The next gate pulsed not with fire or frost — but with reflections. The trio stepped through and emerged into a realm where everything shimmered like glass, yet nothing showed their true forms. The land itself was a living mirror, constantly shifting — sky and ground indistinguishable, time bending like water.
"This world is sentient," Elira whispered. "It doesn't want to show us reality. It wants to show us ourselves."
As they moved forward, they saw them. Not illusions — versions. Dozens of Arans and Eliras, scattered like stars across a sea of broken maybes.
One Aran walked with a blade made of ice, his eyes hollow, his Elira long dead. Another stood tall, crowned emperor, his love turned to conquest. A third was blind, scarred, carrying Elira's ashes in a pendant.
Each met the real Aran's gaze… and then looked away.
Until one stepped forward.
She wasn't Elira. But she looked like her — older, cloaked in sorrow, bearing runes scorched into her skin.
She spoke one word: "Run."
But it was too late.
The realm shattered — and the False Aran descended from above, wearing armor made of memories, wielding pain like a sword.
"You see now," he said, "how many you have failed. I only need to win once."
The battle began not with blades, but with thought.