Weaver of fates

The asphalt shimmered beneath my bare feet, slick like oozing skin. Each step sent a cold ripple up to my knees, freezing my thoughts, keeping me from slipping too far. My hospital gown, twisted by the wind, snapped against my hips like a poorly fitted shroud. Around me, the city seemed to have stopped breathing.

A suspended world.

A dream refusing to fade.

The night stretched its shadows to the point of absurdity, devouring the streets without even the decency of a whisper. The lampposts—lone survivors of something ancient—cast milky circles onto the pavement. And I, within them, wandered.

— You shouldn't be outside, murmured the voice.

That same drifting tone, lazy, as if speaking not to me, but to my absence.

I wasn't in the habit of answering. But that night, the silence weighed heavier than usual.

— I'm going to the Library of the Awakened.

A pause. Then a long sigh, muffled like the last breath of a dying fire.

— Ah. You want to find what I refuse to tell you.

— I want to understand what I'm becoming.

— And you think humans put that down on paper?

— I think they tried. And that's already better than brooding in the dark.

A dry, joyless laugh.

— You humans… always convinced writing will save you from the truth.

I gave a thin smile.

— No. But it might delay the bite.

⸻

The Library of the Awakened stood at the corner of an empty intersection, like a forgotten mausoleum. Tall, massive, ageless. Tinted windows reflected the dead stars of a colorless sky. Brutalist architecture, built to defy time—or deny it altogether.

Inside, the air smelled of cold wax, ancient dust, and something stranger still: a promise. Each step between the shelves cracked the silence like a brittle branch.

When I stepped through the door, the receptionist looked up. She didn't speak—not right away. In her eyes, I read hesitation. Wrinkled gown. Bare feet. Eyes ringed with ink-black fatigue. I was an anomaly in this place of order.

She forced a smile.

— Can I… help you?

I stepped closer, lowering my voice slightly.

— I'm looking for information on dragons.

A blink that lasted a fraction too long. A barely perceptible furrow of her brow.

— Dra…gons? she repeated, as if the word scorched her tongue.

I leaned in further and said, quieter still:

— Don't tell anyone. But I think… I'm becoming one.

She stared. For a long moment. In the silence, I thought I heard something shift—something behind her eyes. But she said nothing. Just tilted her head slightly to the left.

— "Hybrid Creatures" section. Third aisle. You'll find… that sort of thing there.

— Thank you, I said, straightening. And don't worry. I don't bite. Not yet.

She didn't answer. But her fingers trembled faintly over her keyboard.

⸻

I moved through the stacks like an explorer among the ruins of a sunken world. The titles vibrated with ancient echoes; some manuscripts seemed to breathe, others softened the air around them as if they knew—finally—they were about to be read.

The Dragons of Abyssia

Ancestral Breaths: Memory of Flame

The Sky's Spine: History of Draconic Lineage

Then I saw it.

A single volume on a dusty shelf. Black leather cover, engraved with a three-eyed dragon, its wings spread like arcane symbols. I reached out. The touch was dry—almost searing. The leather pulsed beneath my fingers, like skin still inhabited.

I sat down. Opened the book.

A scent rose from the pages: of time, of fire, and of knowledge best forgotten. The paper was thick, grainy. The ink ranged from tarnished gold to blood-red. Strange illustrations—often unsettling—depicted beings suspended between sky and abyss.

Then a paragraph caught my eye:

"The Soul's Breath is granted only to fractured souls. For only those who have lost their balance can welcome the inner fire without crumbling."

I blinked.

— That's badass…

— Shhh! hissed a voice, indignant, a few meters away.

I slapped a hand over my mouth. Then laughed. Silently. Almost happy to be embarrassed like a normal human.

I closed the book slowly, the way you close a tomb. My heart was pounding harder. Something stirred. In there. In me.

⸻

On my way out, the receptionist didn't look up. She simply turned her gaze aside, as if afraid my shadow might follow her.

Outside, the city hadn't changed. But I had.

— Well? I whispered inwardly.

— You've found a fragment, the voice murmured.

— When does it start? My transformation?

Silence. Then:

— It already has.

I stopped walking.

— So what now? I'm supposed to explode? Fly? Eat sheep?

— Not yet. But you feel the pull, don't you? The fire itching beneath your skin?

— Mostly I feel the emptiness.

— That's normal. You weren't our first choice.

I froze.

— What did you just say?

— The original chosen one… declined. You were next on the list.

— Perfect. Even my destiny is a consolation prize.

— You're more than that. Your blood… carries memory.

I looked up at the black sky. I wanted to scream. Or laugh. Maybe both.

— Let me guess. I've got royal blood? Last descendant of a lost empire?

— Tsars. But not the ones from your history books. The ones before. The real ones.

I didn't answer. Not right away. But something was vibrating along my spine. An old fury. An echo.

— So now what? I asked. What do I do?

The voice grew deeper. More distant.

— Look around you.

I turned.

And the world tilted.

The lampposts burst without a sound, swallowed by a darkness that fed on them. The sidewalk crumbled beneath my feet. The street melted like a painting in the rain. Nothing remained but the void.

— You're ready to pass through the Mirror.

— Wait… I've got nothing. No class. No gear. I'm not—

— You are what you're becoming, Jinra. You always have been.

I closed my eyes. Breathed in.

— Okay. Do it.

The light erupted. Cold as moonlight. Hot as a forge.

When I opened my eyes, I was wearing black—sharp-lined and flowing. A blade at my hip. A scarf trailing like a comet's tail. My hands gloved. My breath steady. My gaze… reborn.

— You embody speed, fury, and memory. You are not a dragon. You are what comes before their birth.

I smiled.

A real smile.

— Badass.

Then everything faded.

And in the pure darkness, a voice resounded. Deep. Inhuman. Unstoppable.

— Welcome to the Mirror of Second Chances.