The witch circled him slowly. "In this realm, your shadow is your servant. Your reflection is your rival. And your name… is your weapon."
Arun felt the silver air tighten around him. His reflection bowed mockingly inside the shard, lips moving in silen
ce.
The sound of footsteps echoed across the glass plain. Mr. Varma appeared once more, though he looked less human now—his body was threaded with faint silver cracks, as if he too was made of mirror.
"You trusted her?" he asked, tilting his head. "Careful, boy. Every bargain in this realm costs more than coin."
In the distance, the tower shimmered with runes that writhed like living things. Arun felt its pull. The witch followed his gaze.
"The Tower of Glass keeps the Gates open," she said. "If it falls, both worlds shatter."
The witch extended her hand. "Touch the shard. Claim yourself."
Against his fear, Arun obeyed. The shard melted into his palm like ice. Pain flared, then steadied—letters, glowing and alive, etched themselves briefly onto his skin before fading.
He whispered a word without knowing how. The glass plain cracked at his feet.