Kiss of the Cursed

It began with a hum.

Low, guttural, older than the Hollow itself.

Selene clutched her chest, breath shallow, as the sound rose not from outside—but from within. Alina steadied her, but the earth beneath them had begun to stir.

The ground cracked in a perfect spiral around the altar. Not broken—opened.

A stairwell of bone and ember revealed itself.

No one had carved it. It had always been there.

The girl from the East, finally sitting up, whispered, "The Grave Below. You've summoned it."

Alina stepped forward.

"No," Selene said. Her voice rang with power not her own. "She summoned it."

The girl's eyes widened. "Narael?"

Alina nodded once. "We have to go down."

Selene hesitated. "There's no return from this descent."

Alina took her hand. "There's no turning back, either."

Together, they descended.

Every step whispered with the voices of the dead.

"Thief." "Daughter." "Flame." "Curse."

When they reached the bottom, a single chamber opened before them—walls covered in mirrors, but none reflected their faces.

Only her.

Narael.

A figure of flame and shadow, sealed within the glass.

And smiling.