The city gates had long since crumbled.
What remained were shards of stone, twisted iron archways, and banners that fluttered not in the wind — but in heat.
There was no breeze in Halrow.
Only the pulse of magic.
And memory.
Virelle stepped lightly through the ash-cracked street. Her boots left no mark. Silas walked beside her, one hand always near his blade, the other twitching faintly at his side — the vowmark burning low and steady beneath his skin.
The streets were empty.
But not abandoned.
Shadows shifted in windows.
Eyes blinked from beneath eaves and doorways — some curious, some reverent, some hollow.
No one spoke.
No one welcomed.
They were not barred from entering.
But the silence told them this was not their place anymore.
The cathedral came into view at the city's core.
Once, it had been white stone, towering spires, golden bell towers.
Now, it was wrapped in red cloth — draped like a shroud. The statues of saints had been defaced, their hands broken, their faces replaced with mirrors. Dozens of lanterns glowed faintly, casting a low red haze over the courtyard.
And there, above the main arch:
A sigil.
Her sigil.
Not just a name — a crown made of vowels. Of all the people she'd ever renamed.
Virelle froze.
"That's…"
Silas looked at her.
"You know this place."
She nodded.
"I buried my past here once."
He frowned.
"And she dug it up."
They crossed into the courtyard.
The great doors of the cathedral hung open, heavy and cracked.
From within came the sound of footsteps.
Measured.
Ceremonial.
They entered.
The interior had been transformed.
Pews replaced with thrones of bone and iron.
Altar raised, extended — transformed into a dais ringed with red veils.
And there — at its center — stood her.
Not Virelle.
The other.
The Mirror.
Hair silver, eyes glowing, body robed in black flame-trimmed cloth.
She smiled.
And without turning, she spoke.
"Welcome home."
The dais was lit by no torches.
Only memory.
Ghostlight shimmered along the cathedral walls — thin, soft like candle glow, yet casting shadows sharp enough to cut. The veils fluttered without wind, stirred only by the breath of something unseen.
Silas stood still.
But inside, his breath quickened.
He recognized the sound before the crown was even lifted.
His name.
"Silas Mar," the other Virelle called out.
Not to him.
To the figure kneeling before her.
A man in black armor, face hidden beneath a mirrorplate helm, chest bare where a fresh brand steamed across his heart.
His skin smoked where the mark was etched.
"You were the first who bled for me," the mirror Virelle said. "Now you will be the last who forgets me."
She held out the crown — not metal.
Bone.
Woven with strands of sigil-thread and dried vowmarks, it pulsed faintly, humming with stolen words.
Silas stepped forward once.
Virelle caught his wrist.
"No."
He stared at her.
"That's my name."
"Exactly," she whispered.
The mirror Virelle looked at them now — full face, full fire.
She smiled.
"He gave it freely once. You didn't. Why shouldn't I take what was offered?"
She turned back to the kneeling soldier.
Lowered the crown.
"By the oath of pain…"
She placed it on his head.
"By the silence of fire…"
The mark on his chest flared.
"By the name given in blood…"
She raised her hands.
"I crown thee Silas Mar. The First of the Bound."
The cathedral echoed once.
Then fell silent.
Silas's breath was ice in his lungs.
Virelle's grip on his wrist tightened.
The man in the mirror helm stood.
Turned.
And the name burned above his brow.
Not a title.
A theft.
Silas whispered, "That's mine."
Virelle nodded.
"Then it's time we take it back."
The air inside the cathedral had gone still.
Not in fear.
In expectation.
The false Silas — the Bound General — stood beneath the altar light, the bone crown affixed to his brow like a brand. His armor shimmered faintly, heat radiating off the sigil etched into his chest.
And yet… he didn't move.
Not until the true Silas did.
He stepped forward.
One pace.
Then another.
The crowd didn't stop him.
Neither did the Mirror Virelle.
She watched, her mouth curled in satisfaction, as if daring him to speak.
He did.
"That name isn't yours."
The Bound General tilted his head — slow, curious.
He didn't answer.
Silas took another step.
"You carry the pain. Maybe even the vow. But you didn't earn it."
"I did."
He drew his blade.
Not high. Not aggressive.
Just enough to catch the flicker of altar light.
And for the first time since it had been forged, it responded.
The runes on its edge, long dead, flared.
Not red.
Blue.
Virelle gasped.
Because that color didn't belong to the Mirror.
It belonged to him.
The Bound General twitched.
One hand rose to the brand on his chest.
It hissed.
Steamed.
Cracked.
A fracture raced up his collarbone.
The mirror helm flickered with shifting reflections.
And for a heartbeat—
It showed Silas's face.
Not twisted.
Not false.
Just… grieving.
The General stepped forward.
One step.
Wavering.
Then stopped.
Silas lowered his sword slightly.
"You don't have to carry it anymore."
"She gave you my name, but she didn't give you my choice."
The General's fingers opened.
His hand fell from the sigil.
He whispered — softly, brokenly:
"What is my name, then?"
Silas looked at him.
Didn't answer.
Virelle did.
"Yours."
The sound of the blade dimmed.
The light in the runes faded.
The Bound General stepped back, hand trembling at his side, the crack across his breastplate glowing faintly like ember-lit veins.
He didn't speak again.
Didn't kneel.
Didn't run.
He just waited.
As though the answer might still be whispered from one face or another.
And from the dais, the Mirror Virelle laughed.
Soft.
Not manic.
Joyful.
"Oh, my Silas…"
Silas flinched.
So did Virelle.
"Still you burn for the shape of your name," she said. "Still you mourn the blood you gave me freely."
She stepped down the dais stairs slowly, every step echoing through the hollow cathedral like a drumbeat without war.
"You think this was defiance?" she asked.
"This was proof."
She reached the center of the chamber.
Her robe shifted behind her — a living train of memory-bound silk, trailing runes like old scars.
"You wanted to save him," she said, nodding toward the General.
"But it wasn't him you were speaking to."
She smiled now — wide and sharp and full of something eternal.
"You were speaking to the part of you that still loves me."
Silas said nothing.
But the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
The vowmark on his skin flared.
Virelle stepped beside him.
Not between.
Beside.
"You're wrong," she said.
"He spoke to the part that survived you."
The Mirror's expression didn't fall.
It brightened.
"Then bring it forward," she whispered.
"Let me see what it became."
Then she raised her hand.
And every lantern in the cathedral flared blood-red.
Not in heat.
In invitation.
The light in the cathedral no longer flickered.
It held.
A steady, blood-colored halo cast from the veils, the altar, the bones above.
The Bound General stepped back into shadow — not fleeing, just yielding.
He had played his part.
Now only three figures remained in the center:
Silas.
Virelle.
And her.
The Mirror.
She extended her hand toward him — palm open, fingers long, the gesture more graceful than inviting.
"You always refused the blade," she said.
"Even when I asked you to be one."
"So let us dance instead."
Virelle started to speak.
Silas held up his hand.
"Let her."
The Mirror smiled.
And the floor changed.
The cathedral stone rippled underfoot — like breath exhaled into ritual.
Circles appeared.
Etched in ashlight.
Not traps.
Steps.
Silas stepped forward.
One foot into the first ring.
The vowmark on his shoulder flared — no longer painful.
Just bright.
"Do you remember," she whispered, "the night you almost kissed me and didn't?"
He didn't answer.
But he took the second step.
"Do you remember," she continued, "the time you carried my blade instead of yours?"
Another step.
His boots echoed like truth.
"Do you remember," she asked, quieter now, "the name you gave me when I had none?"
Final step.
They stood toe-to-toe now, center of the dance.
Her hand still outstretched.
He raised his own.
Not to take hers.
But to lift the space between them.
And in the center, unseen by all but the three of them —
A memory formed.
Not spoken.
Shared.
A night beneath a black tree.
A fire they didn't start.
A kiss they didn't finish.
A vow neither of them understood.
Until now.
Silas spoke softly.
"I never stopped loving her."
Then looked to Virelle beside him.
"But I started loving you."
The Mirror's face froze.
Not angry.
Just… cracked.
And for the first time in all her reflections—
She looked alone.