The door had not creaked.
It had sighed.
As though it had been waiting for Eleanor, exhaling in relief, in warning, or perhaps in quiet sorrow, as she stepped into the corridor lined with versions of herself.
Each reflection was a reality that had broken differently. One stood in regal armor, blood on her gauntlets and fire in her eyes. Another wept silently, hair tangled, skin burned. One stared lifelessly with a sword through her chest.
All of them looked at Eleanor as if she were the last one who might still survive.
And at the end of the hallway stood Halcyra.
She looked older, maybe eighteen. Her eyes were a darker hue of silver, hair streaked with shadows, and her presence carried the weight of someone who had seen far more than any version should.
She looked like someone who had seen it all. Battles, wars, redemption, love, hope, betrayal, just name it.
"You're late," she said again.
Eleanor swallowed. "Late for what?"
