The air in Kaylin's room had changed. It wasn't something she could see, but she could feel it—like the air was breathing with her. Every sound, every shift of light, seemed amplified, as if the world itself were waiting.
She sat at her desk, the book open before her, its golden letters still faintly glowing. It hadn't written anything new since dawn, but Kaylin had the strange feeling that it was listening.
The clock ticked softly.
She whispered, "What do you want from me?"
The book remained still.
But in the mirror across the room, the reflection flickered—just once, too fast for her eyes to catch.
Kaylin froze. Slowly, she turned her head toward the mirror. Her own reflection stared back—calm, unmoving. But something was wrong. Her reflection's lips were parted, as if mid-breath, and the faintest wisp of fog curled out, like a sigh that wasn't hers.
She stood up. "Hello?"
The mirror shimmered faintly, as though touched by heat. Then, from the depth of the glass, a faint whisper emerged—a language she didn't recognize, yet somehow understood.
> "ᛗᛁᚱᚱᛟᚱ ᛋᛖᛖᛋ ᚨᛚᛚ."
(The mirror sees all.)
Her pulse raced. She stumbled back, knocking over her chair. The whisper grew louder, layered, as though many voices were speaking at once, echoing through the thin barrier between her world and something else.
Then—silence.
Kaylin stared at her reflection. This time, her mirror-self blinked a heartbeat too late.
She didn't sleep that night.
Instead, she sat by the window, watching the rain blur the city lights into a watercolor haze. The words from the book replayed in her head:
"The blood awakens. The House of D'Aubris rises."
It had been less than a day, and already, her world was unraveling.
By morning, she decided she couldn't stay silent anymore. She needed help—someone who understood these things.
So she called Professor Armand Laurent, a historian specializing in European occult archives. He'd once lectured about "The Forgotten Houses" — noble bloodlines that dabbled in forbidden knowledge.
When she mentioned her last name, the line went quiet.
"D'Aubris, you said?" he finally replied. His voice was measured, almost too calm. "That's… a name I haven't heard in decades. Where did you learn it?"
"I didn't learn it," she said. "I inherited it."
Another pause. Then, "Meet me at the university archives at six. Don't bring anyone else."
The university was empty at dusk, its corridors bathed in a dying amber light. The sound of her heels echoed against marble floors as Kaylin walked toward the old wing.
Professor Laurent was waiting, surrounded by stacks of old manuscripts and candlelight—a strange choice in a building with electricity.
He looked up as she entered, eyes sharp behind gold-rimmed glasses.
"So," he murmured, "the D'Aubris bloodline continues."
Kaylin hesitated. "You know about them?"
He nodded. "More than you'd like to. Your ancestors were once keepers of a relic known as Le Livre de la Lune — The Book of the Moon. It was said to contain prophecies older than the Bible, written in a celestial language no one could decipher."
He leaned forward. "Tell me, Kaylin, do you have it?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
Professor Laurent's eyes darkened. "Then listen carefully. That book doesn't just predict the end of the world. It shapes it."
Her blood ran cold. "Shapes it?"
"Every time one of your bloodline opens it, history bends. Disasters follow. Wars, plagues, storms—each foretold in its pages, each caused by them. The D'Aubris were both seers and sinners, cursed to see what they bring upon the world."
Kaylin shook her head. "No… that can't be true."
"Have you read from it?" he asked.
She bit her lip. "Yes."
"Then it's already begun."
That night, after she returned home, the sky broke again. A thunderstorm rolled across the horizon, wild and unnatural, though no forecast had predicted it.
The lights flickered.
The book on her desk flipped open by itself.
Across the page, written in glowing silver ink, were new words:
"The watcher stirs. The mirror remembers."
A chill crawled down her spine.
She turned toward the mirror. Her reflection was already waiting for her—smiling faintly this time.
"Stop…" she whispered.
But her reflection didn't. It raised a hand. Slowly. Deliberately.
Kaylin froze. Her own hand hadn't moved.
The reflection pressed its palm against the glass, and a ripple spread outward like water disturbed by a stone. From within the mirror, that same ancient voice spoke again—clearer now, deeper, more commanding:
> "ᚨᛚᛚ ᛋᛖᛖᛋ ᚨᚱᛖ ᚾᛟᛏ ᛃᛟᚢᚱᛋ."
(All see are not yours.)
Then, as if reality hiccuped, the reflection blinked first.
When she woke the next morning, the storm had passed, but her mirror was cracked—splintered through the middle like a lightning strike had hit it from inside.
The crack formed a strange shape. A star.
Just like the one on the D'Aubris crest.
And beneath the mirror, someone—or something—had carved a single line into her desk.
"The first seal is open."
Kaylin's breath hitched. She fell to her knees, staring at the words. The air felt heavier again, pressing in around her.
Outside, the world looked normal. Birds sang. Cars passed. But deep down, she knew the countdown had begun.
And this time, the apocalypse didn't feel distant.
It felt personal.
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End of Chapter 6
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