On the next landing, Varma stood waiting, his suit spotless, his smile cruel. Behind him floated a mirror so vast it seemed to hold a whole city within it—a city burning.
"You don't understand, Arun," Varma said softly. "This Tower is no prison. It is a forge. With the Mirror's Heart, I can unmake this cursed world and build a better one."
The witch spat at his feet. "Better? You mean one where you rule."
Varma extended his hand to Arun. "Join me. Together we could write a world without fear. Without loss. Think of the power—you could even bring back the dead."
Arun's shard burned hot in his palm, torn between the witch's warning and Varma's promise.
Arun traced his fingers along the cold surface of the mirror in the east hallway. For days now, the whispers had been silent. That was never a good sign. Silence in the house meant something was listening.
The Witch of Shards had vanished at dawn, leaving behind a single note scratched onto the wall: "Not all doors open to leave."
When the clock struck midnight, the door at the end of the hallway began to hum—a low vibration that rattled the glass panes nearby. Arun stepped closer, breath frosting in the air, and for the first time, he noticed something in the reflection: a keyhole where none existed on the real door.
He leaned in, and the whisper came—faint, brittle:
"Turn the key you do not have."