By the campfire, the Witch finally spoke of herself.
"I was once like you. A child who lived in the house. I opened the wrong door. And when the Tower claimed me, I chose servitude over silence."
Her voice cracked. "That's why I can't leave. I am bound to warn… and to deceive."
They came upon a river flowing with glass marbles—each one an eye, watching.
When Arun peered into the current, he saw millions of people staring back, all whispering his lost name.
The Witch covered his face. "If you recognize yourself among them, you will drown."
On the far bank lay a mask, cracked in half. Arun picked it up—it fit his face perfectly.
The Witch recoiled. "That mask belonged to the First Watcher. To wear it is to take his fate."
Arun slid it on anyway. For a moment, the House screamed in rage.
A throne of black glass stood atop a hill, empty.
As Arun approached, shadows gathered, bowing.
The Witch fell silent. "The Nameless Path wasn't meant to be walked. You're not just breaking the cycle—you're rewriting it."
Above the throne floated a crown of jagged glass, spinning slowly.
Arun felt it call to him, not in words, but in hunger.
If he placed it upon his head, he would no longer be a Watcher. He would be something else entirely.
He reached up—his reflection in every
shard smiling differently than he did.