The room was silent. Too silent.
The kind of silence that followed shattered expectations.
Krisian stood before the mirror in his private chamber, bathed in cold, silver moonlight. His golden eyes stared into his own reflection—no, not a reflection. A stranger.
His lips barely moved as he whispered to himself:
"Wake up."
Silence.
His voice grew sharper. "Wake up."
Still nothing.
"WAKE UP!"
His fist crashed into the glass.
The mirror shattered with a deafening crack, shards raining down like glittering knives. One piece clung to the frame, showing only a sliver of his eye—glowing, furious, wounded.
Krisian stood there, chest rising and falling, blood trickling from his knuckles.
"How… did it become like this?" he breathed. "My plan was perfect."
He leaned forward, gripping the broken frame, the sharp edges biting into his palm.
"I accounted for everything. Every movement. Every alliance. Every risk. I was five steps ahead..."
His voice cracked.
"...So why am I the one bleeding?"
As he stared into the fractured glass, shadows moved within the reflection.
Then came the voice—cold, low, familiar, yet not his own.
"Don't you know, Krisian...""...when you go out for revenge, you must first dig your own grave?"
Krisian's eyes widened. "Who said that?"
The shadows rippled. The voice spoke again.
"You thought you could wield darkness without being swallowed by it? You thought pain makes you righteous?"
He took a step back.
"You think you're the avenger, the messiah... but you're just a child dressing up your trauma in gold and shadow."
Krisian roared, hurling a shard of glass at the reflection—but it passed through the air.
The room was empty.
And yet the voice lingered.
"Every win has its loss, Krisian. Ask yourself..."
"Whose blood will you spill next to feel whole again?"
Krisian dropped to his knees, the weight of his crown—for the first time—crushing.
And in the hall outside, Sillax stood with her back to the door, eyes closed, knowing better than to interrupt a king unraveling beneath the armor of victory