[POV: Ezekiel]
He had not slept in two days.
But time no longer passed for him like it used to.
The Concept made his breath feel like stone. His muscles locked, then unlocked, without command. His pulse had stopped syncing to his heartbeat—it now followed something deeper.
Rhythm.
He didn't know whose.
The cracked mirror watched him.
He watched back.
And it whispered.
Not in words.
In reflections.
---
It began subtly.
The crack in the upper corner—thin as a hair—lengthened overnight. It bent left, toward the shoulder of his reflection. At first, he thought it was just damage.
Then, last night, it bent right again.
Like it was correcting itself.
---
This morning, he saw something worse.
A shadow.
Behind him.
Where there was no one.
A blurred silhouette of a taller figure—same body, same face—but the eyes were gone. Not gouged. Just… absent. White space where sight should've been.
The figure stood in the corner of the mirror.
And it was smiling.
---
Ezekiel didn't look away.
The figure didn't move.
But it wasn't a hallucination.
He felt it in his stomach, in his bones. Like a missing future version of himself had wandered backward and become stuck behind the glass.
---
"Not yet," Ezekiel whispered.
His voice cracked against his own Concept.
A ripple of silence pushed out from his ribs, warping the mirror with a low moan, like marble groaning under pressure.
The figure's smile widened.
It didn't speak.
But it mouthed something.
Just once.
> "You'll be me… when you break the wrong rule."
Then it was gone.
---
The mirror returned to normal.
Or what passed for it now.
Ezekiel leaned forward. Pressed two fingers to the glass. The crack beneath his touch glowed faintly.
A single word formed, etched in white fire where his fingers touched:
> "Vessel."
He didn't write it.
It wasn't his word.
But it knew him.
---
He sat back.
Breath steady.
Behind his eyelids, the quiet weight of Azrael stirred—but did not speak.
The dragon's will remained slumbering.
But it pulsed.
Like a forgotten law, waiting for a courtroom.
---
[POV: Kael – Outside the Tower, Dust-Streaked Stairwell]
He woke in darkness.
Alone.
The pain in his throat was… gone. Not healed. Just replaced. Hollowed out.
He sat up, slowly. His limbs shook.
Voices from the guards echoed distantly down the stairs—but none spoke of him. None noticed he had collapsed hours ago. None noticed he had nearly died.
No one had come.
He crawled to the corner.
There was dust on the floor.
He dragged his finger through it slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
Four words.
Over and over.
> He didn't look at me.
He didn't look at me.
He didn't look at me.
He wanted to stop writing it.
But his hand refused.
He felt it now.
Like a fog behind his eyes.
Something had entered him.
Not a presence.
Not a god.
Not even a curse.
Just…
Absence.
---
Behind his eyes, he could still hear the silence.
And in that silence, something had begun to watch back.
---
[POV: Ezekiel – Same moment, above]
He stood.
The mirror pulsed again.
No more cracks. But faint letters shimmered now across the top edge—too fast to read.
He didn't try.
He stared.
Not in fear.
Not in pride.
Just in acceptance.
Then whispered again.
"Not yet."
The mirror did not crack this time.
It only answered with a faint word scratched in fog:
> Soon.