Somewhere far from the warmth of academy firelight, beyond even the edges of the known kingdoms, the Mirror Realm stirred.
A chamber—circular, cavernous, carved from obsidian and lit by eerie, pale-blue flames. Shadows danced across its polished walls like whispers too scared to speak.
And at the center of it all stood a figure: tall, elegant, wrapped in tailored black and deep indigo. He didn't move like a soldier. He moved like a promise. Quiet, sharp, and final.
Lucian.
Hair black as midnight swept back into a loose tie at his nape. His eyes—cold steel grey with a flicker of mirrored silver—reflected the warped light as he examined the flickering projection before him: five students, bruised but proud, power barely contained.
He watched them in silence.
Lioren.
Seraphina.
Ivan.
Kael.
Celeste.
"…They bond too fast," one of the cloaked generals muttered beside him, voice low. "They're still young. Still fractured."
Lucian didn't respond.
"They're anomalies, my lord. Dangerous ones. Shall we move forward with the containment strike?"
Still, Lucian didn't speak. He just… watched. Eyes lingering a little too long on the flame in Seraphina's palms. On the shadow that obeyed Lioren's every unspoken command.
"They're Echo-born," whispered another general. "Reincarnated mistakes. The world's regrets given breath again."
Lucian exhaled, finally.
A sad smile ghosted across his lips.
"Mistakes…" he said softly. "Or memories too painful to bury."
The generals tensed.
Lucian turned slowly, the low light catching the faint scar that traced from his jaw to the edge of his collar. It didn't mar his beauty—it gave it context. He was beautiful like a painting in a ruined cathedral. Holy, but broken.
"They are children," he said, voice smooth as poisoned silk. "Children who still think they have time."
He paused.
"But we're the ones who lost it."
A heavy silence blanketed the room. Then, with a flick of his hand, he dismissed the generals. The shadows obeyed.
Once alone, he moved toward the far end of the chamber, where two towering mirrors stood side by side—veiled, cracked, humming with barely restrained energy.
He stopped before them.
Fingers brushed against the edge.
The mirror shimmered.
Inside, chains. A room of lightless stone. Two figures—tattered, wounded.
Lioren's parents.
Lucian's voice dropped to a whisper.
"I tried to spare him this."
The man inside the mirror lifted his head, one eye swollen shut, the other burning with hatred.
"Spare him? You broke him."
Lucian's expression didn't change. "No. I simply waited too long to take him."
A ragged breath from the woman beside the man. "You'll never win, Lucian. You think turning pain into an army will bring peace?"
Lucian stepped closer. "Peace?" he echoed, with a laugh so quiet it could have been a sob. "No. Peace was never promised to people like us. We are the ash under their feet. The echoes they pretend not to hear."
The man spat blood. "You killed your own—"
"I buried ghosts that begged to die."
The room pulsed with tension.
Lucian leaned in, his voice barely audible now.
"When I strike," he murmured, "I won't take their lives. Not at first. No… I want their souls. I want them to watch as everything they love is turned to glass—then shattered."
He turned away, the shadows curling around his boots like loyal dogs.
"And only then," he said, eyes flicking once more to the image of the five students— "only then will they understand why the mirror remembers."
The mirror flickered once.
And went dark.