The room smelled of iron and something rotten.
The air felt heavy, like it had not moved for years.
A man stood in the center.
Still. Calm. Focused.
Before him lay a corpse.
Its skin was pale, its eyes half open.
The man held a feathered quill.
He lowered it slowly.
And began to write.
The tip dragged across the corpse's neck.
Not ink alone. Something darker.
"Show me your truth."
His voice turned soft, almost like a lullaby.
"Mirror, mirror upon the wall…"
"Name the marvel that outshines them all."
A small sound came from the wall.
A mouse slipped out from a narrow hole.
It paused for a moment.
Then started running.
The world followed it.
Or perhaps something chose to.
The mouse ran across the wooden floor.
Quick. Nervous. Alive.
Behind it, the man continued speaking.
"The one who kills…"
"The one who survives…"
"The one who brings joy over the cries…"
The quill stopped.
Silence filled the room.
Something moved.
The corpse twitched.
A ripple passed under its skin.
Then another.
Blackness began to swell from within.
Like something alive was trapped inside.
The man did not move.
He only watched.
The body burst apart.
Not like flesh.
Like something overfilled.
Dark matter spread across the room.
The candle flickered weakly.
The mouse kept running.
Darkness stretched.
And the world changed.
A new room.
Quiet. Clean. Ordered.
A boy lay on a bed.
"…Ma… give me a break…"
He opened his eyes.
Everything felt wrong.
The ceiling was too high.
The walls too detailed.
He sat up quickly.
"…What… is this…?"
His voice sounded unfamiliar.
Even to himself.
He got off the bed and walked forward.
Slow. Unsteady.
A mirror stood ahead.
He looked into it.
And froze.
"…This isn't me."
Silence answered him.
"…Did I transmigrate?"
No response came.
He turned away and began searching.
Drawers. Shelves. Anything.
His hands moved faster now.
Panic was creeping in.
Then he found it.
A diary.
He opened it.
Pages filled with careful writing.
A name appeared again and again.
A life described in detail.
Aurelian Veythorne.
The words felt heavy.
Like they were settling into him.
He kept reading.
Enough to understand.
Not enough to feel safe.
Then—
A soft flutter.
He looked up.
A butterfly entered through the window.
Its wings moved slowly.
Too slowly.
It circled once.
Then stopped in front of him.
Waiting.
"…You want me to follow you?"
The question felt strange.
Yet it left his mouth naturally.
The butterfly turned.
And moved toward the door.
Aurelian hesitated for a moment.
Then followed.
The hallway outside was long.
Quiet. Too quiet.
Paintings lined the walls.
Their eyes seemed almost aware.
He kept walking.
Step by step.
The butterfly never stopped.
Until it reached a pedestal.
A trumpet rested on top.
Old. Simple.
Yet something felt wrong.
Aurelian frowned.
"…What is this…?"
He stepped closer.
His instincts told him to leave.
But the butterfly did not move.
"…Fine."
He picked it up.
The metal felt too cold.
Before he could think further—
He played it.
No sound came out.
Pain followed instantly.
"AAAH—!"
His body dropped to the floor.
His hands clutched his head.
Something forced its way inside.
Not thoughts. Not memories.
Knowledge.
Too much of it.
Symbols. Names. Meanings.
Things he could not fully understand.
It kept pouring in.
Without stopping.
His body trembled.
His mind struggled to hold together.
Voices reached him faintly.
"Isn't that Aurelian?"
"The youngest son…"
"House Veythorne…"
Their words felt distant.
Almost unreal.
His vision blurred.
Darkness started closing in.
Then—
He saw it.
The butterfly.
For a moment, its form changed.
Not wings.
Not light.
Something broken.
Something incomplete.
Then it split.
And everything went dark.