"Every mirror keeps a heartbeat it does not own." — Old proverb
Morning began like it had every other day: with the bell's metallic shriek slicing through half-formed dreams and lockers yawning open like tired mouths.
Tinvale High was the sort of building that smelled of waxed floors and yesterday's rain—an in-between place that never truly woke.
Auren Vale drifted through the hallway as if he were half-transparent.
Five-foot-five, slouched, hood drawn tight even indoors—he moved in a way that made people's eyes slide off him.
It wasn't bullying exactly; it was worse: indifference.
The fluorescent lights hummed above him, too bright, bleaching every color except gray.
When he passed the trophy case, his reflection lagged half a breath behind.
He stopped, blinked, and the delay vanished.
Probably the glass, he told himself.
In first-period history, the teacher's voice came through like static: "…post-eclipse data and the cultural myths that followed…"
Auren doodled circles in the margin of his notebook—thin, perfect loops that nested inside one another until they resembled an eye.
He didn't remember starting the drawing.
He didn't stop.
When the bell rang, someone nudged his elbow.
Mara Vale, seat partner, cousin, and only person who ever actually said his name out loud.
"You zone out again?" she asked.
Her sketchbook was open—charcoal lines catching light like veins of silver.
He glimpsed what she'd been working on and froze.
It was him.
Or rather, it looked like him if the world were inverted: pale light pouring from skin, a black ring hovering behind his head.
The title written beneath it in her looping script: "The Obsidian Halo."
Auren forced a laugh that came out wrong. "Weird title."
"It just… felt right," she said, squinting at him. "You've got a glow lately. Like static before lightning."
The hallway outside filled with the thunder of running feet.
Another late bell.
He gathered his books and muttered something about the cafeteria.
At lunch he sat alone by the window.
Rain had begun again, gentle but steady, turning the courtyard into a smear of gray motion.
Each droplet streaked down the glass in perfect lines, then merged, forming shapes that almost looked like—letters?
He leaned closer.
A pattern bloomed where his breath fogged the pane: ⊙ HALO ⊙
He wiped it away fast enough to smudge his own reflection.
His pulse wouldn't calm.
Maybe Mara's drawing stuck in my head, he reasoned. Maybe I'm finally losing it.
His phone buzzed.
— unknown number —
Do you see it yet?
He stared, fingers cold, until another message arrived.
Step outside.
The screen dimmed.
Its reflection in the glass was black, though the sky outside was white.
He stepped into the rain.
The air was metallic, charged.
Puddles mirrored the clouds like unbroken sheets of mercury.
When he looked down, his reflection looked back—slightly taller, posture straight, eyes pale as stormlight.
The reflection smiled.
He did not.
A low tone vibrated through the water, like a chord struck in the bones of the world.
The puddle rippled outward, forming a single, perfect ring.
Light gathered at its center, rising in a column that barely reached his knees.
Then—text, floating, impossible:
[ SYSTEM INITIALIZING ]
[ USER IDENTIFIED: AUREN VALE ]
[ ERROR / HOST STATUS: FRACTURED ]
He stumbled backward.
The words followed him, shimmering mid-air, then folded inward like closing petals until only a faint circle remained—obsidian at its edge, pale in the center.
For a heartbeat, it hovered before sinking into his chest.
A warmth spread through his ribs; veins of light traced upward beneath his skin.
The smell of ozone filled the rain.
His phone buzzed again, screen blank except for a single sigil—an open circle ringed by seven points.
The title from Mara's drawing.
The Obsidian Halo.
Welcome back, whispered a voice, clear as thought yet older than speech.
You finally looked.
The rain stopped.
Every reflection on every surface—windows, puddles, even his phone—showed the same image: a halo of cracked glass turning slowly behind his head.
Auren's breath fogged in the sudden stillness.
He raised his hand; the mirrored version raised it faster.
For the first time, the world seemed to notice him.
And somewhere deep inside that silence, the system began to hum.
End of Chapter 1 — The Boy Who Did Not Reflect