Cael didn't wait for the dust to settle.
He bolted up the staircase, three levels at a time, heart thundering as sirens wailed through the underground vaults. His body ached from the echo feedback—ghost pain clinging to the memory of someone he never was. He tried to suppress the tremble in his hands.
But the ring on his finger pulsed again.
He wasn't alone anymore.
Echelon Protocol: Active. Monitoring cognitive stability.
The voice—calm, inhuman—whispered in the edges of his thoughts. A low, humming presence, like a second mind brushing against his own.
Above him, security gates slammed shut.
He reached into his coat, yanked out a thin filament blade, and sliced into the access panel. Sparks flew. He twisted the blade, rerouted the signal lines, and forced a bypass override.
The gate opened with a reluctant groan.
"Override protocol. You're getting good at this."
Cael turned sharply.
Nyra Solven leaned casually against the wall, chewing a stick of synthleaf, eyes glowing faintly beneath her bangs. "Told you that room would get you killed. You couldn't just not touch the ancient system of impossible power, could you?"
He stepped past her. "It spoke to me."
Nyra blinked. "It spoke?"
Cael nodded. "It knew my name. It gave me a Directive. I solved it. Barely."
Her smirk vanished. "Then they've already noticed."
The hallway trembled. A distant pulse, like a heartbeat made of metal and code, echoed through the floor.
BOOM.
Far above them, something large and mechanical tore through the sky dome.
"They sent an Echo Hunter." Nyra's tone darkened.
"You mean—"
"A Mirrorborn. Tier Two, minimum." She threw him a device—a dull gray key etched with spiral fractals. "Exit node's rerouted to the fracture line in Quadrant B. We move now, or you'll be debating ethics with a version of yourself that kills first and ponders later."
They ran.
As they darted through corridors bathed in emergency red light, Cael's mind raced. His thoughts bent and twisted under the pressure of the Directive still humming in his head.
> Form precedes Force. Mind must frame Matter.
He glanced down at his hand.
Reality shimmered faintly around his fingertips.
He could feel it now—a tension in the world, like clay waiting for shape. His thoughts had weight. Focus became force. And something deep in his bones was whispering: Try it. Try something.
Behind them, metal screeched.
A figure emerged through the shattered bulkhead, walking calmly, dressed in black. Cael's breath caught.
It was him.
Older. Smiling.
Eyes hollow.
"You survived your first Directive," the Mirrorborn said. "Good. That means you're ready to die."