Hatku turned.
Slowly.
The extinguished torch still smoldered—its last embers curling upward like a dying breath. The darkness pressed in now, thicker than before. Not just shadow, but presence. The kind of dark that crept, stalked, watched.
He reached for the hilt of his sword again, this time gripping it tight.
Behind him, Tashina's breathing had changed.
It wasn't the panic of pain anymore.
It was… slower. Heavier.
Measured.
"Tashina?" he said again, carefully, turning back toward her.
She wasn't curled on the ground anymore.
She was upright—kneeling—her back to him.
The twisted wings of green fire still unfurled from her shoulder blades, but they no longer twitched or burned with chaos. They held a new shape now. Still grotesque. Still unnatural. But calm. Controlled.
She turned her head, just slightly—just enough for him to see half of her face.
And half of something else.
The left side still looked like her. Still human, though stained with the crawling ink of corruption. Her eye was hers—scared, begging. But the right side…
It had split.
The skin stretched. A new shape rising beneath. Bone where cheek should be. A faint glow pulsing under translucent flesh. Her right eye wasn't green. It wasn't even an eye.
It was a slit.
Vertical. Reptilian. Hungry.
"I'm… still me…" she whispered, but it sounded rehearsed. Like someone else had fed her the line.
Hatku stepped forward. "You're fighting it. That's good. Hold on. I can help you—"
"No," she said suddenly. Loud. Clear.
The wind inside the temple stopped.
Her shoulders tensed, and she lifted her arms slightly. Not to attack.
But to listen.
Her head cocked, as though hearing something he couldn't. The faintest smile crept across her face—but it wasn't Tashina's smile. It didn't reach the left side. It split her. A cruel expression drawn on half a girl.
"He's still watching," she said in a voice that wasn't hers.
Hatku froze.
"Who?" he demanded.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she laughed—but it broke halfway, like her lungs couldn't decide how to shape it.
Then she began speaking in a low tone, almost like a chant:
"From the branches of the broken,
Where old gods went to rot,
The blood of realms unspoken
Now boils from the spot.
Born not of death,
But of hunger without name…
Tell me, brother…
Would you still call me the same?"
Hatku's jaw clenched.
He knew that verse.
It was written in their father's journal.
Buried deep in the pages marked "For if I fail..."
"You're not her," Hatku said, voice low, steady. "You've read what's in her mind."
"I am her," the voice argued. "More than ever before. I know things now. I see you."
She stood now, barefoot on the cold stone. The corrupted flame behind her dimmed. Controlled.
"I know what you were offered," she said, stepping closer. "By the ones who created this game."
Hatku didn't move.
"I know what they promised you… to save her."
Her finger lifted—slow, deliberate—and pointed at her own chest.
"This her."
His sword whispered free from its scabbard.
She smiled again. "Will you do it now, Hatku? Will you kill me? Save your mother? End it?"
Hatku's hands shook.
The stone walls around them creaked. The cracked font still leaked black. The sacred symbols once etched into Brajin's altar began to peel away—like the temple itself no longer wanted to bear witness.
"You know what I have to do," Hatku said through gritted teeth.
"Yes," she whispered.
And in that moment, the wind returned.
But it came from within her.
A low howl escaped her body as the flames behind her snapped to life again. Her feet hovered. Her shadow lengthened. The torch behind Hatku reignited on its own—and the room lit just enough to see:
Her face.
Half-human.
Half-monstrous.
Both crying.
Hatku took one step forward—blade low, eyes full of torment.
She took one step back—body trembling, fighting whatever wanted out.
And together, beneath the cracked ceiling of gods long forgotten…
They prepared for war.