The emerald light thickened, no longer just illumination but substance—sticky, invasive, crawling across Alaric's skin like cold fingers searching for a pulse. The chamber shrank around them, stone walls groaning as if Havenwood itself recoiled from what had been awakened.
Show me what you are willing to lose.
The whisper slid through him, intimate and patient, nothing like the roaring monsters of old tales. This was worse. This knew how to wait.
Alaric clenched his fists until his palms bled. "Get out of my head," he rasped.
Lyra shifted closer, her shoulder pressed to his, grounding him. Her warmth was real. Solid. Human. "Look at me," she ordered softly. "Not it. Me."
He tried. Gods, he tried. But the emerald eye pulsed, dragging his focus back like gravity.
You already know loss, chosen one. You wear it like armor. Let me make it useful.
The floor cracked wider. A jagged line split the chamber, green light seeping through like poison. Gareth staggered, barely maintaining the ward, sweat pouring down his temples.
"This isn't just temptation," Gareth said hoarsely. "It's excavation. It's digging through you for leverage."
Alaric laughed once—sharp, humorless. "Then it won't like what it finds."
The Wyrm's presence pressed harder.
Oh, I will. You crave control. You fear chaos. You break yourself so others don't have to. That hunger mirrors mine.
The words struck deeper than any blade.
Is that true? a traitorous thought whispered. Is that why you always choose the knife?
Lyra felt him tense. She grabbed his face, forcing his gaze to hers. Her eyes burned gold in the green haze. "Listen to me," she said fiercely. "Whatever it's offering—it's lying."
He swallowed. "It's not offering," he murmured. "It's asking."
The serpent's eye narrowed, pleased.
Yes. A question, not a command. That is what makes it choice.
Gareth shouted, voice cracking. "Alaric, do not engage it further! Every answer strengthens the link!"
But the Wyrm had already coiled tighter, slipping past Gareth's warning, past Lyra's grip.
Tell me, warrior. Who would you save first if the ground split beneath them both?
Images slammed into Alaric's mind—Lyra screaming as green light swallowed her, Gareth collapsing as the ward shattered. Two paths. Two losses. One choice.
His chest burned.
"I won't choose," he growled.
You always do.
The chamber lurched. Gareth cried out as one knee hit the stone, the ward flickering dangerously thin. Lyra gasped as pain lanced through her arm—the serpent carvings along the wall glowing brighter, reacting to the Wyrm's attention.
"Alaric," she whispered, voice trembling now. "It's hurting us."
That broke something in him.
"Stop," he snarled, lifting his head toward the eye. "You want me? Fine. But you don't touch them."
The emerald light surged, delighted.
Ah. There it is. The bargain beneath the defiance.
Gareth's eyes widened. "No—Alaric, do not—"
"I know," Alaric snapped. "I know what I'm doing."
Lyra stared at him. "No, you don't. Don't you dare decide this without me."
He turned to her, and for a moment, the chamber faded. It was just her. The woman who had bled beside him. Loved him without worship. Challenged him without fear.
"I won't let it take you," he said quietly. "I won't let it tear Havenwood apart. If it needs a leash—"
Lyra slapped him.
The sound cracked through the chamber, sharp and human. His head snapped to the side, shock flashing across his face.
"You don't get to play martyr," she hissed, tears bright but unfallen. "You don't get to decide that your soul is cheaper than mine."
The Wyrm chuckled, a sound like stone grinding bone.
Beautiful. Rage. Love. Possession. All such fertile soil.
The emerald eye flared, and pain exploded behind Alaric's eyes. He cried out, collapsing fully now, hands clawing at the stone.
Show me, then. Prove your restraint. Prove you are more than hunger wearing skin.
The pressure intensified—unbearable, suffocating. His thoughts fractured. Memories tore loose: battles, screams, blood-soaked victories. Every moment he had chosen force because it worked.
And beneath it all—fear. Raw, naked fear of losing control.
Lyra knelt beside him, pressing her forehead to his. "Stay," she whispered. "Stay with me. Don't give it anything."
His breath shuddered.
I can end this, the Wyrm crooned. One word. One surrender. I will take the weight from you.
Alaric opened his mouth.
Not in agreement.
In refusal.
"No," he said—not shouted, not snarled. Just no.
The emerald light faltered.
He forced himself upright, every muscle screaming, eyes locked on the serpent's eye. "You don't get my hunger," he said, voice shaking but steady. "You don't get my fear. You don't get me."
The Wyrm recoiled slightly, surprise rippling through the chamber.
Interesting.
The ward flared brighter for a heartbeat—just enough. Gareth gasped, seizing the moment to slam his staff into the ground, reinforcing the sigils.
But the Wyrm was not banished.
Not defeated.
The eye narrowed, studying Alaric with renewed interest.
Then let us see how long your restraint lasts, chosen one. Hunger is patient.
The emerald light receded a fraction, the chamber settling into a tense, unstable quiet. Cracks still glowed. The serpent carvings still watched.
Alaric sagged into Lyra's arms, shaking, alive.
For now.
Deep within the stone, something ancient curled tighter around his shadow—waiting for the moment he slipped.
And it would wait a very long time.