Every breath Maël took caused a ripple on the glass walls, like a whisper bouncing through each reflection.
Somewhere behind one of those false walls, the real Lyraen was trapped. He couldn't feel her presence, only guess she was still there.
And as he stood still, the elf pounded against a mirror with both fists, her mouth moving silently, her eyes burning with fury, anger, and frustration. There was a little bit of fear in them. But not for herself. For him.
Then, the mirror ahead of him shimmered.
A ripple slid down the glass like oil, and from it stepped the demon Flaga, still wearing Lyraen's body like it belonged to her.
She moved gracefully, hips swaying slightly, arms loose and confident. Even her footsteps felt like an invitation.
"Still so calm," she said, smiling. "You must care for her deeply. Not even flinching… what strength. What a waste."
Maël didn't answer.
Flaga circled him slowly, her voice soft and low, close to his ear.
