They hid in a slaughterhouse that hadn't seen meat in months.
Hooks still hung from the ceiling, rusted into crooked question marks. The air smelled of iron and old smoke, but it was quiet — that was enough. The Ninefold had grown fond of quiet.
Raal sat in the corner, the shard unwrapped just enough to breathe. The faint glow from within wasn't steady anymore; it flickered like a nervous pulse.
The boy watched it, eyes wide. "It's… changing color."
Raal frowned. "It does that sometimes. Don't stare at it."
He wasn't lying, but he wasn't right either. The shard had begun to hum in patterns. Each pulse was a sequence — three beats, pause, two more — like a heartbeat remembering a rhythm it used to have.
Kest leaned against the doorway, gauntlet stripped and wrapped in cloth. His other arm was swollen from the fight at the market, but the smirk on his face still worked fine.
"It's a light show," he muttered. "Maybe it's trying to talk."
"Things like that don't talk," Lirra said. She cleaned her knife with slow, precise motions. "They whisper until you forget who you are."
Raal didn't answer. His threads twitched without command — little vibrations running up his forearm. The shard pulsed once more, harder, and the threads lifted into the air, moving on their own.
"Raal," Lirra warned.
"I'm not doing that," he said, voice tightening.
The shard pulsed again.
A wave of air rolled through the slaughterhouse, heavy and wet, making the chains clink like small applause.
Then — voices.
At first, they were soft — words stretched too far apart to make sense. But as the light grew brighter, the sound clarified. It wasn't speech. It was memory.
Fragments spilled into the air — visions half-made of smoke and light.
Workers building the Vault. Architects bending Mirra into forms that bled. A child running through tunnels that no longer existed.
The shard was showing what it remembered.
Kest backed up, eyes wide. "Turn it off."
Raal gritted his teeth. "It's not a lamp, idiot."
The light snapped — too bright.
The walls bent, shadows stretching wrong, and suddenly they weren't in the slaughterhouse anymore.
They were in a street — or what looked like one. But the angles were wrong, the air had a shimmer, and every sound repeated a half-second later.
Echoes.
The shard had pulled them into an echo.
Lirra's blade was out instantly. "This isn't real."
"Feels real enough," Kest muttered, running his fingers along the wall. His hand passed through stone like smoke, leaving a burn mark.
A shape appeared at the far end of the echo-street — a figure made entirely of flickering light and static, its outline jagged like glass caught between realities. It wore a Guild insignia, but its face was Raal's.
The real Raal froze.
"What… what is that?"
The echo-Raal smiled.
"Continuity restored," it said in his voice.
Then it lunged.
Threads flew from both — real and echo — tangling midair like dueling webs. The echo's movements were perfect mirrors but a fraction faster. Every time Raal tried to counter, it predicted him.
Kest swung his gauntlet, smashing into the figure's back. The metal passed through it — but his arm didn't come back out clean. It came back burned, like he'd punched through a sunbeam made of acid.
"Back off!" Lirra shouted, slicing low. Her blade cut through the echo's leg — no blood, just distortion. The shape hissed, flickered, and multiplied — now there were two.
"This isn't a fight," Raal shouted. "It's copying us!"
The shard pulsed harder — laughter through metal. The air filled with static, light, and heat.
Every wall turned into a mirror.
And from every mirror — more echoes.
Lirra faced herself, older and bloodier, swinging faster than she could think.
Kest fought a version of himself missing an arm, screaming without sound.
The boy's spheres flew wild, detonating bursts of mirrored dust that burned through both reality and reflection.
The real world — the slaughterhouse — trembled around them. Chains snapped loose. Hooks fell. The air boiled with phantom sound.
Raal was losing. His threads kept tangling — every strike matched, every movement predicted. The shard pulsed like it was laughing.
And then—
A hand caught the echo by the throat.
Mael.
He stepped through the distortion like it wasn't there. His coat trailed behind him in waves of black, his hand steady despite the tremor.
The echo turned its mirrored face toward him. Mael looked bored.
"You're not him," Mael said softly. "You're noise wearing his shape."
The echo hissed, voice breaking into static.
Mael raised his other hand, two fingers twitching slightly.
Edge Pulse.
The air itself fractured, the pulse cutting through every reflection like invisible wire. The echoes froze — not destroyed, but muted.
He tilted his head, watching as the shapes crumbled into ash-like light.
"You shouldn't have tried to copy us," he said quietly. "You'll never keep the rhythm."
The shard screamed. Not sound — vibration. The slaughterhouse ripped back into place, floorboards splitting, walls sweating molten light. The shard fell from Raal's hands, burning through the wooden floor, landing with a hiss.
For a few seconds, no one moved.
Then the light dimmed.
Mael picked up the shard with his bare hand. Smoke curled from his palm, but he didn't flinch.
"It's evolving," he said calmly.
Raal swallowed. "Into what?"
Mael's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Into us."
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