Lucian’s POV

The mirror had been cracking for days.

It started as a thin fracture, barely visible under the morning light. But by now, spiderweb lines stretched across its surface—growing, pulsing, almost alive.

Lucian stood before it, his reflection split into fragments. Each shard showed something slightly different: one smiled, one frowned, one looked back at him with hollow, knowing eyes.

He reached out. The glass was cold beneath his fingertips.

> “You don’t belong here…”

The whisper came faintly—from inside the mirror. Lucian froze, his breath stalling.

He knew that voice. It wasn’t his. It was the one from before.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

> “You took what was mine.”

The reflection trembled—then smoothed over, revealing his own face again. His pulse hammered as he stumbled back, clutching the desk for balance.

A knock on the door snapped him out of it.

“Lucian?” Nareth’s voice, gentle but firm.

Lucian turned toward the door. “Don’t come in!”

But it was too late—Nareth pushed it open, eyes wide at the sight of the shattered mirror and Lucian trembling before it.

“What happened?” he asked, stepping forward.

Lucian couldn’t answer. His voice failed him. All he could do was stare at Nareth, his heart twisting with a truth he couldn’t explain.

“I think…” he said finally, his voice a whisper. “I think someone else is living inside me.”

Nareth froze. His expression flickered between disbelief and fear—but there was something else there too. Compassion.

“Then we’ll find out who,” he said. “Together.”

And when he wrapped his arms around him, Lucian realized—he was no longer sure if Nareth was holding him… or the ghost of whoever he’d become.

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Daelen’s POV

It was raining again.

The kind of rain that swallowed sound, where the city turned into a blur of movement and melancholy.

Daelen found Irian standing under the awning of a small café, umbrella forgotten beside him, rain soaking his hair and clothes. He looked fragile—yet defiant, like he belonged in the storm.

Daelen approached, ignoring the chill creeping down his neck. “You’re going to catch a fever.”

Irian didn’t turn. “Maybe I want to.”

“Don’t say that,” Daelen said quietly.

Irian finally faced him, eyes glinting under the streetlight. “You don’t get to care, Daelen. You made me your revenge.”

Daelen’s chest tightened. “I thought I could hate you. I thought if I broke you, I’d stop feeling like this.”

“And now?” Irian asked, voice trembling.

“Now I don’t know what’s real anymore,” Daelen said. His voice cracked under the weight of it. “The only thing I know is when I look at you, everything else disappears.”

The rain fell harder. Neither moved.

Then, without a word, Irian reached out—his fingers brushing Daelen’s wrist. It was a fragile touch, but it carried more truth than anything they’d ever said.

“You’re an idiot,” Irian murmured.

“I know,” Daelen breathed. “But I’m your idiot.”

And under the rain, they stood—two hearts bound by something neither revenge nor reason could untangle.

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