The chamber breathed like a wound.
Silver light bled from the runed pillars, painting their faces pale. The cracked mirror-floor reflected them twice—once as they were, and once as the world feared they would become. At the center, the Magister’s mouthpiece waited, serene as a priest, his silver circlet pulsing softly, as if every heartbeat belonged to him.
“You broke my Lattice,” he said again, voice soft but threaded with command. “Now the world must balance. Debt demands to be paid.”
And the illusions rose.
---
The Illusions Take Shape
Bran stood first, his knife steady, his mouth twisted in pain and accusation. Then Tarin, grinning with betrayal, stepping forward as though he had never fallen. Dominic’s brother rose next, his hollow eyes fixed on Dom, blaming. Kael’s reflection a
