The Shadow Queen Is Too Alluring—I Can't Handle This Anymore!
Chapter 83: The Queen’s Shadow Has a Voice of Its Own

Chapter 83: Chapter 83: The Queen’s Shadow Has a Voice of Its Own

Lyra’s pupils shrank to slivers of white.

She stood trembling at the heart of the sealed chamber, obsidian flames licking the floor at her feet. The Codex hovered midair, pages flipping with a will of their own. Each turn unleashed whispers—some ancient, some far too familiar.

Her lips parted against her will.

"Kill the doubt."

The voice wasn’t hers.

Not anymore.

She could feel her mind fragmenting—shards of memory and emotion splintering under the Codex’s weight. It didn’t scream like mortal pain. No, it seduced. It curled around her thoughts like velvet shadow, replacing grief with fury, hesitation with cold focus.

Why do you kneel when you were born to rule?

She had come down here to borrow power.

Instead, she was bargaining with something that had her name already etched in its bones.

Her soul was no longer a quiet garden of reflection. It became a warring eclipse, shadow devouring light, the moon swallowing the sun. Every heartbeat was a drumbeat of rebellion—not against the world, but against herself.

Suddenly, her vision blurred.

The chamber melted away.

She was standing in the middle of a battlefield, not her own—but a memory.

"Burn it all."

The previous Shadow Queen’s voice echoed through her—the one whose blood Lyra bore, the one who had scorched empires without mercy.

Men knelt. Kingdoms fell. And no one ever dared ask why.

Lyra stood behind that ancient figure, realizing with a shudder:

She looked exactly like her.

Was that her destiny?

To repeat history?

She gasped back to herself, stumbling. But it was too late. Her fingertips now glowed black, like her veins had drunk midnight.

The Codex’s final page lit up:

"Your throne is not built with loyalty—it’s built with fear."

A blast of pure shadow erupted from her body, bursting through the chamber walls, rushing up like a geyser of ink into the night sky above the palace.

The entire capital felt it.

Eyes turned upward.

Some trembled.

Some knelt.

And others... smiled.

Ashen woke up in his study, books knocked off their shelves by the pulse. He whispered, "She touched it. Goddess save us all."

Zeran, deep in the coliseum, paused mid-duel. "So... she finally chose."

Meanwhile, in the outer isles of the Abyssal Court, cloaked figures bowed in unison.

"The heir has awakened. Begin Phase Two."

Back in the throne chamber, Lyra tried to breathe.

Her own reflection in the obsidian floor stared back—except... it smiled without her.

"What are you?" she whispered.

The reflection blinked.

And spoke.

"I am what you refuse to be. I am Queen, unafraid."

Her legs buckled.

Not because she was weak.

But because she didn’t know if the voice was wrong.

She wasn’t standing on a throne anymore.

She was balancing on the edge of a dagger—one side etched with mercy, the other thirsting for vengeance. And the wind was picking up.

One wrong step, and she’d fall.

Or worse—

She’d fly, and never want to land.

The High Shadow Council burst into the hall, robes fluttering in the wake of her unleashed power.

"Your Majesty," the eldest called, voice both reverent and alarmed. "Aelira escaped during the surge. The people demand justice."

Lyra didn’t blink.

She didn’t hesitate.

She smiled—the same smile her reflection wore.

"Then bring me her heart."

The chamber fell silent.

And somewhere deep in the Codex, a second voice stirred, darker than all the rest.

You are learning, my Queen.

Lyra stood atop the palace balcony, her hair whipping in the midnight wind, lips still curled in that chilling, too-calm smile. Below her, the capital burned with whispers—of power, of fear, of betrayal. Her golden eyes scanned the horizon.

Zeran knelt behind her, his voice hoarse. "You don’t really mean to kill Aelira, do you?"

Lyra didn’t turn.She only whispered, "I mean to remind them I’m not their puppet."

The terrifying part wasn’t that she felt powerful.

It was that she felt... nothing.

No guilt. No sorrow. No conflict.

Was this what it meant to rule? To peel off empathy like a bloodstained cloak and never look back?

Deep inside, the remnants of the old Lyra screamed in a locked chamber. But the Queen—the new Queen—held the key.

And she wasn’t letting go.

Her heart had become an iron pendulum, swinging with precision, no longer bound by compassion or compromise. If before she was a river—flowing, adjusting—now she was a storm: directionless but destructive.

Elsewhere, Aelira staggered through the forest, bleeding, breath ragged. Her bond with Lyra was once sacred. Now it was a warrant for her death.

"She’s changed..." Aelira gasped. "She’s not our Lyra anymore."

Behind her, shadows stirred—hunters in the Queen’s name.

They bore no banners.

Only blades.

They once hid together under the palace steps, eating stolen pastries.

"I’ll never be a Queen," Lyra had laughed. "I’d rather run a bakery with you."

And Aelira replied, "Then I’ll bake chaos into every tart."

How did that girl become this Queen?

In the war chamber, Zeran threw a scroll onto the floor. "The Council’s pushing you into bloodshed to bind your soul to the Codex. If you kill Aelira, you’ll lose the last piece of yourself."

Lyra glanced at him. For a moment, something flickered in her gaze.

Then—nothing.

"Then I’ll kill her quickly."

The chamber walls pulsed. The Codex opened itself once more. Dark runes spilled into the air, carving themselves into Lyra’s skin.

Each rune burned—but she didn’t flinch.

The ritual to sever her last mortal tie had begun.

Her throne now resembled a beating heart—alive, hungry, red with memory. Each step she took bled into the marble.

The palace itself seemed to weep.