The Glass Flats stretched like a broken mirror under a bruised copper sky. Every step Farren took reflected twice: once in the sand, once in the air. He saw two Cherinas—one pale and fading, one glowing with violet light. Sable growled at his own reflection; it growled back, eyes burning red.
"Rift-echoes," Farren muttered, voice low. "Stay close, Cheri."
They walked. Each bootfall cracked the mirror-sand, revealing circuitry beneath—pre-Rift wiring fused with living crystal veins. Cherina's voice returned in fragments, carried on the wind: "They put a song in me… it wants to sing the world apart." Her hand trembled in his.
Farren found an Old World relay tower half-buried in the dunes, its dish still spinning like a dying insect. Inside, a terminal flickered with pre-Rift ads—smiling families drinking soda, laughing in a world that never knew the Rift. Lies. He hacked it with Sable's claws—lynx instinct guiding code through the interface.
A map downloaded in stuttering glyphs: The Serpent-Coil's Lair—a mobile fortress crawling the Wastes on treads of fused serpents. Final destination: the Rift Scar, a canyon where magic bled raw and the sky wept lightning.
But the terminal glitched. A voice—not Mara's, not human—spoke through static:
"Farren Vale. Your father's murderer wears your face."
The screen flickered. A man appeared in Farren's duster, same molten-gold lynx eyes, but older. A scar ran across his throat like a zipper. He smiled.
Cherina touched the glass with shaking fingers. "That's… you?"
Farren's fist smashed the screen. Glass rained like silver tears.
"No," he snarled. "That's what they'll make me if I fail."
Night fell hard. The reflections rose from the sand—ghost-Farrens, ghost-Sables, ghost-Cherinas. They moved with jerky, wrong grace. One ghost-Farren drew a plasma sword that bled black light. Another raised a revolver loaded with silence.
Farren fought his own shadow. The revolver barked—three shots, three ghosts dissolved into code. The plasma sword screamed as it carved through a ghost-Sable, its claws raking his duster. Each kill left a scar on his soul—literal burns across his chest.
Sable took a hit. A plasma claw tore through the lynx's flank. Farren screamed; pain shared through the bond. He dropped to his knees, pressed the sword's edge to the wound. The blade cauterized it with a hiss of steam and fur.
They fled into a sandstorm of memories. Arcturus teaching sword forms under the Citadel's golden sun. Cherina laughing in the garden, chasing condor feathers. The storm tried to drown them in the past—warm, safe, gone.
Farren carved a path with willpower and lynx fury. The plasma sword's runes flared: REMEMBER. They emerged at the edge of the Flats. The relay tower stood behind them like a skeleton, dish still spinning.
The jackal tooth pendant from Kael glowed faintly against Farren's chest. Time was running out. Cherina's song hummed beneath her skin, growing louder.
Farren reloaded the revolver with shaking hands. Only two rune-bullets left. He etched TRUTH on one with his thumbnail.
They walked into the dark. The mirrors watched.