The mirror-chamber pulsed, each reflection stepping free of the glass as if the Tower itself exhaled them into being.
Naval's echo landed first, blade in hand, forged from every strike that had failed to hit true, every moment of hesitation he had buried. Its stance was iron, merciless.
Milim's counterpart unfurled wings that dwarfed hers, burning with all the destruction she had ever withheld, every ounce of restraint twisted into raw violence. Its grin was hers—except crueler, hungrier.
Roselia's constellation-double shimmered impossibly bright, its stars arranged not to guide, but to chain—an unyielding web of fates she had once rejected.
Liliana's weaving stood tall, threads cascading endlessly until they stretched into a net too vast to escape. It wasn't fragile—it was suffocating, a world bound tight by a will that had surrendered to control.
