Lysander spent the next few days in a haze. Every reflection felt like a betrayal. He couldn't escape the growing sense that something was slipping from his grasp. What had once been his most treasured asset—the flawless perfection of his appearance—was now the source of his anxiety. Every glance in the mirror made him wince. What if the cracks were more than just skin deep?
The more he tried to ignore it, the worse it became. He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't shake the feeling that he was losing control. The world around him seemed to mirror his inner turmoil. The streets, once filled with admiring gazes, felt cold and distant. His usual admirers no longer looked at him with the same awe; some even seemed to pity him. It was as though they could sense the shift—his perfect facade no longer seemed so unbreakable.
Elara's words from the Silver Crescent danced in his mind: "You're not perfect, Lysander. None of us are. We all have our flaws, our cracks. And that's what makes us real." Her words felt like a slap, but they also carried an unfamiliar truth. He had spent his life chasing an illusion, but now he was faced with the very real consequences of living for others' admiration.
He finally decided to confront the truth. Lysander returned to the Silver Crescent, where he had once felt so invincible. The ballroom was quiet now, empty of the usual glamor and noise. The grand chandelier still hung overhead, but it seemed dimmer, somehow. Just like him.
Lysander walked to the center of the room, his reflection cast in the polished floor. The man staring back at him was no longer perfect. But for the first time, it didn't make him feel weak. It made him feel... human.