Malik awoke to silence. Not the comforting stillness of a quiet morning, but a silence that pressed on his chest like a warning. Heavy. Intentional. Watchful.
The window was still shattered. The wind crawled through the frame in slow drafts, curling around the room like fingers that didn't want to let go.
He sat up slowly, heart already racing.
The dream lingered.
Not just images—sensation. He could still feel the warmth of the bone-library, the way the floor whispered with every step, the hollow weight of the mirror's presence. But most of all… he remembered the door.
Not what it looked like. What it felt like.
Familiar. Terrifying. Alive.
Malik rose and crossed the room to his desk. He grabbed a pen and started sketching the door—rough at first, then more precise, his hand guided by something deeper than memory. Runes. Curved edges. Not built, but grown. A door that was part of something breathing.
Naomi's voice cut through the stillness behind him. "You didn't sleep."
He turned. She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, hoodie zipped to her chin.
"Didn't really feel like a night off," he said.
She stepped inside, eyeing the drawing. "Is that what you saw?"
He nodded.
"And you think it's real?"
"I know it's real," he said. "I just don't know what's behind it."
She didn't speak for a moment. Then: "Anacaona's still here. She hasn't left the back room."
"She's waiting."
"For what?"
"For me to be brave enough to ask the right question."
They found Anacaona seated in the middle of the circle he'd drawn two nights ago. The chalk had faded, but her presence kept the room heavy with memory. She didn't look up when they entered.
Malik stepped forward. "I saw it again."
"The door," she said. Not a question.
"Yes. This time it knocked back."
Anacaona finally raised her eyes. "Then the Writ of Return has been cast."
Naomi glanced between them. "Writ of what now?"
Anacaona stood. "A relic buried in your spirit, locked behind forgotten oaths. You were marked long ago to return to what was yours. The door is not just a passage—it is you."
Malik frowned. "If it's mine, why can't I open it?"
"Because the part of you that sealed it still doesn't trust who you've become."
He felt that like a gut-punch. "So what do I do?"
"You enter it anyway."
That evening, as twilight spread across the neighborhood like spilled ink, Malik drew a new circle in the grass behind his house.
Naomi watched in silence as he painted sigils with a stick dipped in saltwater and blood—his blood. Anacaona's voice guided him, low and calm, explaining each curve, each angle.
When the last stroke was finished, Malik stepped into the center and sat cross-legged.
"Close your eyes," Anacaona said. "Let go of what you see."
He did.
"Now let go of what you fear."
Harder. But he tried.
"Now… knock."
He reached forward in his mind.
And knocked.
The world dissolved.
He stood in the bone-library again, but it was darker now. Shadows lingered in the corners, long and watchful.
The mirror still waited at the center.
Malik walked toward it. No hesitation this time.
As he neared, the glass shimmered, and the door appeared again—etched with the sigils he'd drawn earlier. It pulsed once.
And opened.
Inside was darkness.
Not empty.
Waiting.
He stepped through.
The shift was instant.
He stood in a circle of pale light, surrounded by floating fragments of himself.
Images.
Faces.
Deaths.
A hand stabbed through his stomach. A sword raised to a crying child. A throne of ash. Naomi's body, burning. The Guild insignia shattered beneath his foot.
He staggered.
"What is this?"
A voice echoed around him.
These are the truths that wait behind memory.
*You were not always kind. You were not always right. But you were always true.
A shape formed in front of him.
A figure in a black cloak with fire in its eyes.
Himself—older. Tired. Powerful.
You think you're ready?
"I'm trying."
Trying is what got us killed the first time.
Malik squared his shoulders. "Then teach me."
The other him nodded once.
And charged.
There was no time.
The older Malik moved like lightning, spear slashing in elegant arcs.
Malik raised his hands.
No weapon.
Just instinct.
He caught the spear mid-swing, twisted, and ducked. The fire grazed his shoulder.
Pain—real pain.
But also… understanding.
He moved like he knew how.
Kicked off the ground, flipped over, struck with an open palm.
The elder grunted and vanished into flame.
Silence returned.
Then the door behind him closed.
When he opened his eyes, it was dawn.
Naomi sat nearby, asleep against the porch railing.
Anacaona stood watch over both of them.
"You touched the gate," she said.
Malik nodded.
"Then it has begun."
He didn't ask what "it" was.
He already knew.
Later that day, he and Naomi walked to the cemetery on Rose Hill.
"I need to test something," he said.
Naomi didn't ask what.
At the edge of the graves, Malik knelt.
He placed his palm on the ground.
Whispered: "Come."
The earth cracked.
A skeletal hand broke through the soil.
And behind it, a figure climbed free.
It wasn't monstrous.
It wasn't even threatening.
Just… aware.
It bowed.
Naomi let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
"You're summoning directly now," she said.
"No," Malik said.
"I'm calling. There's a difference."
They didn't notice the figure watching them from across the street.
A man in a faded coat, leaning on a cane that wasn't a cane.
His eyes glowed faintly.
He smiled.
"They always forget the second one wakes before the first finishes."
He turned and disappeared into shadow.