The morning after the Trial broke like wet glass—clouded, sharp, and too bright.
Alpha walked ahead, but something inside him lagged behind.
The boy said nothing. Just trailed him, eyes darting every time Vanitas pulsed in Alpha's grip like a heartbeat trying to sync with something older.
They left the Gate behind.
But the Gate didn't let go.
That night, when the boy slept, Alpha stayed awake, back to the fire, blade unsheathed.
Not because of monsters.
Because of mirrors.
Every time he blinked, he saw himself in the reflection of Vanitas—but sometimes… not quite himself.
Eyes a shade darker.
Smile a degree too wide.
And once, briefly, lips that moved independently.
"You should've stayed," the reflection whispered.
Alpha flinched.
The blade returned to silence.
They met her again two days later.
Selene stood by a broken statue of an old Elarian god, one hand pressed to its ruined eyes.
She didn't turn as they approached.
"You saw her, didn't you?"
Alpha didn't ask how she knew.
He just nodded.
Selene finally turned. Her expression wasn't amused this time.
"She was your echo."
"My what?"
"A remnant. A ghost of who you were supposed to be. Before the sword took hold."
Alpha tensed. "You knew what the Trial would show me."
"I remember what it showed me," she said quietly.
For the first time, Alpha saw her without the mask of mystery.
She looked tired.
Older.
Like she'd been fighting something inside her longer than most people lived.
"There have been others," Selene said, eyes on the road, voice like dry parchment.
"Not many."
"Not enough."
Alpha waited.
She went on.
"Vanitas doesn't choose the strongest. It chooses the most fragmented. Those with something sharp buried in their soul. Something willing to bleed to hold power."
Alpha glanced down at the blade.
It looked still. For now.
"They all take the Trial," Selene said. "But most don't come back. Or if they do, something else comes with them."
Alpha's pulse stuttered.
"What happens to the ones who don't survive?"
She looked at him then. Really looked.
And said, "They keep walking."
That night, the wind died.
No insects. No birds. Not even fire crackle.
Just silence.
Too heavy.
Too complete.
Alpha woke with the boy clutching his shoulder, trembling. "Someone's out there."
Alpha rose.
Sword ready.
And saw a figure on the path ahead.
Familiar gait.
Familiar armor.
His armor.
The boy whispered, "Alpha…"
But Alpha didn't move.
The figure stepped closer.
It was him.
But… not.
Its eyes were black pits, burning faintly blue at the edges.
Its mouth was stitched shut.
Vanitas glimmered in its hand—but warped, like it was forged of glass and bone and memory.
It stared.
Then raised the blade to its throat.
And cut.
No blood.
Just darkness pouring out like smoke.
The boy screamed.
Alpha stepped in front of him.
The figure smiled with eyes only.
And spoke—in his voice.
"You left me there."
"You didn't bury me. You wore me."
"And now I want it back."
The wind returned all at once, howling like a scream between broken buildings.
The Hollow was gone.
But the boy's scream wasn't.
Neither was the blood on the blade.
They didn't rest after the Hollow appeared. Alpha didn't speak, and the boy didn't ask.
But the sword felt heavier now.
Not in weight.
In presence.
Like something had crawled closer to the surface. Something with his face—but no soul behind the eyes.
When Selene found them again, she didn't ask what happened.
She only said, "You saw him."
Alpha nodded once. "The Hollow."
Selene's face hardened. "No. Not just a Hollow. Your Echo."
They sat around a low flame in an abandoned watchtower, the boy sleeping wrapped in Alpha's coat. The stars overhead felt wrong—like one of them had been replaced and no one had noticed.
Selene poured dust from a small vial into the fire. It flared indigo, casting long shadows.
"In the earliest days of Vanitas, there were two who held it together," she said. "Brothers. Twins. Not by blood—but by fate. Two souls linked by the blade's curse."
"Two?" Alpha frowned. "How?"
"The sword isn't meant for a person," she said. "It's meant for a paradox."
The flame flickered.
"Light and shadow. Flesh and memory. Will and fear. When one wields Vanitas, the sword carves the soul in half. The half that cannot carry the burden is cut away."
"And it becomes the Echo," Alpha whispered.
Selene nodded. "Yes. And if the wielder is weak… the Echo survives."
Selene reached into her cloak and withdrew a small, blackened shard. It pulsed dimly, like a heartbeat.
"This is what remains of the last Echo I faced," she said. "He wore my voice. My memories. But none of my mercy."
Alpha took the shard. It was cold. Cold like an old grave.
"There's only one way to stay real," Selene said, voice quiet. "One way to make the blade believe you're you."
He looked at her. "The Rite?"
She nodded.
"Speak your name. Kill the one who answers in your voice."
Alpha said nothing.
Selene continued, "But the Rite is unstable. If the Echo believes it's the true one, it can turn the blade against you. Then you become the hollowed. A copy thinking it's the original."
Alpha tightened his grip on Vanitas.
The blade pulsed once.
Cold.
Amused.
That night, Alpha dreamed in mirrors.
He walked endless corridors of reflections, each showing a version of himself—
– one in chains, screaming.
– one laughing while covered in blood.
– one holding the boy by the throat.
And in every single one, Vanitas gleamed. But the wielder's eyes were wrong.
Except for the final mirror.
That one just stared back.
Expression calm. Empty.
Until it blinked—and Alpha didn't.
"You've borrowed long enough," it whispered.
"It's my turn."
Then the mirror cracked.
Alpha woke with blood in his nose. The boy was asleep.
But something was wrong.
The fire was out.
And someone was humming nearby.
A tune only he should know.
Alpha stood. Turned.
Saw himself, sitting cross-legged on a stone. Smiling.
"You remember this song?" the Echo asked, tilting its head. "Mother used to hum it. Oh wait—was that me?"
Alpha didn't draw Vanitas.
Yet.
"You're not real."
The Echo's smile widened.
"Neither are you."
The Rite began when he spoke his name.
Not out loud.Not with his lips.But with conviction.
"I am Alpha."
And the world answered back with laughter.His laughter.
The ground beneath him cracked open like shattered glass.The stars blinked out one by one.And when the dark swallowed the sky, he was already falling.
He landed in a place made of mirrors.But none of them reflected him.
They showed memories.Distorted.Wrong.
He stood in a burned house.
His house.
But the boy at the table didn't look like him—not exactly.
His eyes were sunken. His hands twitched, like something crawled under the skin. He was humming again.
"You kept the name," the Echo said, not looking up. "Nice. I kept the pain."
Alpha didn't speak.
He knew this wasn't real.
But he could feel the warmth of the table.
Smell the old wood.
Hear the flies buzzing around something dead in the next room.
"You think you're the one holding the sword," the Echo said, rising. "But I remember everything. Do you?"
The world rippled.
Suddenly, Alpha was back in the battlefield outside Elaris. Only… it wasn't.
Bodies littered the field—but they all wore his face.
He turned—and the boy stood there.
Burned.
Sobbing.
"Why didn't you protect me?"
"I—this didn't happen," Alpha muttered.
"You let me die."
"No."
"You watched."
The boy's face split, revealing the Echo underneath—smiling.
"You see?" it said. "You don't even remember what's real anymore."
Vanitas was in his hand.
But another Vanitas hovered above the Echo's palm—identical.
Alpha backed away. "That sword is mine."
"Then take it," the Echo said.
They charged.
Blades collided.
But this wasn't steel on steel.
It was mind on mind.Will on will.
Each strike showed Alpha something worse.
A memory twisted.A thought he had tried to forget.His own fears weaponized.
He saw himself abandoning the boy.He saw Selene dead by his blade.He saw himself kneeling, offering Vanitas to a figure cloaked in shadows that whispered,
"You are the copy. You always were."
Alpha faltered.Sweat rolled down his neck.Vanitas pulsed, but now… it felt cold. Confused.
"Even the sword doesn't know anymore," the Echo sneered.
Alpha dropped to a knee.
"I am Alpha," he whispered again.
But this time, the Echo whispered it too.
And it sounded more convincing.
They clashed again. The Echo's blade cut deeper—not through flesh, but through memory.
Through certainty.
Through self.
And then, they stood locked—face to face, eyes burning.
"Who are you?" the Echo hissed.
"I—I don't know anymore."
The world pulsed.
The mirrored world began to collapse.
One of them would remain.
One would shatter.
Vanitas howled.