Nyx stepped into the silence, her blades humming like thoughts she refused to say aloud.
The Rift had split open without warning—no visible seam, no ripple in space. Just a doorway where there hadn't been one, inviting her with a whisper that sounded too much like him.
Darius.
But it wasn't.
Not truly.
Not completely.
She didn't speak as she entered. She moved like a shadow trained to avoid reflection, her breathing slowed, her eyes narrowed against the uncanny stillness of the realm beyond.
It was a place without name. A space unanchored.
A mirrorworld.
And there—waiting in a throne of writhing ink and crystallized pages—sat Darius.
No. Not Darius.
This version wore his face, wore it too well. It was his smirk, his posture, the lazy arrogance that only one man had earned. But the essence was… hollow.
He stood, and the throne collapsed behind him, reabsorbed into the pale, scriptless ground.
