Chapter 39: Shadows That Speak

The storm outside rattled the windows as if the world itself sensed the shift that had occurred within the house. Ivy paced the hallway, her thoughts a mess of disbelief and horror.

Isolde was inside her daughter.

Not just a haunting presence. Not a temporary possession. No. She was genetically a part of her child.

And Lyra—her little girl—was no longer a baby.

She had aged overnight.

When Ivy walked into the nursery that morning, she had found Lyra standing in the crib, her limbs longer, her hair fuller, and her smile… knowing. As if the innocence she should’ve had had never existed at all.

“Mama,” Lyra had said, tilting her head. “Why are you afraid of me?”

That question had shattered Ivy.

And now, she couldn’t even bring herself to answer it.

Downstairs, Mira, Isla, and Killian huddled around the scroll they had recovered from the underground chamber. The words shimmered on the ancient parchment, refusing to settle into one language, but Mira had deciphered enough to grasp the horrifying truth.

“The ritual Isolde used to merge herself into Lyra… it wasn’t random,” Mira explained, tapping the edge of the scroll. “It was chosen. Calculated. She knew the baby’s unique energy would be the perfect host for rebirth. That’s why she targeted Ivy. That’s why she chose this bloodline.”

Killian’s jaw clenched. “So Ivy was never the real target. Lyra was.”

Isla nodded grimly. “And we were too blind to see it.”

“She’s growing faster,” Mira added. “Not just physically. Her aura is evolving. She’s speaking like she’s lived a thousand years. We don’t have time to wait. We need to act.”

Killian stared toward the stairs. “Act how? Are you suggesting we kill a child?”

Silence.

No one answered.

Upstairs, Ivy watched Lyra sleep. Her daughter—if she could still call her that—looked peaceful now, but Ivy couldn’t forget the moment earlier that day when Lyra had walked toward her crib and said:

“Grandmother’s waiting, Mama. She’s underneath.”

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” Ivy had whispered.

Lyra’s eyes had narrowed. “She never left the chamber.”

That sentence has haunted Ivy ever since.

She tiptoed away, grabbed a flashlight, and made her way to the hidden staircase beneath the floorboards.

She had to see for herself.

The air was colder than before.

Each step down the narrow stone stairway sent chills crawling up Ivy’s spine. She turned on the flashlight, its beam flickering as if resisting what it was about to illuminate.

The obsidian altar was still there.

But the jar—once filled with golden mist—was shattered.

And standing near the wall was something else entirely.

A figure.

A woman with long black hair and burning violet eyes.

Ivy froze.

“You’re not real,” she whispered.

The figure smiled.

“I am. I’m what she left behind.”

“I… I saw her get expelled—”

“You saw her essence removed,” the woman interrupted. “But not her core. That’s still tethered. Through Lyra. Through you.”

“Who are you?”

The figure stepped closer, shadows curling around her like living smoke.

“I’m the shadow of Isolde. The soul fragment she anchored here. I feed on doubt. And you, dear Ivy, are full of it.”

Ivy backed away.

The woman raised her hand.

And Ivy’s body locked in place.

Just as the figure lunged forward—fingernails elongating into jagged blades—the stone walls rumbled.

A wave of light exploded through the chamber, blasting the figure backwards and shattering a section of the altar.

Standing in the doorway was Lyra.

But not the same child Ivy had left upstairs.

She looked seven years old now.

Her eyes glowed with both golden innocence… and violet fire.

“Leave my mother alone,” Lyra commanded, her voice resonating like wind and thunder combined.

The figure hissed and vanished into the shadows.

Ivy collapsed to her knees, gasping.

Lyra walked toward her, her face oddly calm.

“I had to stop her,” she said. “She’s the echo that stayed behind. A whisper of what Isolde was. But she isn’t me. Not fully.”

“You’ve changed,” Ivy breathed. “You’re not a baby anymore.”

Lyra knelt beside her, brushing Ivy’s hair gently. “I never was, Mama. Not really.”

Back upstairs, Mira felt it.

A shift in the air.

She turned to Killian. “She’s accelerated again.”

“She can’t keep ageing like this,” Killian said. “Her body… it’ll burn out.”

“No,” Mira said. “That’s not what’s happening. I think…”

“What?”

“I think she’s choosing.”

“Choosing what?”

“Which side of her to keep.”

That night, as the house settled into silence, Ivy sat on the porch, holding Lyra’s hand. The girl—now appearing about ten—watched the stars with a deep, distant expression.

“You’ll keep changing, won’t you?” Ivy whispered.

Lyra nodded. “Until the tether breaks.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means someone must pay the price for what Isolde did. The soul merge wasn’t clean. It left an imbalance. To fix it, one soul must leave.”

“And what if neither does?”

Lyra turned slowly to Ivy. “Then I won’t survive past thirteen.”

Ivy’s chest clenched. “There has to be another way.”

“There is,” Lyra said softly. “But it requires a sacrifice. A real one.”

From behind them, a voice said, “Then tell me what it is.”

Ivy turned. Killian stood in the doorway, face pale.

Lyra looked at him.

“You must choose, Father,” she said. “Between saving me… or saving your brother.”