That night, the mark did not burn.
It spoke.
Mirror woke screaming—but no sound left his throat. His body was frozen, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as shadows crawled like living things.
A voice filled the room.
Not loud.Not cruel.Certain.
"You were never meant to protect her."
The mark on his chest split open like an eye.
Inside it—was a crown.
Not Myreiya's crown.
An older one.
Broken. Blackened. Hated by gods.
Across the palace, Myreiya knelt on the cold floor of the throne room.
She did not know how she got there.
The torches were unlit, yet the hall glowed red—as if remembering fire. The throne pulsed behind her, slow and alive.
A whisper brushed her ear.
"Queen… do you know how many died so you could sit?"
She shook her head, breath trembling.
"I didn't ask for this," she said.
The whisper laughed.
"Neither did he."
The throne bled.
Just one drop.
It fell to the floor and spread into a symbol—the same mark burning into Mirror's flesh.
Mirror fell to his knees as memories that were never his tore through him.
He saw himself standing before Myreiya—not as a servant,not as a spy—
but as an executioner.
Her blood on his hands.The kingdom burning behind him.The gods watching in silence.
"No," he whispered. "That future is dead."
The voice answered softly:
"Then why does the mark only awaken when she lives?"
At dawn, Myreiya ordered Mirror summoned.
When he entered the throne room, she studied him—not with cruelty, not with anger—
but with fear.
"Tell me," she said quietly,"if the crown demanded my life…would you obey?"
Mirror met her gaze.
And for the first time,he did not know the answer.