The storm had long since wandered from the city, yet its echo lingered in Cael's mind. All night the wind had combed the towers like fingers through harp-strings, drawing a lament only he could hear. He woke before dawn, breathless, the scent of smoke still clinging to his hair though the fire was ten years dead.
His chamber lay half-drowned in shadow. Curtains stirred with the faint tremor of the sea wind; the single candle on the bedside table shivered, throwing gold against the bare stone. Cael pressed a palm to his heart and felt the echo there—slow, uncertain, almost unfamiliar.
"Not again," he murmured. "Not the same dream."
But it had been the same: the citadel aflame, the blade between his ribs, Lysander's eyes glistening with a love that killed. He could still taste ash on his tongue, feel the warmth of his own blood sliding down to meet the dust.
He rose, bare feet whispering against the cold floor, and crossed to the window. Outside, Florence slept beneath the remains of the storm. The streets gleamed with rain; lanterns trembled like captive stars. Somewhere, a bell tolled Matins. Somewhere else, a heart he had once trusted might still be praying.
Cael rested his forehead against the glass.
"How many nights must I relive my death," he asked the dawn, "before it releases me?"
No answer came—only the soft percussion of rainwater dripping from the eaves.
He turned from the window and reached for the cloak draped across the chair. Its folds were black velvet, yet in the wavering light they seemed to drink the color from the room. He fastened it around his shoulders and faced the mirror.
For a heartbeat, the glass returned the expected image: a tall figure, pale from sleeplessness, eyes the red-gold of cooling embers. Then the surface rippled, as though disturbed by unseen wind.
Cael froze. The reflection blinked—but not when he did.
"Not this again," he whispered.
The other Cael—the one inside the mirror—smiled faintly, and smoke began to rise behind him, dark and slow, like breath from a dying hearth. Within the smoke shapes coiled—flames, ruins, and the broken crown he once wore.
"You should have stayed dead," the reflection said.
The voice came not from the mirror but from inside his skull, gentle as silk and cold as grave soil.
"Who are you?" Cael demanded. His own voice trembled despite him.
"You know who I am," the specter replied. "I am what the fire left. The ashes remember."
He stepped closer, the glass misting beneath his breath.
"Memory cannot speak."
"Then why do you listen?" the shadow smiled again. "Because you fear I tell the truth."
The candle guttered. The chamber dimmed to a bruise of gold and grey. Cael felt the weight of the dream settle on his shoulders—the weight of a throne built on betrayal.
He whispered, "Leave me."
"I cannot. You called me the moment you looked."
"I looked because I live."
"And you live because I burned."
The words struck through him like a bell's toll. For a long moment he could not breathe. Then he forced a laugh—a sound without mirth.
"A ghost lecturing the living. How quaint."
"Living?" The reflection's head tilted. "Is that what you call this half-existence—waking with the taste of ash, sleeping with the sound of screams? Look closer, Cael."
Against his will, he obeyed.
The smoke behind the reflection thickened until it filled the mirror entirely. From within that darkness something gleamed: the faint outline of a body sprawled across blackened stone. Armor melted. Hair matted with blood. The sigil ring still clutched in one burned hand.
It was him.
His own corpse stared back, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted around an unspoken vow.
Cael staggered backward. His heel struck the chair; it toppled. The candle fell and rolled, scattering wax like tears across the floor. The mirror did not break—it rippled once more and settled, ordinary, innocent, reflecting only his terror.
"No…" he breathed. "This cannot be."
"It is," whispered the voice within. "You walk, but the world still remembers you as dead. The scar between past and present bleeds because you opened it."
He pressed both palms to his temples. "Stop."
"Then wake, truly wake. Return to what you left unfinished."
"And what is that?"
The answer came not in words but in images that seared behind his eyes: Lysander kneeling in candlelight, tears staining the marble altar; the general's blade descending; the city collapsing into flame. And through it all, the single heartbeat of the moment before betrayal.
When the vision released him, Cael fell to his knees. The mirror shimmered with quiet light, like moonlit water.
"You see now," the voice murmured. "You are both—the corpse and the breath that lingers above it."
"Why show me this?" he asked.
"Because forgetting is the true death. Remember, and perhaps you may yet become whole."
He lifted his gaze. "And if I remember everything?"
"Then you will know whom to forgive—and whom to destroy."
The last word struck like a chord cut short. The candle flared, then steadied. The mirror returned to stillness. Only his own weary face remained.
For a while Cael knelt in silence, chest heaving, until the first blush of dawn reached the glass. Light touched his reflection like benediction, and for an instant he thought he saw the corpse smile—the faintest trace of peace. Then it was gone.
He rose slowly, every movement deliberate, as though gravity itself had doubled. The cloak whispered around him. In the quiet that followed he heard a new sound—soft footsteps beyond the door, hesitant, familiar.
"Lord Cael?" a voice called—gentle, uncertain. Lysander.
Cael's blood turned to ice. He closed his eyes, willing his heartbeat to steady.
"Enter," he said at last.
The door opened. Lysander stepped inside, carrying a lamp whose glow rivaled the dawn. His expression was wary, almost tender, the way one might approach a wounded beast.
"You did not come to morning prayer," he said softly. "I feared the dreams troubled you again."
Cael regarded him for a long time before answering.
"They do not trouble me," he said. "They instruct."
Lysander set the lamp upon the table. "You look pale. Has the past visited you?"
Cael's mouth curved—not quite a smile. "It never left."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, heavy with things unsaid. Lysander lowered his gaze.
"If I could take the dreams from you, I would."
"Would you?" Cael asked. "And live their truth in my stead?"
"If it would grant you peace."
Cael studied him, the faint tremor in his hands, the sheen of fear behind his calm. The mirror caught them both—the living and the haunted—and for an instant the reflection wavered again, showing two men standing beside a corpse that belonged to both.
He turned away.
"Peace is a luxury for the innocent," he said. "And neither of us are that."
Lysander's voice fell to a whisper. "Then what remains?"
"Purpose."
"And what purpose calls you now?"
Cael looked once more toward the mirror. The faint outline of the corpse had faded, but its echo lingered in his mind like a promise.
"To learn why the dead still dream," he said. "And to end the dream before it ends me."
The rain had ceased. Through the window a single beam of sunlight crept across the floor, touching the broken wax and the fallen chair, glinting upon the mirror's edge.
Lysander moved as if to speak, but Cael lifted a hand.
"Do not follow me," he said quietly. "Not yet."
And before Lysander could answer, Cael swept from the chamber, his cloak trailing sparks of light. The door closed behind him with a whisper like extinguished flame.
Lysander remained alone. The lamp flickered. He turned toward the mirror—and for a heartbeat, his reflection was not his own but Cael's burned corpse staring back, eyes open, lips parted as if to speak.
The light went out.
When next Cael looks into the mirror, he will not stand alone.
The corpse will move—and speak his name.