Page 46 of The Syndicate’s Shadow Heiress (Branche de Lune Syndicate #1)

THE HOLLOW CROWNS

Kali’s Emotional State: Crowned by consequence. Her soul is fractured, her shadows are snarling, and her rage is a prophecy waiting to detonate. She doesn’t just carry a burden—she is the reckoning.

T

he Hollow Gate pulsed behind her like a second heart—ancient, alive, and watching.

Kali stood at the crest of the ash-wreathed rise, wind screaming like ghosts through her coat.

Below, the ruins of the Spiral’s last stronghold smoked in the half-light, broken sigils leaking corrupted magic like venom into the air.

There was blood in the soil. Cracks in the veil.

And a silence that screamed louder than war drums.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Because she didn’t see him. Not Silas. Not even a trace of his magic in the shattered field. But deep in her ribs, something flickered. A tether. Barely there.

“I’m not too late,” she whispered through gritted teeth.

Irina stepped up beside her, limping, blood-spattered, a blade in one hand and a pistol in the other. Her eyes were hard and afraid.

“They tried to hide the vault,” she said. “Used illusion wards and sigil folds. But Astraeus… incinerated most of them.”

Behind them, Solen crouched beside a ring of shattered runes carved into voidstone. His palm hovered above the etchings .

“There’s a binding circle here. Still active. But this one’s old. Really old.”

“How old?” Kali asked, her voice like cracked glass.

Solen’s eyes flicked up. “Before the Gate had a name.”

The shadows inside her flinched.

Then, Bentley screamed from below.

A dragon’s roar cracked the sky. Astraeus, fully shifted, circled above in a spiral of molten silver and storm-black wings. His eyes flared.

“Something’s coming,” he rumbled. “Something sewn. And wrong.”

The wind stilled.

And then it reversed.

From the vault, dragging starlight and rot with it—something rose. Not Azareal. Worse. It wore a cloak stitched from bone thread and dragon scale. Its limbs were bent wrong. Its crown was forged from broken dragon teeth and stitched sinew.

The Stitcher. Not a myth. A warning. A mistake born into flesh.

Kali’s blood iced over.

Irina cursed under her breath and raised her gun.

Solen whispered a prayer to a god that never answered.

Astraeus dropped lower, wings flaring, ready to incinerate .

But the Stitcher didn’t attack. It turned its head slowly and bowed to her.

Kali didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Her shadows howled behind her, crawling like a crown around her shoulders.

The creature rasped, its voice made of rust and ancient thread:

“Shadow Crown. Blood Gate. Hollow Queen. I remember the screams of your first fall, Hollow Queen. I have waited to serve, or end, you again.”

Then it knelt. Not to beg, but to serve.

She stepped forward slowly, hand lifting of its own accord. And then, she touched its chest.

The moment her fingers met the woven threads, a sigil ignited, violet and gold. Carved in Zarokian across the cavity of its chest like a brand left by forgotten gods. The light surged from the mark, then spiraled upward, splitting into rings of arcane energy.

A memory burned into the sky.

Oracle Sigil Transfer

They all saw it.

A throne room, collapsing. The First Keeper, tall, veiled in warlight, bleeding from the mouth, whispering as the Hollow Gate shrieked behind her:

“Seal it. No matter the cost. Don’t follow me.”

The Stitcher lunged forward .

“I was made to protect you, I was your weapon. I will be again. Unless the thread breaks... twice.”

She turned, and for half a second, her face was clear. Not just similar. Kali’s face. Not an echo. Not a metaphor. Her.

Her breath caught. This is me. This was always me. The thought cracked across her ribs like lightning. That wasn’t her reflection. It was her inheritance. Her curse. Her proof.

Thorne gasped, stumbling back like someone had punched the air from his lungs. His magic stuttered in the air, threads snapping.

“No. That’s not possible.”

Solen stumbled backward, eyes wide, not with fear, but awe. Irina’s fingers whitened around her blade. Even Astraeus’s wings shifted, uncertain.

Lev’s jaw clenched. He didn’t speak, but his knuckles went white.

His voice, when it came, was nearly broken:

“What the fuck are you?” he whispered, not in accusation, but awe.

“You’re not the girl I met in the archives anymore,” Thorne whispered. “You’re something older. And it terrifies me.”

Irina’s eyes shone. Not with tears. With revelation.

“She didn’t just inherit this… she’s been here before.”

Solen's voice was razor-flat.

“A corrected echo,” he murmured. “The thread looped. But this time, it wants revenge.”

The vision shattered .

The sigil dimmed.

And the Gate didn’t pulse. It smiled.

Kali stepped forward, her voice low, lethal, and God-forged.

“Then, let’s dethrone the gods.”

Bentley wouldn’t let her go.

His giant head pressed against her chest as if to say: Breathe, damn it. I’ve got you. Kali’s fingers curled into his thick black mane, grounding herself in the moment, the scent of earth and horse sweat, the muffled nickers of the others circling protectively in the field.

Everywhere around her, the air shimmered. The bond with her mates still buzzed through her skin like phantom lightning. Her body trembled with the aftermath, her magic unraveled and slowly weaving itself back together.

But her soul... her soul was stitched with something new. Not peace. Not even power. Resolve.

She exhaled shakily, pressing her face into Bentley’s warm neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and the giant Clydesdale let out a low huff, as if answering, Always!

Her knees buckled, but before she could drop, Astraeus caught her, half-shifted, golden-eyed, burning and silent. He didn’t speak. Just stood beside her like a shadow turned sentinel.

Her dogs flanked them like a five-pointed star of protection.

Tiger paced like a soldier .

Spike perched atop Bentley’s back like a tiny general.

Nickel leaned into her hip, sensing the fatigue that words couldn’t name.

Kota let out a low growl at the darkening sky.

Megan pressed her nose to Kali’s hand, licking gently until her fingers stopped trembling.

The Hollow trembled in return, like even the land knew she wasn’t done.

She slowly stepped back from Bentley, barefoot in the wet grass, her limbs aching, every muscle sore. The flare hadn’t passed; it had evolved. She could feel it in her joints, in the marrow of her bones. Magic laced with grief. Strength pulled from pain.

Behind her eyelids, she still saw flashes of him—Stitcher, that strange dreamwalker in the Threads. His voice had been low, stitched with warning:

“Not all gates lead to freedom, Keeper. Some lead to the end of everything.”

“Was he real?”

She didn’t know.

But the shadows believed him. And that was enough.

A cold gust swirled across the pasture. The horses shifted, ears twitching. Her shadows stirred like restless smoke.

And then Irina appeared.

No words. Just that unreadable expression she wore when shit was about to go sideways .

Kali straightened and tried to swallow the exhaustion, the fire still flickering behind her eyes.

Irina stepped closer, her voice low.

“You need to see this.”

Kali’s mouth was dry.

“What now?”

Irina didn’t answer. Just held her gaze. There was tension in her shoulders. Something she hadn’t seen before—fear? No, not quite.

Anticipation.

Bentley nickered again, but softer, almost like a warning.

Kali nodded once and walked toward whatever waited.