The air between them vibrated with power and tension, like a harp string stretched to its limit. Elydrith descended the obsidian steps of her throne, her movements precise and regal—like a queen who had long ruled a kingdom born of ash and broken stars.
Miraen didn't flinch, even as shadows coiled at Elydrith's heels.
"You're not me," Miraen said flatly, tightening her grip on the Flamepiercer.
Elydrith stopped several paces away. "No," she agreed. "I'm what you could have become… had you been left in the dark. Had the world denied you everything."
Miraen's heart pounded. "This realm… it's not just a reflection. It's a creation. An answer to something lost."
"Precisely," Elydrith said, circling her. "Aeylith was born from the discarded pieces of your world. Every lie unspoken, every sorrow buried, every fate severed. We are the consequence."
Elyon stepped forward. "Then we'll unmake it. You don't belong."
