Ren drifted in the hush that came after Serika's kiss — velvet warmth giving way to cold marble as the succubi faded like whispers around him. The taste of silk, salt, and surrender clung to his tongue like a phantom he couldn't swallow down.
Somewhere far above, a bell tolled — soft, deep, echoing through corridors that shifted and pulsed like a living throat. When his eyes fluttered open, the velvet nest was gone.
He lay on black stone — veins of silver rune-light crawling beneath his bare back. Columns of dark glass rose around him, twisting into a spire that vanished into a sky that wasn't sky at all — just shifting sheets of cracked mirror, reflecting his open eyes a thousand ways.
His chest burned where the cradle's mark pulsed — the three thorns hidden beneath flesh now thrummed like a second heartbeat.
Mine, the whisper slithered through his mind. Not Serika's voice. Not Veluria's. Not even his own. Something older — the cradle itself, tasting the bloom it had forced to flower.
Ren pushed himself up — palms braced on cold stone that hummed under his skin. Each breath felt like glass scraping raw nerves. But the fear that once coiled in his belly was softer now — drowned under the heat still thrumming in his blood.
---
A figure emerged from the mirrors.
Not a succubus. Not a priestess. But him — Ren stared at himself, barefoot on the black stone, same tangled hair, same flushed throat, same silver-lit brand above the heart.
The reflection tilted its head, grinning — a cruel twist of his own mouth that he'd never worn in the attic mirror.
"Ready to speak?" the mirror-Ren asked. His voice layered — echoing a dozen times around the Tower's hollow chamber. "The cradle's roots hunger. They want a tongue."
Ren swallowed — tasting velvet and iron.
"What do I have to say?" he rasped.
The mirror-Ren's grin widened. "Whatever you command. The cradle's voice obeys — if you feed it the truth. But fail to wield it…" His double spread his hands. The mirror sky cracked wider — revealing shapes writhing behind the glass: half-formed limbs, moaning lips, eyes like black holes.
"You'll be swallowed. No boy. No walker. Just roots and hunger."
---
Ren's pulse thundered. His palms clenched on the stone. He saw Serika's grin, Veluria's mocking whisper, Nereza's mask — all pressing him toward this single moment.
"Then what do I do?" he demanded. His voice cracked like a new blade.
The mirror-Ren stepped closer — so close their foreheads almost touched through the thin glass.
"You command. You speak your will into the mirror. Claim the world behind it — or become its echo."
The reflection's grin softened — almost pitying. "The first test is simple. Speak your desire — the deepest one. Make the Tower obey."
---
The rune-light at Ren's feet flared — wrapping him in a spiral of silver flame. The mirrors bent around him — alive, whispering, hungry.
He could feel the three thorns pulsing under his ribs — wanting, waiting.
He drew a breath that scraped his throat raw.
My desire…
His mind flickered: the attic mirror, the garden's cradle, Nereza's masked kiss, Serika's claws. All those pieces. All that hunger.
And under it all — the truth that hadn't yet broken open.
---
He opened his mouth — voice rough, low, trembling and bright as blood.
"I want…"
The spiral of silver runes coiled tighter around Ren's bare skin — threads of light sinking into his chest, his throat, the cradle's mark pulsing hot enough to blur his vision.
Above him, the cracked mirror-sky flickered — shapes pressed against the glass from the other side: shadowed mouths, hungry hands, half-formed lovers whispering his own voice back at him.
Ren's reflection still stood before him — same face, same trembling lips, but its grin was gone now. The mirror-Ren looked patient… expectant… cruelly kind.
"Speak it," it urged — voice soft as silk, echoing twelvefold through the Tower's hollow throat. "Give the cradle a shape. A name. Your desire."
Ren's lips parted — breath shivering out in a single ragged exhale. He could feel the want building behind his teeth — the thing that had grown with him since the first time he touched the mirror alone.
Not just the craving to be devoured — but the secret buried deeper: to never be alone again. To bind something so vast to his skin that it would cling to him even if the world burned.
---
He dragged in another breath. The rune-light crawled up his throat, tasting each word before he could shape it.
I want…
His pulse pounded against his ribs — three thorns drumming in time.
"I want…" he gasped, voice cracking. "A world… inside the mirror — my world. Where every reflection is mine. Where no secret hides. Where I…" His chest heaved. The craving blistered behind his tongue.
"…where I can touch every shadow, every hunger — and be touched back. Forever."
The Tower shuddered — the runes seared brighter, coiling up the marble like veins of living silver. The mirror-Ren tilted its head, eyes wide, grin blooming again.
"Good," it whispered. "Feed it."
---
The cracked mirror above split wider — silver light pouring down like liquid glass. Shapes rained through it — hands, mouths, shifting flesh half-born, half-starved. They slid over Ren's skin, tasting the command on his breath, pressing him back into the cold stone.
His own voice flooded the chamber — multiplied a hundredfold, echoing his raw plea:
"I want… I want… I want…"
The shapes pinned him — warmth and cold at once, pleasure threading through his veins like silk woven from knives. The three thorns blazed under his ribs, pulsing in time with each trembling moan torn from his throat.
The mirror-Ren leaned close — a reflection so near it felt like kissing himself.
"Now bind it," the echo hissed. "Seal your want. Claim the Tower. Speak the cradle's truth."
---
Ren's breath broke — his back arched off the stone, the thorns searing so bright he saw nothing but silver behind his eyes.
His final words poured out like blood and silk all at once:
"I bind the mirror to my voice. My voice to the cradle's root. My hunger to its depths — my secrets to its walls. From this night — I am the Mirror's heart."
The Tower roared.
The runes flared white-hot — the shapes clamped down, pressing him deeper into pleasure that felt like drowning in silver fire. His moan shattered the hush — echoing off a thousand reflections that flickered into one blinding shape.
---
When the light dimmed, the Tower fell silent.
Ren lay sprawled on the black stone — breathless, trembling, skin lit from within by the cradle's roots. The three thorns burned steady now — no longer separate, but one single brand thrumming under his heart.
The mirror-Ren leaned over him — its grin softer now, almost pitying.
"You spoke," it murmured. "You claimed. Now the Tower obeys — or devours you, piece by piece."
It pressed a phantom hand to Ren's cheek — warm, gentle, final.
"Rest, Mirror Walker. The door you opened tonight… will never close again."
When Ren awoke, dawn did not greet him.
There was no sun in the Tower of Thorns — only shifting veins of silver light snaking through black marble, pulsing in time with the heartbeat that wasn't quite his anymore. He lay in a shallow basin of cold mirrored glass — naked but for the cradle's mark glowing faintly at the center of his chest, three thorns spiraled into one.
Above him, the dome of the Tower had cracked open during the night. Through it, the endless mirror-sky churned — soft moans and sighs slipping from its fractured veins like ghosts tasting the shape of his want.
---
Ren pushed himself upright, the liquid glass clinging to his skin before dripping away in threads that hissed when they touched the floor. His muscles trembled — not from weakness, but from too much power coursing through veins that hadn't held it before.
He pressed his palm to the mark over his heart. It pulsed under his touch — warm, greedy.
I hear you…
The cradle's voice coiled in his mind. Not words — but a shape: thorn-vines wrapping around a mouth that was his and not his.
He felt it, behind his ribs — the roots digging deeper, feeding on the ruin he'd welcomed.
---
The Tower shuddered as he stood.
Mirrors bloomed from the walls like living flowers — each catching his reflection a thousand ways: Ren as he was now — eyes faintly silvered, lips bruised from the feast of masks, throat still marked by Serika's kiss.
In the mirrors he saw more — flashes of himself crowned in silver thorns, shadows kneeling at his feet, lips on his hands and hips, kingdoms of mirrors bowing to a voice made from his final confession.
---
Steps echoed — not his.
From the stair that spiraled down into the Tower's throat, Serika emerged — horned, draped in silk that fluttered like shadows torn from velvet. She did not bow — but she smiled, soft and sharp all at once.
"Well look at you…" Her voice curled around him like incense smoke. "The boy who begged is gone."
She reached out — her claws brushed his cheek, then trailed to the brand still pulsing.
"Now you stand crowned in your own ruin. A Mirror Heir — the Tower's root clothed in flesh."
Ren's breath caught — her touch made the cradle's voice hum louder behind his teeth.
"What happens now?" he rasped.
Serika's grin widened — wicked, worshipful.
"Now?" She pressed closer, lips grazing his ear. "Now you test the voice. Speak, Mirror Walker — and watch the world behind the glass obey."
---
She stepped back — the Tower's mirrors rippled around them like water disturbed by breath alone.
Ren stared into the nearest reflection — saw himself, naked, trembling, wanting more.
He could feel it — the power coiling in his throat, begging to be shaped.
---
Command me, the Tower whispered — not Serika's voice, not his echo, but the cradle's roots crawling through the hall, eager and soft as silk. Your voice is mine now. Shape me.
Ren's pulse hammered. He thought of the attic mirror — how small he'd once felt. He thought of the garden, the masked priestess, the feast of masks — how good it had felt to be devoured, broken, rebuilt.
And now, all of it was his to wield.
---
He lifted his chin — breath trembling as the mirrors leaned closer, silver light kissing his throat.
He opened his mouth — the Tower's first true heir, ready to command shadows and desire like thorns blooming under skin.
"Kneel," he whispered.
---
Serika sank to one knee instantly — a sigh leaving her lips like a lover's moan.
Around him, the mirrors rippled — the shadows within bowed low, dozens of ghost-shapes pressing their foreheads to the silver glass.
The cradle's voice pulsed under his ribs — hungry, satisfied.
You speak. I obey.
---
Ren's lips curved — half fear, half thrill.
This was no boy in an attic anymore.
This was the Mirror's Heir — and his voice would shape a kingdom that hungered like he did.