Henry barely had time to duck as a blazing torrent of golden energy erupted from his sister’s mouth like an angry dragon breathing fire. Heat rippled through the air, and the blast scorched past his shoulder, singeing the stone behind him. His pulse hammered.

  “Oh god, oh god. What do we do?!”

  “Panic!” the Wand shrieked before zipping away from him, cackling madly.

  Henry’s stomach plummeted. “That is the opposite of helpful!”

  Sarah—or their mother wearing her body—turned her blazing, mist-filled eyes toward him, her expression eerily calm. The golden flames around her intensified, heat distorting the air as she hovered above the altar.

  “Elara! What do I do? I can’t kill her—it’s my mom! And my sister!”

  Elara, still buzzing above his head, twirled lazily in the air, entirely too unbothered for someone about to be vaporized. “Ooooh, this is a bit of a wicky stidget.”

  Henry’s eye twitched. “A what?!”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “You know, a real oopsie-poopsie, a magical mulligan, a—”

  “Elara! This is serious!”

  Elara snapped her fingers as if she had just remembered something obvious. “Oh! Have you tried turning Sarah off and on again?”

  Henry gaped. “Elara—”

  He barely had time to process her nonsense before the weight of realization crashed into him like a hammer. The armor. That was it. If he could strip the last pieces from his mother’s stolen body, if he could complete the set, maybe he could end this nightmare.

  He didn’t wait. He lunged, throwing his full weight into tackling Sarah—his mother—to the ground. There was no strategy, no thought—only instinct, pure desperation. His arms locked around her, momentum slamming them both onto the blood-slick stone floor.

  She shrieked, but it wasn’t Sarah’s voice. It was something deeper, older—a sound like a dying animal layered over his mother’s usual condescending drawl. Henry barely had time to react before she jerked beneath him, her body twisting with unnatural flexibility, limbs bending in ways they shouldn’t.

  Then she vomited on him.

  A thick, viscous mist exploded from her mouth, splattering across his chest and engulfing him instantly. The stench hit like a physical blow—a choking wave of decay, burnt sugar, and something sickly sweet, like rotten fruit left to liquefy in the sun. Henry gagged violently, his stomach clenching as the mist curled around him, its greasy tendrils slipping beneath his armor, searching for gaps like hungry fingers clawing for skin. His head spun, the weight of it pressing into his thoughts like a fog, something alive trying to crawl into his mind.

  If not for the Hat of Purity and the rest of the armor shielding him, he knew—without a doubt—he would have been reduced to mist-soaked bones within seconds.

  But then, something shifted. The armor shuddered against his skin. Heat flared beneath the plates as a pulse of arcane energy rippled outward. The thick mist coiling around him like rotting tendrils hissed in protest. With a violent crack, energy surged from the armor in a golden wave, flaring outward like an invisible pulse.

  The mist shrieked—an actual sound, high and grating, like something alive being torn apart. It recoiled violently, splitting apart, peeling back from Henry’s form as if the armor itself had rejected it. The oily tendrils unraveled, sizzling away as though burned by a fire only they could feel. Henry gasped for breath, body still taut with tension, but the mist never touched him again. It lingered at the edges, swirling angrily, like a denied predator.

  He staggered back, coughing, barely keeping his balance. Sarah’s body—his mother’s stolen shell—rose gracefully to her feet, golden eyes gleaming with cold amusement, as if she had merely been waiting for him to drop. But Henry had seen the flicker of hesitation, the crack in her expression. She knew what had happened, even if she wouldn’t admit it. A frown tugged at her lips.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  His mind raced. He needed a plan. He needed an opening. More importantly, he needed that coward of a Wand to stop running and actually help.

  "WAND!" he shouted, voice hoarse. "GET BACK HERE, YOU USELESS PIECE OF WOOD!"

  The Wand, which had previously flown off screeching like a deranged parrot, slowly peeked out from behind a toppled column. Its voice was trembling but indignant.

  “Oh, now you want my help? Five minutes ago, I was ‘useless’ and ‘the opposite of helpful,’ and now suddenly it’s ‘Oh Wand, please save me, I’m a little baby and I can’t fight my horrifying mom on my own!’”

  Henry gritted his teeth. “WAND. If you don’t get over here, I swear I will find a bonfire and turn you into kindling.”

  The Wand made an offended gasp. “Excuse me?! I am an artifact of unimaginable power! I am not disposable!”

  “Then act like it and HELP!”

  Elara, meanwhile, had descended into a full-blown fit of chaotic glee. She floated midair, clapping like a delighted child at a circus act, her wings buzzing erratically, leaving behind trails of sparkling dust. Her laughter bordered on manic.

  “Oh-ho-ho, I gotta admit, I did not see this one coming!” she cackled, flipping upside down. “Mist vomit! What a plot twist! Truly, a chef’s kiss performance from Mother Dearest!”

  Henry wiped a streak of viscous mist from his chest, still gagging. “Elara, focus!”

  She gasped dramatically, clutching at her chest like he’d just insulted her entire lineage. “Excuse me?! Am I not allowed to enjoy the horrifying spectacle of a son wrestling his undead, mist-spewing mother for the soul of his trapped baby sister?! Henry, this is theater! This is Absolute Cinema.”

  “ELARA!”

  “Fine, fine!” She huffed and vanished.

  Henry blinked.

  Before he could even ask, Elara reappeared in a wild burst of light, now holding the Wand by its nonexistent scruff, swinging it through the air as if she were a cat owner trying to shove a pet into the bathtub. The Wand thrashed and shrieked, utterly offended.

  “Unhand me, you deranged pixie! I am a weapon of great renown! I refuse to be dragged like some common—”

  “Oh, hush!” Elara shook it wildly, making it spin in a panicked spiral. “Look, you are going to help, or I am gluing googly eyes onto your handle and renaming you Sir Sticks-A-Lot.”

  The Wand immediately stopped struggling.

  “…You wouldn’t dare.”

  Elara’s grin stretched way too wide. “Oh-ho, my sweet, naive little twig, you don’t know me.”

  The Wand let out a suffering groan before flinging itself out of her grasp and landing begrudgingly beside Henry. “Fine. But if I die, I am haunting you both.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Elara cheered, twirling midair like an unhinged ballerina before jabbing a finger toward Sarah’s mist-cloaked form, her wings buzzing erratically. “Look, you almost have the full armor, right? If you can get the bracers and leg pieces off her, the set will be whole. Then poof! No more horrible possession mom, no more existential horror! … Or maybe the armor fuses your bones into an unbreakable cocoon of suffering and endless combat! Who can say, really?”

  Henry's eye twitched.

  The Wand hovered reluctantly beside him, its tone laced with dramatic resignation as it groaned, “I really hate it when she’s right.”

  Henry had no time to argue. His mind locked onto the only plan that made any sense at all. He needed to get close again, fast, and he needed to tear those armor pieces off before his mother could kill him where he stood.

  His grip tightened, and he let the Wand pulse with surging mist energy, channeling everything he had into a summoning. He wasn’t holding back this time. He needed chaos—overwhelming, brutal chaos.

  The air shimmered and cracked, arcs of dark mist slashing through the room as creatures began to materialize one after another, summoned from the wand’s monstrous memories.

  First came the demon babies—small, grotesque things with gray, withered skin, their faces twisted into perpetual grins filled with needle-like teeth. They hissed and chattered as they crawled on all fours like possessed toddlers, their sharp claws clicking against the stone as they scurried forward.

  Next came the eyeless bats, their leathery wings stretching too far, jagged and scarred, filling the air with a cacophony of screeches. Their empty sockets oozed mist, and their mouths—filled with twisting rows of serrated fangs—snapped hungrily as they darted through the air like razor-edged shadows.

  Then came the mouth purses—horrid, fleshy things that looked like twisted handbags, except their clasps were gaping maws lined with jagged teeth. They scuttled like spiders, their mouths chomping noisily as they hissed and spat mist, their movements unnaturally fluid.

  The abominations followed—towering, hulking creatures with patchwork flesh, their bodies covered in writhing, black veins. Each one was a grotesque amalgamation of other creatures, their limbs misaligned and their faces a mangled mockery of humanity.

  And finally, there were the Legion masses—twisted clusters of conjoined bodies, their arms and heads fused together, their movements a disturbing series of jerking, synchronized spasms as if they were being puppeted by an unseen force. They writhed and slithered across the ground, groaning in agony, their mouths whispering incomprehensible chants, reciting some forgotten prayer to madness.

  The room filled to the brim with monstrosities, each one howling, screeching, and snarling, their collective presence turning the chamber into a nightmare made real. The air grew thick with the sound of clashing claws, gnashing teeth, and the rustle of leathery wings.

  But the Sarah-mom-monster-thing wasn’t done.