The blade didn’t shake.

Even though I could barely breathe. Even though a part of me whispered, Use the crown—burn her down—

But I didn’t.

Because I didn’t know if I could control it. Not yet.

And because the woman holding the obsidian knife wasn’t afraid of me.

“You’ve seen the symbol,” she said.

“You opened the vault. The flame answered you.”

“That means you’re either cursed… or stupid.”

She moved like a ghost—one second behind me, the next in front, eyes shadowed by her hood. The blade never left my skin.

“Who are you?” I managed to say.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped closer to the mirror. The reflection didn’t show her.

Just me.

Alone.

“The Order fell centuries ago,” she murmured. “Burned, hunted, erased from your precious histories.”

“But we lived. In fragments. In bloodlines. In scars.”

She touched the broken sigil on her cloak—an inverted version of the one I saw in the vault. Sharp lines. No light.

“The throne is a lie,” she hissed. “So is the crown you wear.”

My heart kicked.

The crown pulsed. Just once.

“Then why did it choose me?” I asked.

She went still.

“It didn’t.”

That shook me more than the blade ever could.

“What?” I whispered.

“You didn’t take the crown. You woke it. There’s a difference.”

She finally lowered her weapon.

Not mercy—strategy.

“The last one it chose,” she said, “slaughtered half a continent.”

I swallowed.

“And the one before that?”

“Made this kingdom. Then broke it.”

She stared at me.

“What will you do, Kael? What kind of echo will you leave?”

The door behind us creaked open.

Guards.

Too soon.

“You never saw me,” she said sharply.

Then she stepped into the mirror.

No joke.

No illusion.

She stepped into the smoke-glass, and vanished.

The sigil faded.

The door burst open.

“My lord, are you alright?” one guard asked.

I didn’t answer.

I was still staring at my reflection.

Still wondering how much of me was even mine anymore.