While we faced Jamaico, I stood still. Utterly still. My heart threatened to split through my chest, pounding like it wanted out. Everyone else was poised to fight, but I was trapped in silence, trying to negotiate with the monster inside me. The shadow version. The reason Skymint flinched when our eyes met. The reason I couldn’t trust my own reflection since we entered the Fresha Kingdom.

  What had she done with my body while I slept?

  How does one survive the knowledge that their soul is split—worse, rotting at the edges? If she was real, truly real, then I didn’t just witness Uncle Dicester's corpse. I caused it. I couldn't remember why or how. Only that I was there according to Dorsey. And he died.

  A heart attack? From me? My ice can’t do that. Can it?

  Unless… unless I wielded Dreamer’s Magic.

  I had tried to summon it. Whispered words into the void, aching for proof. Nothing came. It was like trying to speak through glass, like the magic was there but not mine to command. It belonged to her. Not me.

  And that was the part that scared me most.

  She had my power, but none of my conscience. A fractured soul: one half cold logic, the other unhinged instinct.

  “Hey. That’s insulting. Stop analyzing me like I’m some side effect. I’m literally you.”

  She always spoke like a smirk made of sound, crisp and amused. Dangerous.

  Whatever spell had made this happen—whatever curse or ancient cruelty had split my being—it worked too well.

  “You should try talking to me instead of narrating your existential crisis. Not the reaction I was hoping for.”

  I flinched.

  Why do you exist? Who cursed me? I had asked her once, silently.

  “Oh, believe me, I want that answer just as much as you do. But I hate them, too. Whoever they were.”

  Did you manipulate them to be held in this arena?

  “Please. I didn’t make this arena. I protected you. I kept the Wolfmen from following us from Polarmen Islands. I made Skymint win in Fresha. You wanted him safe, remember?”

  You act like survival justifies everything.

  “It usually does.”

  Then what are your intentions?

  “Same as yours,” she’d said, almost gently. “To live. To understand. To be seen. There’s a mirror in the treasury here. Enchanted. You’ll be able to see me. Truly see me. Then maybe—just maybe—you’ll stop pretending I’m the villain in this story.”

  No. I will never accept you.

  “You say that now.” Her laughter was a broken melody. “But we’re not so different. You’re just better at lying to yourself.”

  Still... The mirror. The idea clawed at my mind like a buried memory begging to resurface.

  Jamaico moved above us, sunlight incarnate, crushing the chalice in his hand. Gold turned to dust between his fingers.

  And I ran.

  I left them. Didn’t explain. Didn’t try.

  Somewhere inside me, I knew Carrie would be mummified. And still, I ran to the cells instead, to free the prisoners. To save strangers instead of my blood. Was that me? Or her?

  Or both?

  "All of you are nothing against me," Jamaico declared, his voice echoing through the arena like thunder filtered through silk. "The Sun God is with me. Still, I do so love breaking side tributes."

  His fists clenched.

  And then they rose. Mummies from the sand, clawing toward us, brittle and reeking of the past. Of death denied.

  While Caron, Morgan, and Skymint clashed with the tide, I slipped through the chaos.

  Didn’t look back.

  I moved through the swarm of mummies, their fragile bodies tearing at the seams as I collided with them. Ice splintered through their limbs with a whisper. Their scent clung to the air—dry rot and ancient dust—and their touch crawled under my skin like the ghost of an era long buried.

  “Grrregggh,” one of them groaned, a crooked sound more curse than word.

  The noise clawed at my nerves. But what writhed inside me was worse. Something colder. Vaster. I wanted to run. To cry. To sabotage everything before it could collapse on its own. Ripping apart those corpses helped me breathe, barely. It kept the panic at bay. Kept me frozen.

  “There’s a trapdoor that leads to the treasury,” she had said. “Keep going. You’ll find it.”

  My heartbeat thundered louder with every step. I hated how natural it felt to run toward destruction. So I stopped running. I dropped to my knees and crawled, fingers dragging across the frost-dusted stone. Maybe this fits me more. A monster crawling through her own story.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re making fun of yourself. Felipe is the enemy.”

  That’s right.

  And wrong.

  That’s just the convenient answer I feed myself to avoid choking on the truth. Felipe might be the villain, but I am still me.

  When my hand brushed against the trapdoor, I didn’t hesitate. I flung it open and let myself fall.

  I landed with a muffled crash on a mountain of sparkling gems and weaponized beauty. Crowns whispered power. Amulets hummed with latent magic. Their shimmer should have dazzled me. Instead, it turned my stomach. Each jewel glared like an unblinking eye.

  Something in the corner caught the light. A shard of reflection.

  I stepped across the treasures like a trespasser, drawn to it. A mirror, small enough to hold. I raised it. My face stared back. Untouched. Young. Too young to bear what I’ve done.

  “I am Arie. And I am Ellie.”

  I'm just—

  I'm just—

  I'm just going to kill myself.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Not out of hatred.

  Not out of fear.

  But because that might be the only way to carve one bad thing out of this world. Just one. And yet...

  I want to change the world.

  If I live, no one will be able to stop her.

  Not even me.

  Laughter tore from me before I even knew it was mine. Wild. Broken. A sharp, echoing thing that cracked through the treasury like glass.

  And then silence swallowed me whole.

  ***

  Ellie’s POV

  “Arie, where have you been?” Morgan’s voice quivered with concern. “You look… tired. And you’ve been spacing out before you vanished.”

  “Sorry... I think I got lost. What did I miss?”

  One look at Skymint, and he gave me that stare. The skeptical one. The one that confirmed everything he’d feared—that I wasn’t her.

  He got what he wanted. A scapegoat. Someone easier to accuse than the half he blindly worshipped.

  Ridiculous. We both got it wrong. The scorching heat had driven Arie to some delusion about Llanova being a Dreamer’s Magic user. And now it seems my own writings had fed that delusion.

  “I’m afraid to interfere,” Morgan said, gaze flitting toward the battlefield. “They move too fast. I was clearing out the mummies for Sir Caron so he could focus on the Sand King.”

  Caron and Skymint clashed elements with Jamaico at the pyramid’s core, their silhouettes locked in synchronized violence. I watched them from the shadows.

  How lucky she is, my other half. To have a knight so loyal he doesn’t need a leash. Just the illusion of trust.

  Another one of my so-called protection spells. Cast without ever lifting a hand.

  But even my own magic had a cost. Wiping Arie’s doubts. Scrubbing her memory of meeting me in the past. It had gnawed at my energy, chiseled away my sleep until I was a hollow-eyed phantom. I wouldn’t be of much help in this fight. Not beyond the bite of my ice.

  What a cruel fate—to inherit Dreamer’s Magic and be shackled by it.

  Jamaico never strayed far from Carrie, who remained bound and blinking, her eyes void of thought. Brainwashed. I already knew where this was going. The discreet prophecy had whispered of this moment: the making of a Lyssoto.

  Then came the bang.

  A concussive crack split the air, sandstone raining down in chunks. Sunlight spilled into the darkened mouth of the pyramid, bleeding across the floor like a golden wound.

  “Where is my daughter?” King Callum’s voice thundered through the chamber. Furious. Fractured with desperation.

  Flanking him, Berard and Luceran emerged. A storm of half-Freshan troops at their backs, flooding in like a tide of bronze and sand to encircle the pyramid.

  “She doesn’t want to return,” Jamaico replied, the arrogance coating his words like oil. “The Sun God would claim her as tribute, and—"

  “Enough!” King Callum bellowed.

  “You think your men hold power here?” Jamaico’s voice dipped into something venomous. “This is the Sun God's domain. A single misstep and you'll all become sandbags.”

  The way his voice pitched, all smug cruelty and inflated ego, made my skin crawl. I hated it. We hated it.

  Then, the chalice in his grip dissolved, shifting, blooming into a scepter. The Scepter of the Undead.

  Its golden pulse echoed a memory: Skadar’s eyes. That same sickly brilliance.

  That bastard.

  “I can’t believe this man is that intolerable,” Luceran muttered beside me, but his voice sounded far away. Like an afterthought in a storm.

  The scepter hummed.

  And the desert answered.

  Grains twisted, spun, then surged. Mummies clawed their way from beneath the pyramid’s skin, their return heralded by the taste of ancient death.

  Soldiers screamed. Spears met bone. Sinew tore. Undead shrieked in defiance of time.

  One mummy staggered forward. I watched, mesmerized, as a spear shredded its face bandage. The cloth fluttered away like a moth’s wing. Beneath it: a skull, bleached and grinning.

  Just before Jamaico could level the scepter at Carrie, a crackling thread of electric energy collided with him mid-motion. Elion Champ, slender, tall, unmistakable, had arrived from Greatspire.

  The scepter slipped from Jamaico’s grasp. The blast meant for Carrie veered upward, a sickly green surge catching him in the face. He screamed—sharp, ragged, raw. Music, in a way. The kind that gnaws at memory. His agony splintered into the air as he shot wild lasers of light, slicing through stone and ice alike. The pyramid shuddered. Buckled. It was no longer a throne. It had become a tomb caving in.

  “Move out,” Elion’s voice rang, cold and resolute.

  He gripped me by the waist, just for a moment, as he pulled me clear of the falling debris. Then, without pause, he turned back for the others.

  I waited. Skymint didn’t follow. I told myself he would. He always did.

  But no. Elion had to go back.

  Skymint stood amid the wreckage, staring into nothing, as if something vital had been sucked out of him. Just like Llanova. Just like that, he nearly died again. This time with me.

  Not far from us, King Callum cradled Carrie in his arms. She trembled against him, dazed and breathless. The spell, whatever it was, had broken. But she hadn’t come back fully. Not yet. She blinked up at me, eyes wide, and for a moment—for that single, glorious moment—I smiled. She would dream of that smile. I’d make sure of it.

  Nearby, Morgan was being interrogated by Wade. Finally, a break from her blabbering.

  I glanced around. Caron Carleton was gone. Again.

  No surprise. He only ever seemed real for five seconds. Then he vanished. Slipped through time like he was made of mist. Always when I needed him most. Always. Frustrating.

  “What’s a warrior from Greatspire doing here?” I asked, keeping it clipped, cool. Very Arie.

  I didn’t smile, though I could have. He was handsome enough to exploit. But that wasn’t part of my act. Not today.

  “I stayed on Fresha for the bounty,” Elion replied, tone dry. Almost apologetic.

  He added quickly, “Don’t worry. My task was simple: take down the Sunstarian Sand King. Nothing more.”

  Then he said, “I’ll have to go.”

  He nearly earned himself a death flag from me.

  No one touches Skymint. Not for profit. Not for favor. Not even for justice.

  And I certainly won’t be anyone’s pawn again.

  From afar, the prisoners fled. Streaks of water, fire, mist, and smoke trailed behind them like banners as they scattered. The sky above stretched impossibly blue, mocking in its brightness. It reminded me of daylight. Of rare moments when I wasn’t being pulled by someone else’s strings.

  But the space between Skymint and me was wider now. Heavier. Second rift. This one might not heal.

  I won’t cast a spell on him. Not on the person I loved. It would feel wrong. Cheap. And another unpaid sleep debt I’d rather not carry.

  I stifled a yawn, blinking fast as my eyes watered. The permanent enchantment that kept my dark circles hidden did little for the weight behind them. The debt was mounting. Always mounting.

  "Skymint! Arie!" Berard's voice tore through the open air, rough and frantic.

  He stood between us, framed by the gap that yawned like a wound in the street. Likely, he’d come for his share of the leaf bills. A fair motive, considering he’d risked everything letting Skymint serve as his beardom’s stand-in.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, breath uneven, face crumpled beneath the weight of his own failure. “I wasn’t able to protect either of you again. But let me help now before we call the attention of other Sunstarians."

  King Callum flanked me like a ghost from another era, stiff in every step. “We should leave the Polarman here,” he said, with cold disdain. “He is a disease to my kingdom. Had he not existed, my daughter would never have endured that cursed place.”

  “No, he should be with us,” I said quickly, almost desperately. “Berard, please... convince him.”

  Berard shifted his weight, eyes darting from me to my uncle.

  “We bring him,” he finally said. “Leaving him behind would just paint a target. They’ll use him, bleed him for information if they must. And the Sand General won’t hesitate.”

  Callum’s mouth twitched, but then he relented. “Fine. But he doesn’t cross into Fresha. We drop him outside our borders.” He extended a hand and steered me toward the nearest carriage.

  “Personally,” Luceran said to Skymint with a smirk that didn’t quite meet his eyes, “I should make you walk for stealing second place from me. But... you’re welcome in my carriage. Don’t make me regret it.”

  I watched Skymint climb in, and for a brief moment, something in me stirred. An urge to cast a silencing charm on Carrie. Not to hurt her. Just to keep her still. Predictable. Safe. Because I didn’t trust her.

  But restraint laced my hands. Any spell might draw attention. My uncle wasn’t naive; he’d once mingled with warlocks. He could sniff out latent magic like blood in the snow.

  Inside the carriage, I sat across from him. Carrie rested beside him, slumped against the wooden wall like a discarded doll. Her silence didn’t last. She turned to the window and vomited, her body heaving with the weight of what she’d seen—or perhaps what she’d done.

  The quiet that followed settled on my chest like dust on old armor.

  Something twisted beneath my skin. Guilt. Foreign, but present. Why am I feeling this? I should be cold. Untouchable.

  Then it struck me.

  This isn't mine.

  I was borrowing this moment. Borrowing Arie’s heartbeat. Her pain. Her soul, soft and stubborn, still clung to the edges of mine. It wasn’t weakness I felt. It was hers, and it was seeping into me like thaw through a crack in the ice.

  They call it the Frostbound Blood Prophecy. A tale drenched in divine irony: that within me, a harbinger of collapse, flickered the remnants of an angelic soul.

  The Lyssotos would rise. Prophecy made that much clear. They would dismantle this world with elegance and ruin.

  One of us would dominate. The most feared. The most loved. The most powerful.

  It sounded exhausting.

  And according to my spell of foresight, that person would be me.

  Not that I wanted power. Not really. But if I were to rule, then I’d keep Skymint. Not as a prisoner. Not as leverage.

  As a king.

  Because I didn’t want to be alone in a palace already frozen by design. I wanted warmth. Or at least the illusion of it.

  Eventually, I turned to King Callum. My voice was cool, calculated.

  And I told him what we endured in the Sunstar Colesseum.