The wind outside the estate howled like a beast that had caught the scent of blood.
Inside, Aaron stood before the cracked mirror, still trembling from the voice that had spoken from his own reflection. But this time, he didn't look away.
"If you're me," he whispered to the glass, "then you bleed like me too."
The reflection didn't answer.
Because it was gone.
Instead, smoke crept into the corners of the room. The glass darkened, blackening like scorched earth. Then, without warning, a figure stepped out of the mirror.
Same height. Same face. Same burning eyes.
But this one smiled like a god preparing to burn down his own temple.
"You called, Aaron," the figure said, voice smooth as embers. "And I answered."
---
Aaron staggered back a step, eyes narrowing.
"You're not real."
"Oh, I'm more real than the version of you that kneels to old men and their sacred laws," the figure said, circling him like a predator. "You hesitate. I don't. That's the only difference."
Aaron clenched his fist, and blue flame flared in his palm. Across from him, the echo raised its hand. Gold fire bloomed, burning hotter, hungrier.
Their auras met in the air—heat colliding with heat, cracking the air between them and sending books flying from the shelves like startled birds.
"You can't exist without me," Aaron said through gritted teeth.
"No," the reflection replied with a smirk. "But you were created to contain me."
---
Blue fire exploded across the room.
Aaron lunged forward, fire shaping into a whip in his hand. The echo met the attack mid-air, their flames twisting together like serpents in a death spiral. Sparks lit the ceiling, smoke swirled like a storm.
"You think fire is your weapon?" the echo growled. "It's my language."
Aaron was thrown into a shelf. Wood splintered. Pain screamed across his back.
Still, he stood.
"Then I'll rewrite the flame," he said, his voice low, steady. "Line by line."
---
The world shifted without warning.
The library vanished. In its place, Aaron stood on a battlefield built from ash and bone. The air reeked of smoke and death. Bodies lay scattered—faces he didn't recognize. Above him, a black sun hung in the sky, casting no warmth.
"What… is this?" he asked, breath catching in his throat.
"Your future," came the echo's voice. "The day you stop pretending to be human."
He turned. A throne made of broken swords rose from the ruin, jagged and cruel. Upon it sat a silhouette—Aaron himself, older. His eyes glowed like twin suns, empty of mercy.
"That's the prince you were born to become," the echo whispered.
---
But something stirred within Aaron.
He remembered Ashen.
The ruined pool. The bread they shared. The trembling hands he held.
His blue flame flared to life again—brighter, not from rage or fear, but something deeper. Something steady.
"No," he said, his voice ringing out across the battlefield. "That prince was forged from fear. I'll build a different fire."
The echo lunged.
But Aaron moved to meet him—head-on.
When their flames clashed, the world cracked like glass. The battlefield shattered, and the illusion crumbled into light.
---
Aaron awoke in the real library, lying on scorched floorboards. The scent of smoke still clung to the air. Books were reduced to ash. The mirror… gone.
On his palm, the rune pulsed again—blue, then gold… then still.
From down the hall, Ashen's voice echoed, urgent.
"Aaron…? Something's happening. You need to see this!"
Aaron pushed himself up slowly, every muscle aching. He looked at the mark on his hand and whispered,
"Not cursed. Not yet."