father's chest.
Parchments in some hidden archive: "Only Crowne blood can stabilize the Shards."
"You're the failsafe," Jacob realized.
Lysandra's staff impaled his shoulder. "And you're the key." She dragged him toward the central dais where a thorned crown floated—the same artifact from the Cataclysm murals.
The Awakening
Tara and Silas burst in as Lysandra forced the crown onto Jacob's head.
The effect was instantaneous:
The blizzard outside froze midair.
Three floating islands materialized as spectral projections.
Lysandra's corruption marks receded... only to gather in her left iris.
Silas paled. "This isn't a prison. It's a control hub."
Then Lysandra snatched the crown for herself.
The Third Eye
The moment the thorns pierced her scalp:
All sound ceased.
Her back arched at an impossible angle.
A vertical slit tore open between her eyebrows—a glowing violet eye.
"Run." Her human voice was barely audible under the thing's thunderous declaration:
"VESSEL ACCEPTED."
As Tara hauled Jacob into an underground river, the last thing he saw was Lysandra hovering above the dais, her new eye fixated on something beyond the sky.