The moon hung low over Lunehaven, a pale coin above the sea. The storm had passed, but its ghost still lingered—the wind whispering through alleys, the scent of wet salt clinging to the air.
Lian lay awake in his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep didn't come easily anymore. Not because of fear, but because his body no longer seemed to understand exhaustion.
He had been awake for two days since the storm. No food, no rest, yet his mind remained sharp, his limbs steady. He had tried to eat, but each bite tasted like ash. Tried to sleep, but his heart refused to slow.
At first, he thought it was shock. Then, as hours bled into days, a quiet dread began to bloom inside him.
He sat up and glanced at the mirror propped against the wall. The cheap glass was cracked through the middle, reflecting his face in uneven halves. The candlelight wavered, painting shadows across his jaw.
But what made him freeze was not the reflection itself—it was the flicker.
For a breath, his reflection moved a heartbeat too late. Then, it changed. The boy in the mirror had golden eyes and faint markings like molten rivers running across his skin.
Lian blinked. The image vanished.
He stared at the glass for a long moment, his breath shallow. "Just stress," he whispered. "Just… stress."
But when he looked up again, the reflection smiled back at him—without him moving at all.
He stumbled back, knocking the candle to the floor. The flame went out, plunging the room into darkness.
Outside, the moon broke through the clouds. Its light spilled through the window, cold and silver, pooling across his skin.
And then—he felt it. A pulse.
Like a heartbeat that wasn't his own, echoing through his veins.
The next morning, he tried to go about life as usual. The town had grown quieter toward him since the night of the storm. People whispered when he passed; children hid behind their parents. Even Mara, kind as she was, avoided his eyes for the first time.
"Folk talk," she said finally as she wiped down the counter. "They say the sea brought you back cursed. That you touched something unholy that night."
Lian tried to smile, but his lips barely curved. "Do you believe them?"
She paused, meeting his gaze. "I believe the world hides more than it shows. Just… be careful, boy. Lunehaven doesn't forgive what it doesn't understand."
He nodded, carrying the crates to the backroom, but her words lingered.
By evening, he found himself wandering the harbor again, drawn by habit and by something deeper—an ache he couldn't name. The sea was calm tonight, reflecting the moon's broken path.
He lifted his hand toward it. His veins shimmered faintly again, gold threading through the pale skin. The same light he'd seen that night. The same one from his dreams.
A soft whisper brushed his ear.
"You are not meant to fade."
He spun around. No one was there. Only the wind, weaving through nets and lantern ropes.
He pressed his palms to his temples, shaking his head. "I'm losing it."
But the whisper didn't feel like madness. It felt like memory.
That night, he couldn't resist it—the pull of the mirror.
He lit a single candle and stood before it again. The reflection was still his own: tousled hair, hollow eyes, the faint weariness of someone who didn't belong. He leaned closer, searching for the flicker.
Nothing.
Until the candlelight trembled.
The mirror rippled like water, and a faint glow bled through the cracks. Then, from the depths of the reflection, a voice spoke—soft, feminine, almost sorrowful.
"Lian Ardent… you've forgotten the sky."
His breath caught. "Who… who are you?"
The figure stepped forward in the glass—a woman draped in white, her face half-hidden by strands of silver hair. Behind her, flames licked the horizon.
"Your veins carry eternity," she whispered. "But eternity is bleeding."
The mirror shattered.
Lian stumbled back as shards scattered across the floor, catching the candlelight. For an instant, each fragment reflected not his face, but scenes—brief, burning flashes:
A palace of marble towers engulfed in flame.A figure in golden armor kneeling before a throne of stars.A blade singing with light.A woman's tear falling onto bloodstained marble.
Then all went dark.
He sank to the floor, trembling. His pulse thundered with a golden rhythm that wasn't entirely human.
When he looked at his reflection in a fragment near his hand, the eyes staring back at him glowed faintly gold.
And somewhere deep in his chest, a memory began to stir—ancient, buried, and alive.
Days turned into a blur.
He spoke less, worked less, and spent his nights walking by the cliffs. The moon had become an unwanted companion—always there, always watching. It seemed brighter when he looked at it directly, almost sentient.
Sometimes, he thought he could feel it breathe.
One evening, as he sat on the rocks overlooking the water, the old fisherman who had found him that first day approached.
"You've got the look of someone running from ghosts," the old man said, lowering himself beside him.
Lian smiled faintly. "Maybe I am one."
The fisherman chuckled. "Ghosts don't cast shadows."
Silence fell between them. Waves crashed softly below.
"Strange thing, the sea," the man said at last. "Takes what it wants, then gives back pieces. But never the whole."
Lian glanced at him. "You think I'm a piece?"
The old man's gaze was distant. "Maybe. Maybe you're what the sea couldn't keep."
He left before Lian could answer.
That night, the dream came again.
The palace burned.
Columns of white marble split and crumbled under falling stars. Fire danced along the golden banners, consuming everything in a furious, beautiful blaze.
Lian stood in the center of it all, wearing armor streaked with blood. His reflection in a shattered shield showed eyes of molten gold.
Before him, the silver-haired woman knelt, her hands pressed to a deep wound in his chest that glowed like sunlight spilling from a crack.
"You must wake," she whispered, tears streaking her ash-covered face. "They will come for you when the moons align. Run before the world remembers your name."
"Who are you?" he asked, voice trembling.
She smiled through the tears. "Your sin and your salvation."
The dream fractured.
He saw a thousand images at once: the moon turning red, cities drowned in light, his own hand reaching toward the heavens as they burned.
"Your veins carry eternity," the voice echoed again, fading into the void.
He woke with a gasp. Sweat clung to his skin, though the room was freezing. The window was open. The moonlight poured in, cold and silver-blue.
He stared at his hands. The veins were glowing again—brighter this time, tracing his pulse with living gold. The light spread up his arms, his chest, until it reached his eyes.
The world around him shifted—he could see through the walls, the roofs, the streets outside. Everything pulsed with faint threads of light connecting to something vast above the sky.
Then, just as suddenly, it was gone.
He collapsed to his knees, breathing hard. The glow faded, leaving only the faint shimmer of dust on the floor.
Morning came quietly, as if pretending nothing had happened.
Mara knocked once before opening the door. "You're pale as the dead, boy. You all right?"
He forced a nod. "Just bad dreams."
"Eat something," she said, placing a bowl of porridge by the bed. But even as she spoke, she glanced at the broken mirror. "You should toss that thing. It's giving me chills."
When she left, Lian knelt by the shards again. In one of them, his reflection blinked on its own.
"You can't hide forever," it whispered.
He stood, the air thick with silence.
Outside, the bells of the harbor tolled for the morning tide. But their rhythm sounded strange—like the heartbeat of something ancient awakening beneath the sea.
He turned toward the window. The moon, though it should have vanished with dawn, still lingered faintly in the sky, watching him.
And deep in his chest, the golden pulse beat once more.
Not in fear.But in remembrance.
Cliffhanger: The reflection warns him — "You can't hide forever."