The mirror shard pulsed faintly, as if it had its own heartbeat.
It called to him—not like a voice, but a pressure, low and rhythmic, pulling at his thoughts. Cecilion knelt slowly, reaching again, hesitant. But he knew… he couldn't leave it untouched. Not now.
Fingers brushed the edge.
The moment he made contact, the forest vanished.
He was somewhere else.
Time unraveled. Air turned thick. Cecilion stood in a place that defied definition—part ruin, part cathedral, part dream. The stone floor beneath him was carved with spirals and jagged glyphs. They glowed softly like embers under ash. Everything shimmered, unstable, like it might blink out of existence if he moved too quickly.
Before him, the circle.
He remembered it now—not as clearly as he wanted, but enough to freeze the breath in his lungs.
