The ruins of Kareth groaned beneath the weight of memory.
Wind whispered through broken towers, carrying the scent of ash and the soft, iron tang of old blood. Kaelen tightened the fire-touched ribbon around the scroll Mira had given him, its heat pulsing faintly against his chest like a heartbeat he hadn't earned.
They had arrived before dusk—Kaelen, Elira, and the small retinue of Avaron riders Mira had entrusted to them. But as night fell, so did a strange quiet. No birds. No creatures. Just ruins… and something watching.
"This place feels cursed," Elira muttered as they passed under the remains of what once must have been a grand archway.
"Because it is," said Kaelen, his voice low. "This is where the war began."
At the heart of the shattered city, where obsidian columns jutted from the earth like broken teeth, they found what Mira's map had marked: The Mirror Room.
An ancient tower—hollow now, yet intact enough to stand. Vines strangled its base, and strange glyphs pulsed softly on its surface. The sigil Mira had traced in Kaelen's memory glowed faintly above the door.
Kaelen stepped forward, scroll in hand. As the sigil reacted to his presence, the door shuddered open.
No sound. Just a breathless stillness, as if the tower itself had waited too long for his return.
Inside, time felt strange.
The walls of the Mirror Room were curved obsidian, but they shimmered, as if reflecting scenes not from the present—but from echoes of the past. Every step Kaelen took revealed flickers of memory not his own. Crowns forged and stolen. Faces full of fire. Betrayals that split kingdoms.
Elira followed, uneasy. "Are these visions?"
Kaelen didn't answer. He was drawn to the far end of the chamber, where a massive mirror stood—twice his height, rimmed in silver flame and carved with runes older than Avaron's founding.
The mirror shimmered, then spoke—not in words, but in sensation. Emotion. Grief. Guilt. Reckoning.
Kaelen stepped closer. "What am I supposed to see?"
The mirror answered.
Not with a reflection—but with two.
On the left, Kaelen as he was now—lean, fire-eyed, burdened but strong.
On the right, another boy. Slightly younger. No Midnight Blade. No sigil across his collarbone. But with the same eyes.
The name whispered through the chamber like dust:Elion.
Elira gasped. "That's… you."
"No," Kaelen breathed. "That's who I was."
The boy in the mirror smiled—a hollow, almost knowing smile. Then the vision fractured, and the left side of the mirror shattered.
Kaelen stumbled back. The temperature dropped sharply.
From the mirror's center, a figure emerged.
Not a ghost. Not flesh. A memory made manifest.
He wore a crown of blackened gold and a cloak of shadows, the Midnight Blade sheathed across his back—but twisted, darker. It was his father, as Kaelen had never seen him. Younger, fiercer. And haunted.
"I thought this day would never come," the figure said. "But you've found it—what I buried beneath ash and ruin."
"Who are you?" Kaelen demanded, although he knew the answer.
The figure ignored the question. "You were never meant to inherit the flame. I tried to shield you from it. But now… the mirror has chosen. And it never lies."
Elira stepped forward, hand on her dagger. "Is this a trap?"
"No," the figure said. "It's a choice."
The mirror pulsed again, showing flickers of what could be.
A throne of fire. A world united… or broken. Kaelen in armor, both feared and revered. Blood on his hands—some of it his own.
"You must understand," the figure continued. "The name Kaelen was given to protect you. But Elion… Elion was born to change the world. That is the boy the mirror remembers."
Kaelen's heart pounded. "And what if I choose neither name?"
The figure smiled, fading. "Then write your own. But be warned: every name leaves a shadow."
The chamber dimmed. The mirror's magic fell dormant once more.
Outside, the stars blinked through a hole in the tower's roof.
Kaelen leaned against the stone, breath trembling. Elira sat beside him, silent for once.
"You all right?" she asked eventually.
"I don't know."
He looked at his hands.
"One name is a crown. The other is a ghost."
"Then maybe you need a new one," she said. "One only you can define."
Kaelen smiled faintly. "Maybe."
Far to the east, the sky cracked with distant thunder.
Change was coming.
And Kaelen—Elion—whoever he was—would meet it at the edge of a sword, a mirror, and a name finally reclaimed.