At the chamber's center lay a pool of water, perfectly still, surface gleaming with golden light. Runes swirled beneath, alive yet indecipherable.
Ashwing pressed close to his ear. Don't touch it.
Lindarion knelt by the pool, his reflection staring back, shadows under his eyes, silver threads of mana flickering through his irises.
The surface rippled without him moving.
For an instant, the reflection changed.
Not him.
A figure with scales along his jaw. Wings unfurled at his back. His own face, yet not.
[System notice: Fragment alignment—initiated.]
[Proceed?]
The choice pulsed before him like a blade drawn.
He closed his fist, forcing the system back.
"Not yet," he whispered. His reflection steadied, only his own eyes staring back.
Ashwing exhaled shakily. 'Good. That was scary.'
Lindarion rose, cloak brushing the roots. The pool dimmed, as if disappointed.
But the golden motes still drifted deeper, toward another path winding below.
