From the broken glass rose a creature—faceless, silver-blooded, bowing to him.
"Your first servant," the witch said. "But beware—every servant you summon weakens you. They drink from your reflection."
The shard in Arun's palm shone again, and his reflection stepped forward—alive, hostile. It carried his stance, his anger, his fear.
"To rule here," said the witch, "you must defeat yourself."
His reflection drew a weapon of shimmering glass. Arun had none. But when he raised his hand, the shard pulsed, shaping itself into a jagged blade.
The duel began. Shards clashed, sparks of light scattering into the air.
High above, shapes gathered in the broken sky—vast silhouettes with too many eyes. They watched as if judging the outcome. Arun felt their
gaze pierce into his soul.With a desperate strike, Arun shattered his reflection's blade and drove his own through the figure's chest. The reflection collapsed into shards, which melted into him, filling him with hollow strength.
But in that moment, he realized: a piece of him had died as well.
The witch smiled. "Now," she whispered, "you are no longer prey."