The Witch caught up with him, breathless.
"You must choose soon. Varma will reach the Heart first. And this path—this is the one no watcher survives."
Arun tightened his grip on the shard. "Then why guide me?"
"Because," she whispered, "I want to see what happens when someone breaks the pattern."
That night, as Arun camped beneath a mirror-tree, a shadow emerged from its bark—Varma's silhouette.
"You're still chasing ghosts," it said.
Arun threw a stone. The shadow didn't flinch.
"I've already taken three names from you," Varma's voice echoed. "How many more until you forget why you're here?"
The path ended at a lake of liquid silver, perfectly still.
The Witch tossed a pebble in; the ripples showed futures—Arun as a king, Arun as a corpse, Arun as a mirror.
"Choose where you cross," she said.
Each ripple led to a different shore.
From the lake rose a figure—his exact twin, eyes black as ink.
It spoke in his voice: "You've come far enough. Give me the shard, and you may wake."
Arun's hand shook. This was the price of the Third Path: the wor
ld would send himself to stop him.