The moment Arun's fingers touched the crown, the shards dissolved into light and sank into his skin.
A thousand visions exploded in his mind — past Watchers, forgotten worlds, the first breath of the House.
The Witch fell to her knees. "It's begun. You're no longer a guest here, Arun… you are part of the House now."
A single sound echoed inside his head — faint, but real.
His name. His true name.
The Nameless Lands shuddered as though awakening. The statues turned their heads toward him, whispering in reverence.
"Watcher no more," they sang. "Architect."
Varma appeared, this time not with charm but with fury.
"You fool!" he roared. "Do you think the House will let you rule it? It uses you — as it used me, and every Watcher before!"
Arun felt the truth in his words, but something deeper stirred — the House was whispering back, but it was whispering to him now.
Far away, the Tower of Glass groaned. It was shifting, growing taller, reshaping itself.
With each breath Arun took, its windows realigned, its halls rearranged.
The Witch stared in horror. "You're bending the House's will. That's impossible…"
"Not anymore," Arun murmured.
Dark clouds formed over the mirror-forest. Memories rained from the sky — moments, faces, voices — and wherever they struck the ground, reality twisted.
Arun walked through the storm untouched. His shard pulsed like a heartbeat.
But the Witch clutched her chest, screaming. "It's rewriting me!"
The House spoke to him for the first time, its voice a thousand overlapping echoes.
"End the cycle. Break the watchers. Devour the heart."
"What happens if I refuse?" Arun asked.
"Then you remain a puppet. Like him."
Varma's shadow snarled from the distance.
Varma unleashed his final weapon — a mirror that showed every version of Arun across infinite reflections.
Each one begged him not to trust the House. Each one screamed that the crown was a lie.
But one version — older, scarred, eyes burning — whispered, "Take the Heart before he does."
The shard Arun carried cracked open, revealing a seed of blinding white light.
It pulsed with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.
The Witch gasped. "That's not magic… that's the origin. The first mirror. The heart of all realms.
The ground shook as the Tower of Glass extended a bridge toward him.
Staircases unfolded from the sky. Runes ignited along their steps.
Arun knew this was the final path — at the summit lay the Mirror's Heart, the source of all reflections.
Varma waited there, and so did destiny.
The Tower's peak glowed like a star. Every reflection Arun had ever seen — every nightmare, every memory, every version of himself — spiraled around it like a storm.
And at the center floated the Heart — a sphere of perfect glass, pulsing like a living organ.
The Witch whispered, "Touch it… and you become god."
Varma whispered, "Break it… and you become free."
Arun reached forward — trembling, terrified — knowing that whatever he chose would end the story that began the day the house first watched him back.