The mirror did not lie.
Or at least—
It never used to.
Aric sat on the edge of a basin filled with cold water.
The room was dimly lit, the single candle casting long shadows against the stone walls.
Steam rose faintly from the water's surface.
His hands hovered above it.
Shaking.
He took a slow, steadying breath.
Then—
He looked.
The man in the water was not him.
Not anymore.
His hair was darker than he remembered.
Not black—something deeper, edged with streaks of shifting blue.
His eyes—
They were wrong.
Too sharp. Too bright.
Not just blue anymore, but pulsing with Rift-light.
Like they had been carved from the sky itself.
But the worst part—
The part that made his stomach clench with something cold and unfamiliar—
Was the way his reflection watched him.
Like it was aware.
Like it was waiting.
His breath came short, unsteady.
This wasn't just a dream.
This wasn't just a lingering effect of the Rift's power.
This was real.
And he had no idea if it would ever stop.
The mirror-Aric tilted his head.
A fraction of a second before he did.
Aric's body went rigid.
He reached toward the water—
His fingers hovering just above the surface.
His reflection did the same.
But as the tips of his fingers brushed the water—
The reflection smiled.
And Aric did not.
He jerked back.
Water splashed onto the floor.
His breath hitched.
The reflection was normal again.
Still wrong—but no longer smiling.
Still twisting in ways it shouldn't—
But silent once more.
A knock at the door.
Sharp. Urgent.
Then—
Lira's voice.
"Aric. Open the damn door."
----
Lira did not wait for an answer.
She pushed the door open without hesitation.
Her boots scuffed against the stone floor, her expression already sharp.
"You look like shit."
She closed the door behind her without looking away.
Aric let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh.
"I feel worse."
Her eyes flicked to the basin, to the water still rippling slightly.
Then, to him.
And she knew.
She always knew.
But she didn't ask.
Not about that.
Instead, she leaned against the table, arms crossed.
And said, "Kael's losing patience."
Aric sighed.
"That makes two of us."
"He's not wrong to be concerned."
Her voice was even, careful.
But beneath it—
There was something else.
Something he had never heard before.
Hesitation.
Not fear.
Not anger.
But something closer to doubt.
Doubt in him.
Aric stood, adjusting his cloak.
"What does he want?"
Lira exhaled.
"A decision. A plan. Something."
She paused.
"And to know if he's fighting for a man or something else."
Aric's jaw tightened.
Lira pushed off the table, stepping closer.
"I need to know too."
Her voice was lower now. Softer.
Not an accusation.
But not far from one.
She reached forward—fingers brushing against his wrist.
And for the briefest second—
She froze.
Because she felt it.
The heat beneath his skin.
The faint, thrumming energy.
The Rift's mark.
Her hand recoiled slightly.
Not in disgust.
But in uncertainty.
And that—
That hurt more than anything.
She didn't speak after that.
Not until she reached the door.
And when she did—
Her voice was low.
Unsteady.
But still Lira.
"If we lose you, I won't let you turn into one of them."
She glanced back.
"You know that, don't you?"
Aric's throat felt dry.
Because he did know.
And a part of him was grateful.
Because if it ever came to that—
He wouldn't want it any other way.
----
The whispers had grown louder.
Not just behind closed doors.
Not just in the shadows.
But in the streets.
In the open.
Aric walked through Eldermere's central square, cloak drawn tight.
The village was not the same.
It had been tense before.
But now—
It was breaking.
People avoided his gaze.
Some bowed their heads, whispering blessings.
Others turned away.
Some even crossed to the other side of the street rather than pass too close.
And then, there were the ones who didn't move at all.
Who stood and stared.
Not in fear.
Not in hate.
But in worship.
A woman—young, maybe no older than twenty—stepped forward suddenly.
"My lord."
Her voice trembled.
But not with fear.
With awe.
She fell to her knees.
And before he could react—
She pressed her forehead to the dirt.
"You are the chosen."
A murmur rippled through the onlookers.
A man—older, ragged from war—followed suit, dropping to one knee.
Then another.
And another.
Until nearly half the square knelt before him.
While the other half looked on in horror.
A boy's voice broke through the murmurs.
Sharp. Angry.
"He's not a king! He's a monster!"
A rock sailed through the air.
Struck the ground just near Aric's foot.
A boy—no older than twelve—stood in the crowd, breathing hard.
His eyes were red.
His face twisted in fury.
And Aric knew—
He had seen that same expression on the battlefield.
The boy didn't kneel.
He didn't worship.
He hated him.
And Aric...
For the first time in a long time—
Did not know how to fix this.
----
Aric could not sleep.
Not because of the Rift's hum in his skull.
Not because of the whispers outside his door.
But because of the pain.
His body was changing.
And now—it was trying to tear itself apart.
He gritted his teeth, gripping the edge of the wooden table in his chamber.
His fingers burned, nails digging into the splintered wood.
His veins pulsed, twisting under his skin like living things.
Every heartbeat sent a wave of heat through his chest—too much, too strong.
Like his own flesh was rejecting him.
He pulled back his sleeve.
And there—
Spreading up his forearm, across his wrist, curling toward his palm—
Were markings.
No scars.
Not bruises.
Sigils.
Deep black, edged with glowing silver-blue.
Lines and shapes he did not recognize, yet knew in his bones.
This was not an affliction.
This was a language.
And his body was speaking it.
"F*ck," he muttered under his breath.
The markings crawled higher.
Up his shoulder.
Across his chest.
They didn't hurt.
Not exactly.
But they felt wrong.
Like something beneath his skin was claiming him.
Like something inside him had already decided.
He exhaled shakily.
Then—
A knock at the door.
A sharp, single rap.
Then silence.
Aric's hand went to his sword instantly.
"Who is it?"
A pause.
Then—
A voice.
Rough. Quiet.
But not human.
"You already know."
----
The door creaked open.
And the figure who stepped inside—
Was not like the others.
He was tall.
Not unnaturally so—but enough to unsettle.
His hair was white, streaked with black at the tips.
His eyes—Rift-blue.
Not just similar to Aric's.
The exact same shade.
As if they had been cut from the same stone.
The man stopped a few paces away.
Hands folded behind his back.
Posture straight. Controlled.
He did not bow.
He did not kneel.
He simply watched.
Waiting.
Aric's fingers tightened around his sword hilt.
"Who are you?"
A small, amused smile.
"A servant."
The man inclined his head.
"A messenger."
A pause.
Then—
"A reminder."
Aric's grip did not relax.
"Of what?"
The man's eyes glowed faintly.
And when he spoke—
His voice was not just his own.
It was layered. Echoing.
Like the Rift itself was speaking through him.
"That you were never meant to stay here."
----
Silence.
The words hung in the air.
Heavy. Inevitable.
And Aric felt them settle into his bones.
"And if I refuse?"
His voice was steady. Even.
But inside—
He felt his heartbeat shift.
A slow, creeping pull.
Like the Rift had just turned its gaze toward him.
The man's expression did not change.
But his glow brightened.
Not aggressive.
Not threatening.
Just acknowledging.
Like he had expected the answer.
Like he had heard it before.
"You will not refuse."
The messenger stepped forward.
"Because you are already listening."
He tilted his head.
"Aren't you?"
Aric's jaw tightened.
Because he was right.
The Rift was in his mind.
Its whispers had faded into silence.
But its presence had not left.
It was waiting.
Watching.
Letting him decide.
"What do you want?" Aric asked, voice low.
The man's smile returned.
And this time—
It was not unkind.
"To prepare you."
A pause.
Then, the messenger reached into his cloak.
Pulled something small, wrapped in black silk.
And held it out.
"This is yours."
Aric hesitated.
Then—
Slowly—
He reached forward.
Fingers brushing against the fabric.
And the moment he touched it—
The Rift shuddered.
A vision slammed into his skull.
Flashes.
Memories.
A throne, wreathed in shadows.
A city of glass and bone.
A war that never ended.
And then—
A single word.
A name.
His name.
Spoken in a thousand voices.
"Aelthar."
The vision ripped away.
Aric stumbled back, gasping.
His body ached. Burned.
His veins glowed through his skin.
And the messenger—
Still stood there. Unmoved.
Watching.
"You remember now, don't you?"
The Riftborn's voice was gentle.
Patient.
Like he was welcoming an old friend home.
Aric's pulse pounded in his ears.
Because yes.
He did remember.
Not everything.
Not yet.
But enough.
Enough to know this man was right.
Enough to know he had a choice to make.
The Rift was waiting.
The village was breaking.
And Aric—
Had to decide what kind of king he was going to be.