The voice behind me wasn't a whisper. It was a sword drawn slowly across memory.
"He's not the only one watching."
I turned.
The corridor behind the mirror chamber stretched endlessly. I hadn't noticed before—like it had been hiding itself from sight until that moment.
And now?
Now it stood wide and waiting, lit only by cold amber sigils hovering midair, pulsing like the slowed heartbeat of something ancient.
That's where I saw him.
Lucien.
He walked toward me like judgment given legs.
Golden armor, etched in light. Not reflected light — not torch or artificial glow — but something intrinsic. As if his body was born inside a sun and forged into human shape. A white cape trailed behind him, unstained despite the grime of this world. His face was beautiful in the way statues are — perfect, cold, unmerciful.
His eyes were worse.
Because I remembered them.
Not here.
Not now.
But before.
Somewhere where the sky bled and I died with his blade in my gut.
Even before he spoke, my mouth moved without my permission.
"Lucien…"
His name. A curse. A prayer. A wound still leaking through timelines.
He paused mid-step.
Brows tightened.
"You shouldn't know that name."
"And yet," I said softly, "here we are."
He drew his weapon.
No dramatic flourish. No ceremony.
Just a slow unsheathing, like he had been waiting to do it since the moment he heard I still breathed.
It was a spear — long, silver, ornate. Its shaft carved with celestial scripture, its blade shaped like a comet's scream. Symbols flared along it, one after another, until the entire weapon glowed like a falling star held in divine hands.
"Subject Aeon-V-13," he said, tone flat. "Your classification has been changed."
"To what?"
"Aberrant Sovereign Candidate. Termination required."
I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
Because I remembered this.
Not here.
Not in this hall.
But in another life.
I'd stood on a mountaintop. Armor broken. Blood pooling at my boots. Lucien above me. His spear through my stomach.
He wept, then.
Said it was mercy.
Said I had to die so the world could live.
And I'd believed him.
Not this time.
"I don't want to fight you," I said.
He lifted the spear. The hall lit gold.
"You don't get to want things. You're not supposed to exist."
And then — he struck.
No warning. No countdown.
Just motion and light and pain.
I twisted to dodge, too slow, too human.
The blade pierced my side — clean, brutal. A sound tore from my throat as the heat of it ignited nerves I didn't know I had. Not fire. Not steel.
Purity.
That was what his weapon did. It burned everything unclean.
And in his eyes — I was filth.
My back hit the floor. I gritted my teeth, one hand on the wound. Golden light bled from it instead of blood, swirling upward in lazy spirals.
Lucien stood over me.
Expression unreadable.
"I knew you once," I whispered. "You were… my brother."
A twitch.
He froze.
"You said that before," I continued. "Last time. Right before you killed me."
"Lies," he said. "You're not the first to echo broken things."
"Then look in my eyes and tell me I'm not him."
He hesitated.
And that was all I needed.
I reached deep.
Not into my strength — I had none.
Not into the Rift — it still slept.
I reached into memory.
Aetherion the Sixth. The one who burned down the Celestial Spire.
Aetherion the Ninth. The one who forgave Lucien with his last breath.
They screamed through my veins.
I pushed my palm against the ground and released it.
A pulse.
Low. Violet-gold. Ancient.
The hall buckled.
Lucien stepped back — just a half-step. But his spear trembled.
The light around him dimmed.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"Remembered," I said through clenched teeth.
I rose, slowly.
Pain pulsed from the wound, but the light leaking from it had changed. It wasn't random now.
It flowed.
Moved.
Up my ribs, over my collarbone, across my throat.
Markings. Glyphs. A circuit map made of stars.
Lucien raised his spear again.
But I raised my hand.
Not to strike.
To catch it.
When he lunged, time slowed — not for him. For me.
I saw the curve of his blade. The angle of his foot. The tension in his wrist.
I knew where he would strike.
Because he had done it before.
Twelve times before.
This time — I caught the spear in my bare hand.
My skin hissed. Burned. Peeled.
But I held it.
And looked him in the eye.
"You're not the judge anymore," I said.
He stared at me. In shock. In denial.
And for the first time, I saw it — the fear.
Not of me.
Of what I might become.
"You're waking it," he said.
"No," I said, voice low. "It's waking me."
The golden light around his spear sputtered.
And from deep inside my chest, the Rift purred.
"Hello again, Sovereign."