Three days since waking in a stranger’s body, and Elias still reached for glasses that no longer existed. His fingers met nothing but the bridge of a nose that felt too straight, too narrow—another small reminder that David Hartwell had died on rain-slick pavement, pushing a child out of the way of a speeding truck. The memory of the impact, the crunch of metal, the way the little girl’s eyes had widened before her mother snatched her to safety—it all lingered like a ghost in his mind, sharp and vivid despite the unfamiliar weight of this new body.

From the window seat of his new bedroom, he watched servants cross the courtyard below, their movements precise beneath the fractured moon that hung visible even in daylight. The Corven household operated like clockwork, each person moving in patterns that seemed to revolve around the small mirrored shrine in the eastern corner. The shrine reflected everything—except, it seemed, the truth.

A knock at the door startled him. His sister—Lyanna, fourteen, sharp-eyed, suspicious—leaned against the doorframe, her fingers tracing the polished brass hinges. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and her expression was unreadable, though her eyes flicked over him with the intensity of someone assessing a puzzle.

"Mother says you’re well enough for visitors," she said, her voice low. "The temple is sending someone to hear your miracle."

Miracle. That’s what they called surviving the wasting fever that should have killed Elias Corven. If they only knew what had actually happened—that he wasn’t Elias at all, but a man from another world, transplanted into this body by forces he didn’t understand. The weight of the secret pressed against his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

"Should I be honored or terrified?" Elias asked, testing the boundaries of this family’s humor. He tried to keep his tone light, but his voice—higher, softer than David’s—betrayed him.

Lyanna’s lips twitched, but she didn’t smile. "Both. They’ll expect you to recite the Twelve Verses of Salvation." When he hesitated, she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You do remember the Twelve Verses, don’t you?"

The words surfaced like debris from a shipwreck—"On the Beginning and the One Reflection: In the beginning was Silence, and in Silence—the One Reflection. From the Reflection emerged Lyrrae, Lady of Mirrors..."—but his tongue locked around the names of the Five Perturbations. Those names burned in his mind, as if they carried some weight he couldn’t yet comprehend. Naraven. Vadra. Seraven. Mirai. Esera. He had never heard them before waking in this body, yet they resonated with something deeper than memory, something like recognition.

Lyanna exhaled through her nose, her dark eyes narrowing. "I’ll fetch the primer. Again." She turned to leave, then paused, her gaze flicking to his hands. "You’re bleeding."

Elias looked down. His fingers had curled into fists, nails biting crescents into his palms. The old habit of a man who’d spent years grading papers in red ink, gripping his pen too tightly when frustrated. He unclenched his hands, wiping the blood on his trousers. "Sorry. Bad habit."

Lyanna didn’t look convinced. "You never did that before." Her voice was quiet, almost accusatory. "You were always so... precise."

Elias forced a smile. "People change after near-death experiences, don’t they?"

She didn’t answer, but her gaze lingered on him a moment longer before she turned and left the room. He listened to her footsteps retreat down the hall, then let his shoulders sag. He pressed his palms against the windowsill, the cool stone grounding him.

Outside, the courtyard bustled with activity. Servants carried trays of food to the dining hall, while others polished the mirrored surfaces that seemed to adorn every available space. The Corven household was wealthy enough to afford such luxuries—mirrors were a sign of devotion to Lyrrae, the Goddess who had saved the world from the chaos of the Five Perturbations. At least, that’s what the temple taught.

Elias’ gaze drifted to the fractured moon hanging in the sky. It was wrong. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. Moons weren’t supposed to look like that—cracked, jagged, as if something had tried to shatter it and failed. The sight made his skin prickle.

A sound from below drew his attention. His father, Matthias Corven, stood in the courtyard, barking orders at a group of servants. He was a broad-shouldered man with a carefully trimmed beard and a permanent frown, his robes embroidered with silver thread that caught the light like tiny mirrors. Elias’ stomach twisted. He didn’t know this man, but he knew the type—ambitious, controlling, the kind of man who saw his children as extensions of his own legacy.

Matthias looked up suddenly, as if sensing Elias’ gaze. Their eyes met through the window, and he forced himself not to look away. Matthias’s expression darkened, and he gestured sharply to one of the servants before striding toward the house.

Elias’ pulse quickened. He wasn’t ready for this—not yet. He needed more time to understand this world, this body, the rules that governed both. But time was something he didn’t have.

A soft chime echoed through the house, the sound of a small bell being rung. Lyanna’s voice called from downstairs, "Elias! The temple envoy is here!"

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He had spent his life as David Hartwell teaching history, uncovering truths buried beneath layers of time and bias. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was navigate unfamiliar territory. But this—this was different. Here, the stakes weren’t just academic. Here, the wrong word could give him much more trouble.

He stood, smoothing his tunic with trembling hands. The fabric was finer than anything he’d ever worn as David, but it felt like a costume, a disguise he wasn’t sure he could pull off. As he made his way downstairs, he repeated the Twelve Verses in his mind, trying to ignore the way his stomach churned at the names of the Five Perturbations. He didn’t know why those names affected him so strongly, but he knew one thing for certain. He was going to find out.

The temple envoy arrived in a procession that felt more like an inquisition than a visit.

Elias stood at the foot of the grand staircase, his hands clasped behind his back to hide their trembling. The Corven household had been thrown into a flurry of preparation—servants polishing every mirror until they gleamed, fresh incense burning in every shrine, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood and something sharper, like ozone after a storm. His mother, Helena, fussed over the arrangement of silver platters on the receiving table, her fingers twitching with nervous energy. She had always been a woman of quiet devotion, but today her usual calm had frayed at the edges.

"Stand straight," she murmured to Elias without looking at him. "And for the Goddess' sake, smile."

Elias obeyed, though the expression felt stiff on his face. He wasn’t used to smiling on command. David Hartwell had smiled often—at his students, at the small victories in the classroom, even at the absurdity of grading the same misplaced comma error for the twentieth time. But Elias Corven, it seemed, was not a boy given to easy grins. The muscles in his face resisted, as if they, too, remembered a different life.

The front doors swung open.

Three figures entered, their robes the pristine white of temple acolytes, embroidered with silver thread that caught the light like shattered glass. At their center walked a woman whose presence seemed to bend the air around her. She was tall, her dark hair streaked with silver and pulled into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her robes were not white but a deep, shifting gray, like the surface of a still pond at dusk. A silver circlet rested on her brow, etched with the same fractured moon that hung in the sky outside.

High Inquisitor Veyla, Lyanna had whispered to him earlier, her voice tight with something that wasn’t quite fear. She’s the one who decides if miracles are divine or demonic.

Veyla’s gaze swept over the assembled household before landing on Elias. Her eyes were pale, almost colorless, like ice over a frozen lake. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of a verdict already decided.

"Elias Corven," she said, and the name felt like a noose tightening around his neck. "The Goddess has shown you great mercy."

Elias bowed his head, the expected response, though every instinct screamed at him to step back. "I am honored by Her grace."

Veyla’s lips curved, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. "Are you? Mercy is a gift, boy. But gifts demand gratitude. And gratitude is proven through devotion." She gestured to the shrine at the center of the room, where a silver basin filled with water sat atop a pedestal of black marble. "Recite the Twelve Verses of Salvation. Let us hear the truth of your faith."

Elias’ throat went dry. He had spent the last three days memorizing the verses, repeating them until the words blurred together in his mind. But now, under Veyla’s unblinking stare, they seemed to slip through his fingers like sand.

He began, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart.

"On the Beginning and the One Reflection: In the beginning was Silence, and in Silence—the One Reflection.
From the Reflection emerged Lyrrae, Lady of Mirrors, to bring order to the chaos of the Five Perturbations."

The words tasted like ash. He forced himself to continue, each verse more difficult than the last.

"On the First Perturbation, Naraven the Unyielding, who sought to chain the world in stone.
On the Second Perturbation, Vadra the Unbound, who drowned the land in endless tide.
On the Third Perturbation, Seraven the Deceiver, who twisted truth into lies.
On the Fourth Perturbation, Mirai the Ensnaring, who bound hearts in false compassion.
On the Fifth Perturbation, Esera the Decaying, who sought to turn all to dust."

His hands clenched at his sides. The names burned in his mouth, each one sending a jolt through his nerves. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what these names meant. But his body reacted as if they were a threat, as if the very sound of them could unravel him.

Veyla’s eyes narrowed.

Elias swallowed hard and forced out the final verses.

"On the Mercy of the Goddess, who sealed the Perturbations away.
On the Gift of the Paravane, which shields the faithful from their corruption.
On the Duty of Man, to uphold the One Reflection.
On the Promise of Salvation, for those who walk in Her light.
On the Eternal Truth, that there is but One Goddess, One Reflection, One Way."

Silence.

Veyla studied him for a long, unbearable moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.

"Well recited," she said, though her tone suggested she had expected—perhaps even hoped—for something else. "The Goddess smiles upon your devotion."

Elias exhaled quietly, though the relief was short-lived. Veyla’s gaze was still fixed on him, sharp as a blade.

"But devotion is more than words," she continued. "The Goddess sees into the heart. And sometimes, the heart remembers what the mind forgets." She stepped closer, her robes whispering against the floor. "Tell me, Elias. When you lay dying, what did you see?"

The question hit him like a physical blow. His mind flashed back to the moment of his death—or David’s death—the rain, the blood, the broken glass reflecting fractured light. And then... something else. A hand gripping his. A voice, warm and dry, speaking words he couldn’t quite remember. You were supposed to live.

He blinked, the memory slipping away like smoke. "I... I don’t remember," he said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie. The fragments he did remember felt like pieces of a dream, half-formed and unreliable.

Veyla’s expression didn’t change, but something in the air shifted, like the pressure before a storm. "A pity," she murmured. "The Goddess often speaks to those who hover between life and death. Their words can be... revealing."

Elias’ pulse spiked. He could feel the weight of her suspicion, the unspoken accusation hanging between them. She knows something’s wrong. The thought was a live wire in his mind. She doesn’t know what, but she knows.

Before he could respond, the doors to the receiving hall burst open. Matthias Corven strode in, his expression a mask of obsequious charm, though his eyes were cold.

"High Inquisitor!" he boomed, spreading his hands in welcome. "What an honor to have you grace our home. My son’s recovery is a blessing we shall celebrate for generations."

Veyla turned to him, her expression smoothing into something politely neutral. "Lord Corven. Your household’s devotion is... notable."

Matthias didn’t flinch at the faint edge in her voice. "We strive only to serve the Goddess in all things." His gaze flicked to Elias, and for the first time, Elias saw something in his father’s eyes that wasn’t calculation or ambition. It was warning.

Veyla didn’t miss it. Her lips curved again, this time with something like amusement. "Indeed. And service requires sacrifice." She turned back to Elias, her voice dropping to a tone that carried only to him. "The temple would be honored by your presence at the Festival of Reflection next week. A public recitation of your miracle would inspire many."

It wasn’t a request.

Elias’ stomach twisted. A public recitation meant standing before crowds, before priests, before her. It meant being watched, scrutinized, tested. And if he failed—if he hesitated, if he slipped—

He thought of the Seran boy from his vision, kneeling in the square, his voice steady as he named the Five Perturbations. You’re not hers. The words echoed in his mind, followed by the sound of the Silver Key touching flesh, the boy’s body going rigid, his eyes flattening into mirrors.

Elias swallowed. "I would be honored," he said, and the words tasted like betrayal.

Veyla’s smile this time was genuine, if no less chilling. "Excellent. The Goddess will be pleased."