Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The half-formed crown hovered above them, not solid but not smoke either—its edges bled in and out of focus, jagged teeth gnashing silently as if chewing the sky itself. Each point dripped streams of ember, falling like molten rain that never touched the ground, hanging in the air as if waiting for a host.

Mira's shards rattled in their orbit, caught between two wills: hers and the thing's. The steel whined with strain, some trembling so violently they sparked against each other. She felt her pulse stagger. Every beat seemed stolen, borrowed from something older.

The crown tilted. Watching.

A weight pressed onto her shoulders, invisible but crushing. Her knees buckled until she was forced half to the ground, still clutching Elena to her chest. The motes in the air stilled, all drawn into the crown's rhythm. No whispering, no screaming—only a silence so absolute that Mira swore she could hear her own blood hissing.

Elena stirred weakly. Smoke curled from her lips. "It's testing you… choosing whether you're hollow enough."

Mira spat into the ash. "I'm not theirs. I'll never be theirs."

But the crown bent lower, its jagged frame widening until it nearly spanned the entire plain above them. The ember-rain thickened, descending around Mira like bars of a cage. The ground cracked under the weight of its gaze, shards of glass-plain splintering upward like teeth.

One fragment of steel broke free from Mira's orbit with a shriek. It hovered, twitching, then twisted until its edge became a mouth. The voice that crawled from it was hers—but wrong. Hollow, doubled, echoing:

"We already wear you. Why fight your reflection?"

Mira's stomach turned. She reached for the shard, but it darted back, laughing in her voice.

Elena's glow flared faintly against Mira's chest. Her hand, still pressed over Mira's heart, trembled. "Don't fight it with hate. That's what it feeds on. Bend it. Make the shards yours in a new shape."

Mira closed her eyes, her breath ragged. The orbit thrashed, the crown pressing closer, ember-rain brushing her skin like acid. She forced herself to remember—not just the battles, not the blood, but the faces. Elena. Her brother. The Hunters who had once bowed but had not broken her. The fragments of herself that weren't rage.

Her shards slowed. The mouths shrieked, but she didn't let go. She didn't shatter them either. Instead, she reshaped the orbit, forcing the blades into a spiral—an inversion of the crown above. Steel into her own sigil, a reflection that was hers alone.

The crown above stuttered. Its ember-rain faltered.

For the first time, Mira felt it recoil.

Elena sagged deeper into her arms, whispering, "Yes… that's it… give it something it can't consume."

But the victory was only half. The crown screamed without sound, fissuring the plain for miles. Its form split, twisting, jagged points rearranging until it no longer resembled a crown at all.

It was becoming a face.

And the face was hers.