The glyphs around the mirror flared brighter—still unstable, still incomplete.

But they weren’t reacting to the chamber.

They were reacting to him.

Zephryn stepped closer.

The hum in his chest matched the pulse in the glyphlight, not perfectly—but close enough to stir the room itself.

The robed figure didn’t follow.

“You don’t have to do this,” they said.

Zephryn looked over his shoulder.

“That’s what they told me the night she died.”

Then he faced the mirror.

And stepped into its light.

The glass didn’t show a reflection.

It showed memory.

Not his own.

Not entirely.

The surface rippled, then parted—like water trying to remember how to reflect.

He saw hands. Small. Covered in ash. Holding another hand—calloused, scarred, trembling.

A woman’s voice. Unclear.

Only the ending line echoed:

“…don’t ever forget who you are, no matter what they name you.”

Then the sky fractured.

Not a crack. A full pulse-collapse.

Color split across the scene. Symbols scattered like burning leaves.

And from the sky fell a shape—blue, silver, burning, and silent.

A child.

Falling. Screaming.

But no sound left his mouth.

Zephryn staggered back.

The mirror faded.

He reached for the pendant—but it was warm. Still humming. Still listening.

The figure behind him didn’t move.

“That was your origin,” they said.

“Or at least… what’s left of it.”

Zephryn turned.

His voice was low. Controlled.

“What did they erase?”

“Not what,” the figure said. “Who.”

They stepped forward slowly, never fully entering the mirror’s light.

“You weren’t born in Azurentha, Zephryn.

You fell here.”

“That’s not possible.”

“No,” the figure said.

“It’s just not permitted.”

Outside the chamber, the wall glyphs pulsed once.

A Doctrine alarm—deep, encoded.

The figure vanished.

And Zephryn stood alone in a chamber built for memory the world was never meant to keep.

The mirror faded.

But his hum?

It didn’t stop.

Not this time.