The mirror pulsed.
Its shards no longer lay still—they vibrated in the air like the strings of some forbidden instrument, humming with a resonance too ancient to name.
Aaron's fingertips hovered inches from the central fragment. It glowed with a soft, ethereal blue, but beneath that glow, something darker stirred. It was like flame trapped beneath ice.
He said nothing. He didn't need to.
The mirror had already begun.
---
The world collapsed around him in silence.
There was no sensation of falling. No movement. Just a shift—as if reality had taken a breath and exhaled him into somewhere else.
When Aaron opened his eyes, he found himself standing in a place scorched by memory. The sky above was shattered glass, the ground below burned like dying coals. Statues wept molten tears, and the ruins of a once-mighty palace stretched endlessly across a firelit horizon.
And at the center of it all, beneath a sun that refused to shine, stood a throne—carved from obsidian and bone.
A figure approached.
Not sitting. Not waiting.
Walking.
---
The man looked like Aaron.
Same face. Same height. But his skin bore glowing fissures, like veins of molten lava. His eyes didn't reflect the sky-blue of Aaron's—they burned with pure, unrelenting flame. Above his head, a faint crown flickered in and out of existence, as if reality itself was unsure whether he should wear it.
"You finally looked too deep," the figure said. His voice was smooth, ancient, and exhausted.
Aaron's breath caught in his throat. "Who... are you?"
The flame-eyed twin circled him like a predator, slow and deliberate.
"What a useless question," he replied. "I am what you were meant to be. The firstborn of the flame. The prince of ash. The name they burned from the records."
"You're just a memory," Aaron said, steadying himself. "A ghost."
The man smiled, not with warmth but with grim amusement. "If I'm a ghost... then why does your hand burn when I speak?"
Aaron looked down. The rune etched into his palm was glowing brighter than ever, shifting between deep blue and violent crimson.
---
"I don't understand," Aaron said quietly. "They told me I was the Flamebound. The cursed prince."
The other laughed—a sound empty of joy, filled with bitterness.
"They lied."
He stopped pacing, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, more intimate.
"You were never the prince," he said. "You were the prison. A vessel, crafted to carry my flame... because I was too dangerous to exist freely."
Aaron stumbled backward, shaken.
"No…"
"Yes," the twin answered firmly. "And now the seal weakens. Every time you doubt yourself, every time you wonder who you truly are, I slip closer."
He stepped forward until his burning eyes were inches from Aaron's own.
"You are not cursed because you carry flame," he whispered. "You are cursed because you carry me."
---
The world shattered like glass.
Aaron gasped as he slammed back into his body, drenched in cold sweat. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Around him, the mirror shards hung still once more, but something had changed. They no longer seemed inert.
They were watching.
From the shadows, a figure emerged—Frankfurt Pierce.
"So," Frankfurt said quietly, his expression unreadable, "you've seen him."
Aaron rose to his feet, his voice barely steady. "What is he?"
Frankfurt's gaze turned solemn.
"He is fire unchained," he said. "Your twin flame. The first attempt… and the first failure."
"You should've told me," Aaron murmured.
Frankfurt met his eyes without flinching.
"Some truths," he said, "aren't survivable."