There is an end in him. The words taste like truth. Like an offer of rest. But his truth rots in my mouth. He doesn't promise a path, only an ending. A hand to close the book before the last page is read. Mercy, cut to the shape of a tomb.
I look down at the compass and let the truth I've avoided settle. I do not understand it. I don't know what it is or what it wants. I have been holding it and pretending it was a map. Maybe it's neither. Maybe it's not an answer at all—just a question that refuses to leave me alone.
"Do not embarrass yourself," he says, the indulgence curdling into hunger. "Do not throw yourself after the woman who threw you first. Do not clutch a trinket because you're frightened of freedom." Pleasure drips from his words. "Say my name. Say yes. Either will do."
I realize I do not know his name. The fact lodges sharp beneath my ribs—jagged as bone. He has spoken as if we are already bound. No name. No truth. Only a voice. A crown without a face.
The compass twitches—weak but certain—its rim biting deeper. Blood slicks my palm. Pain steadies me more than breath. I clutch it harder, while every instinct begs me to let go.
The air shudders. The marble groans. Out of the dark two doors rise.
The first exhales as it forms—warm, alive. Its surface gleams as if oiled by hand. Carvings crawl across it in shifting patterns, never still; not language, yet weighted with promise. Heat blooms against my face like an embrace. My body leans in without permission. It wants me. It welcomes me. It feels like home.
The second arrives silent. No mark. No hum. Its edges cut stark into the air, as if the world resents shaping it. It doesn't want me. It promises nothing. It waits. A void in the shape of a door.
"Look at them," the reflection breathes. "One breathes for you. The other only waits. And you know which will close around you sweetly."
"Open the one that longs for you," he murmurs, hunger dripping beneath his calm. "Or the one that will never care. But… haven't you bled enough for silence, little flame?"
The warm door leans toward me. Its surface ripples, soft as flesh, eager for my hand. I can almost hear it sigh my name. My blood sings with the temptation of surrender—just a touch and it would be over. My knees ache to kneel. My chest aches to rest.
The compass flickers. A tremor, faint and stubborn. Not enough to guide—but enough to remind. Its heat is small beside the door's warmth, but present.
The reflection steps close, face near mine, eyes like still water. "He makes it simple. Rest in him. Stop clawing at scraps. Stop calling pain 'truth.' You deserve more than her silence. Choose him. End it."
"Do you feel it?" he asks, velvet pressed against the words. "The weight already sliding off? You could be finished. Whole. Crowned. No more guessing. No more wounds. Just say yes."
The warm door pulses—alive, eager—like a heartbeat not my own. My hand rises, trembling. For an instant I see myself touching it, stepping through, never questioning again. Relief stutters my breath.
And then the diamond burns behind my eyes—slanted, hurried, hidden: Not yours. Not mine. There is another way.
The warm door groans, close enough to claim me. His breath grazes the back of my neck like a kiss. The cold door waits, motionless, offering nothing.
I stare until my vision blurs. My hand shakes between them. My body aches for the freedom he offers, but my bloodied palm draws the compass to my chest where the false one once burned.
"Do it," the reflection whispers, tender as a knife. "You deserve to stop hurting."
"Say it," he croons, hunger thick beneath his calm. "You were never meant to follow. You were meant to rule. I will make you more."
The warm door sighs. The air sweetens. My hand hovers above its surface; heat wicks onto my skin. My lips part. The word forms.
The compass jerks against my heart—weak, fragile, desperate. The diamond sears bright. Not yours. Not mine. Another way.
I tear my hand back and slam my bleeding palm against the cold, uninviting door.
It opens without sound.
I enter without looking back.