The shards did not attack.

They imitated.

On the living side of the sealed door, the first warning was the sound of Delilah’s own voice speaking a sentence she had not chosen. The black-vein script along the throne-room walls rearranged itself into the exact cadence of her newly chosen allegiance, then spoke it back to her in a tone that was almost perfect. Almost. The difference was a hollow where the cost of the choice should have been. The shard-version of her loyalty had the shape of commitment without the scar tissue that made it real.

Delilah staggered. “It’s using the script as a mirror. It’s learning the shape of...