The space around Keal held its breath. The voice did not speak at first. It watched—if such a thing could be said of something without eyes, form, or substance. A presence pressed inward like smoke, curling between the atoms of the Fold.
Keal waited. The air tasted like ash and memory.
Finally, the voice spoke again.
"Most mortals do not ask questions. They beg. They plead. They demand. You ask. That makes you different. Dangerous."
"I’ve earned the right to ask," Keal said.
"Perhaps you have," the voice murmured, contemplative. "And perhaps it is time you understand what I am."
The shadows deepened. A shimmer rippled across the fractured Fold, and suddenly Keal stood in a mirrored corridor—each wall a reflection of his face, twisted slightly differently. In one, his eyes glowed. In
