The silence in the west wing was not natural.
It was thick, oppressive—alive in a way silence shouldn't be. Dust floated midair, suspended as if time itself had paused to witness what was about to happen.
Aaron stood before the broken mirror.
Its shattered surface no longer reflected light. Instead, it devoured it, drank it in. The shards hung inches above the stone floor, trembling faintly, caught between this world and some other realm that pulsed just beyond reach.
His breath formed pale clouds in the freezing corridor, though no wind stirred.
Behind him, Elira hugged herself tightly, her voice barely a whisper.
"It's moving," she said, eyes wide. "Shards don't do that, Aaron."
But Aaron didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the largest fragment—the one pulsing softly, like a heartbeat echoing from the other side. His hand rose of its own accord, drawn toward the light.
His fingers brushed the glass.
And the world shifted.
---
He fell—but not through space.
Through memory. Through truth.
The walls dissolved into fire. The floor became mist and sky. Then he stood in a place that wasn't real, yet felt truer than anything he'd known. A dream woven from flame and smoke and grief.
A nursery engulfed in flames.
A black-draped throne, hidden in mourning.
A city breaking under a blood-red sky.
A name shouted in a tongue he didn't recognize—but understood.
Then silence.
In the heart of it all stood a child.
The boy turned slowly. His eyes were the color of a clear sky, but his body cast no shadow.
Aaron took a cautious step forward, his voice barely holding together.
"Who… are you?"
The child tilted his head.
"I'm what they cut out of you."
---
Aaron awoke with a violent jolt, crashing backward onto the stone floor of the west wing.
Elira rushed to his side and knelt quickly.
"Aaron! What did you see?"
He couldn't answer at first. His hands were shaking. His eyes stared down at them—and there, glowing faintly on his skin, was a mark. A sigil. Blue and alive, pulsing softly like a second heartbeat branded into his flesh.
"I saw… me," he said at last. "A version of me. But hollow. Like something was torn out and left behind."
He turned his gaze back to the mirror.
The shards were still now. Silent. But not dead—waiting.
"That mirror doesn't just reflect," he whispered. "It remembers."
Elira's breath caught.
"Then whatever it remembers…" she said slowly, eyes dark with dread,
"…it's waking up."