We are not reflections

Somewhere beyond the reach of reason and light, the Mirror Realm stirred.

It pulsed, not with life—but with fury. With hunger. A heartbeat echoing through shattered reflections that never fully healed. And at the center of that heartbeat, a throne sat empty. Or rather, waiting.

Far below it, where twisted echoes crawled like shadowed serpents and screams could be mistaken for laughter, he stood.

He was not the cult's god.

He was not their savior.

He was their mistake.

The figure on the glass spire looked nothing like a monster. In fact, he looked like a dream—a haunting, vivid hallucination stitched together with too much beauty to be real. Tall. Lean. His skin pale like moonlit marble. His eyes? Ink-drenched fire. Unblinking. Watching.

And his smile— That smile.

It wasn't a grin. It wasn't even joy. It was promise. A promise that something was coming, and when it did, it would wear your face and smile just like him as it tore you apart.

He ran his tongue across his teeth slowly, as if tasting a memory. Then spoke.

"How close are we?"

A servant stepped from a shard beside the throne, their form flickering, barely human. Kneeling. Hollow-eyed. Voice barely audible.

"The fractures are spreading, Master. The cult continues the rites. They believe they serve the Sovereign. They believe… he will save them."

A chuckle broke through the silence.

Then a laugh. Low. Liquid. Laced with mirth and venom.

"Oh, they're adorable," he cooed, eyes gleaming. "Thinking they're reviving a god… when they're only loosening my cage."

He walked to the edge of the spire, coat made of mirrored fabric billowing behind him like liquid shadows. Every step rang like a war drum across the realm.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered. "Earth. Beating. Breathing. Begging."

He licked his lips. "It's been too long since I tasted air. Real air. Not this recycled echo-space. Not this memory prison."

The Mirror Realm didn't contain him. Not really.

The Forbidden Place did. A prison forged from a piece of Kael's power, sealed with a curse so old even the echoes forgot it.

And he remembered every moment of it.

The betrayal. The seal. The agony.

"Oh brother," he murmured, voice suddenly softer, wistful almost. "You really thought forgetting would fix it? You thought sealing me away and locking up your mind would undo what you did?"

His expression darkened, lips peeling back into that smile.

"I'm not coming back to take your throne." He leaned closer to the edge. "I'm coming to shatter your world."

He raised a hand. The realm trembled. Shards rose from below like soldiers rising from graves. Hundreds. Thousands. A glass-armored army made of broken reflections, forged from pain and forgotten truths.

"When the gate cracks wide enough, we won't just step through. We'll storm through. And when we do?"

He turned to his servant, voice a whisper.

"I want the skies to scream. I want them to know his name as he begs to forget it again."

The servant flinched. "He does not remember you, Master."

"He will."

He stepped forward, every inch of him wrapped in violent grace. That smile stretched wider now, too sharp. Too hungry. Beautiful in the way fire is beautiful—right before it consumes your home.

"He'll remember the day he chose the world over me. He'll remember sealing me in that cursed place with his own hands. He'll remember every lie. Every touch. Every second of betrayal."

His eyes glowed now, a deep crimson burn.

"And then… I'll make him die slowly."

He paused, a breathless stillness hanging over the realm.

Then he looked down into a shard shimmering faintly with Kael's image—distant, unaware, breathing.

"I don't want his throne." He smiled wider. "I want his ashes."

He dragged a finger along the shard's surface, and it hissed with steam.

The realm groaned.

He straightened, tilting his head ever so slightly.

"I really can't wait to see you, brother."