The door didn't open.
But it began to breathe.
Just once. Shallow. Enough for the dust lining its fractures to rise and fall. The air around it trembled, not from force, but resonance. Like the world remembered a scream it wasn't allowed to echo.
The figure didn't step aside.
Merlin didn't move.
Their silence wasn't a standoff. It was weight being measured. A soul trying to be scaled.
[The First Lawkeeper writes again.]
[The Broken Herald whispers: "This is not the same boy."]
[The Judge with No Mouth remains still.]
Merlin inhaled through his nose.
The shape before him flickered.
It wasn't just watching, it was echoing. Like the memory wanted to become him. Fill the empty places grief had carved open and wear them like a badge.
But Merlin didn't belong to it.
He carried it.
That wasn't the same.
He stepped forward.
