When the mirror cracked, the chamber groaned.
Fractures rippled through the crystal walls, shattering time's illusions. The Watcher recoiled, its robes dissolving into strands of light, its form flickering like a dying flame. But what came next wasn't silence.
It was breath.
A presence slipped free from the mirror's wound — formless, radiant, and terrible. Not a creature, but a concept made real. The mirror had not simply shown possibility — it had stored them. Now, one had escaped.
It looked like Aran.
But it wasn't.
Its eyes burned too bright. Its posture held no doubt, no burden of choice. This was Aran untempered — the version who never faltered, never sacrificed, who conquered instead of protected.
A being shaped by pride, vengeance, and ruthless certainty.
"Who are you?" Elira asked, stepping between it and their son.
It smiled — Aran's smile, twisted.
"I am the fire you buried. The promise kept too well."
It raised a hand, summoning a blade of shimmering ash — a mockery of the Oathbrand.
And in that moment, Aran understood: this wasn't an enemy from another world.
It was the part of himself he'd fought to contain — now made flesh by the mirror's breach.