Cecilion rises.
Not by strength, not by will—but because the Fold wants him standing. Like a marionette strung to its own regrets, he is lifted by the weight of his failures. The blood-stained obsidian fragment still clutched in his hand begins to glow, reacting to the presence of the broken circle and the abomination that once wore Zixuan's face.
"Casper," he chokes, eyes flicking toward the shape behind her—the specter molded from sacrifice. It doesn't respond, but its many mouths twitch, murmuring half-remembered lullabies and ritual verses from the night the seal broke.
"You see them now," Not-Zixuan croons. "The parts you left behind. All the selves you buried. All the ones who remembered while you chose to forget."
Cecilion staggers back. The room distorts. The mirror is now a void, a pulsing eye gazing inward, drawing reality into itself. Every breath feels heavier, more aware, as though something beneath the floorboards of the world is crawling closer.
