Kael couldn't sleep.
The attic room above the orphanage groaned with every gust of wind, and the city below clanked and hissed like a restless machine. Outside, the rain drummed a steady rhythm on the slanted tin roof, and each droplet echoed like a ticking clock in his mind. Shadows crawled just beyond the candlelight, lingering in the corners too long, stretching a little too far.
The mark on his palm—it burned now under the moonlight. Not painfully. But like it wanted to move. To open.
He sat by the cracked window, forehead pressed to the glass, watching the city steam and flicker. Chimneys belched copper-tinted smoke, and somewhere in the haze, a tram screeched into silence. His reflection in the window stared back—only the eyes weren't his anymore. Not entirely.
Then came the knock.
Not on the door.
On the window.
Kael flinched, heart leaping into his throat.
A figure crouched on the iron balcony railing like a gargoyle. A man—tall, slender, unnaturally still. His coat shimmered with stitched velvet and thorn-like bone, draping like shadows around him. A porcelain mask covered his face, half grinning, half weeping. One eye of the mask was hollow; the other gleamed like amber glass.
"Kael Ardan," the man said softly. "Time has noticed you."
Kael barely had time to move before the figure flicked his gloved hand.
The attic bent. Folded. Collapsed.
Reality twisted like paper.
They stood somewhere else.
A ballroom.
But not one meant for joy.
The walls were made of tarnished mirrors, cracked and sprawling like spiderwebs. A grand chandelier hovered above them—suspended by nothing, its candles burning upside down. Faint music played in the distance: violins warped by age, a clockwork rhythm that made Kael's breath sync involuntarily.
The masked man stood in the center, arms wide.
"Welcome to the Echo Waltz," he said. "I am Merinth, bearer of the Third Sigil. Archivist of Forgotten Moments. Dancer of Lost Time."
Kael glanced at the mirrors. Each one showed a version of himself.
Some older. Some broken. Some smiling with teeth that didn't belong.
Merinth stepped closer, and the air shimmered with cold.
"You've stepped outside the weave," he murmured. "Touched what should have remained unseen. And so, the weave asks for a toll."
Kael's throat tightened. "What kind of toll?"
Merinth tilted his head.
"A question. One you haven't dared ask. I'll answer it—if you can dance with me until the music ends."
Kael frowned. "What happens if I can't?"
The candles dimmed.
"Then you become part of the mirror."
The music surged.
Kael didn't hesitate. He stepped forward.
They danced.
Not in rhythm. Not in grace.
Merinth glided like a shadow; Kael stumbled like a child in a storm.
Each step brought memories—
The orphanage's cold halls. His first nightmare of the Door. The sound of his name whispered in his sleep by something with too many mouths.
The mirrors reacted. Glimpses flickered: Kael crying under moonlight. Kael laughing with people he'd never met. Kael burning.
"I've walked this path," Merinth whispered as they turned. "Once. Long ago. Before the Veils. Before I forgot my own name."
Kael's chest ached. His palm throbbed.
The music slowed.
"You've earned your question," Merinth said. "Ask."
Kael exhaled. "What was behind the door that watched me back?"
The masked man stilled.
And then—
"A god that never died," he whispered. "Only forgotten. Not bound by time, or name, or death. It watched you because you are a mirror. And mirrors… remember."
Kael blinked.
The ballroom shattered.
He was back in his attic.
Alone.
But his mark had changed—curved thorns now encircled the winged eye.
And in the reflection of his window, behind his shoulder—
A mask. Watching.