The reflection smiled first.
A small, deliberate curve — almost gentle, almost human.
But it wasn't his.
Eren's breath caught. The mirrored glass rippled faintly, as if it were made of water remembering how to move. Behind that reflection — behind himself — the city of Vareth flickered in phantom colors, lights bending where they shouldn't.
He took a step back. The mirrored version did not.
"Kael…"
"Don't look at it too long."
Kael's voice broke through the hum, low and certain. But even he didn't look away — only angled himself slightly between Eren and the glass. His hand hovered near his weapon, though both of them knew steel couldn't cut reflection.
"What is it?" Eren whispered.
"It's you," Kael said. "Or the memory of what the Pulse made of you."
The reflection tilted its head. Its veins gleamed brighter — silver-gold, alive and cruelly patient.
Eren's pulse answered it, a hard throb in his chest that wasn't entirely his own.
"It's copying me," Eren said.
"No," Kael murmured. "It's remembering you."
_____
The glass vibrated — a low, melodic hum that matched the city's rhythm above them. Each tone sank deeper, pulling the air taut.
And Eren felt it again: that second heartbeat, the one buried under Vareth's skin.
He couldn't breathe. His veins itched, glowing faintly beneath the surface.
He reached toward the mirror before he realized he'd moved.
Kael's hand caught his wrist, firm but trembling slightly — not from fear, but restraint.
"Don't," Kael said quietly. "You're not ready to see what it shows."
"Then tell me," Eren said, voice rising. "You said I broke the city. You said I was chosen. Chosen for what?"
Kael hesitated — then released him.
"To listen to it."
"The Pulse?"
"The silence it left behind."
_____
The reflection moved again, independent this time. Its lips parted. Words formed, though no sound came out — only a vibration, like a note struck under glass.
Kael's expression shifted — a flash of fear Eren had never seen before.
He stepped forward, unsheathing his blade, and pressed it against the mirror's surface.
The hum stopped.
But something else woke up.
The ground shuddered, a tremor so subtle it almost felt like breathing. Cracks spidered across the glass, faint lines of light leaking through.
"Kael…"
"Get back."
Too late.
_____
The mirror shattered inward — silently, almost gracefully — and the room went white.
When sound returned, it came as whispers. Hundreds of them.
Eren was on his knees, coughing, his hands glowing with dim residual light. Around him, shards of the mirror floated midair, suspended in the Pulse's invisible current. Each shard reflected something different — streets, faces, memories that weren't his.
Kael stood across from him, weapon drawn, every muscle taut.
"What did it show you?" he asked.
"Everything," Eren said hoarsely. "And nothing."
His reflection was gone now. But its presence lingered — a static hum behind his eyes. He could feel it crawling through his bloodstream, threading through every heartbeat.
"It's inside me," he whispered.
"It always was."
_____
They left the chamber in silence.
The tunnels ahead seemed longer now, narrower, as if the city itself had turned to listen.
Kael walked ahead, the edge of his coat brushing the wet stone. Eren followed, watching the faint shimmer still bleeding from his skin.
He felt lighter — and emptier. Like something inside him had been scooped out and replaced with light pretending to be warmth.
"Why did the mirror smile?" he asked suddenly.
"Because it remembered you," Kael said. "And because memory isn't always mercy."
They reached a rusted elevator shaft that groaned when Kael forced the gate open. The city above pulsed through the cracks — faint neon veins through concrete.
"Where are we going?" Eren asked.
"Up," Kael said. "There's someone you need to meet."
"Who?"
"The one who built the first mirror."
Eren frowned. "You mean—"
"The Observer," Kael finished. "The one who taught the city how to dream."
_____
The elevator lurched upward, slow and metallic, each clank echoing like a countdown.
Halfway up, the lights flickered again. Eren caught Kael watching him through the reflection on the elevator wall — not directly, but like he was measuring something unseen.
"You said the Pulse isn't a god," Eren said.
"It isn't."
"Then what are you?"
Kael didn't answer immediately. His gray eyes met the mirrored steel between them.
"Once, I was its silence."
Eren turned toward him. "And now?"
"Now," Kael said quietly, "I'm the consequence of you trying to wake it."
_____
When the elevator doors opened, the world above felt different.
Vareth stretched in fractured beauty — lights bending through the drizzle, colors bleeding into one another like oil and static. Somewhere in the distance, a tower pulsed faintly with crimson light.
Eren could feel it calling.
Kael stepped out first. His expression softened, though his voice didn't.
"The city remembers you, Eren. It just doesn't know if it forgives you."
Eren looked up, rain cutting cold trails down his face.
Somewhere behind the noise, the Pulse was whispering his name again — tender, terrible, inevitable.
He didn't look away this time.