The first night with the First Ring was… overwhelming.
Elior couldn't sleep.
Not because of noise. But because he could hear too much.
The heartbeat of a spider. The hum of streetlamps like whispering ghosts. The city pulsing like a living organism, every breath of it inside him.
And worse—
He could feel eyes.
Not just outside.
Inside.
Sometime past midnight, he stumbled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face.
The mirror stared back.
His reflection looked exhausted. Pale. But there was something else—
Movement.
A twitch.
The version of him in the mirror blinked a fraction too late.
Elior froze.
Then the reflection smiled.
He didn't.
The mirrored version raised a hand—the palm marked by the three rings, now glowing like firebrands. Its eyes darkened, flickering with silver veins.
And then it spoke.
Not aloud. But in his mind.
"You opened the First Ring.
But not everything that comes through is you."
Elior staggered back, breath hitching.
The image in the mirror warped—shifting between himself and something older. A face that looked like his, but wasn't. Sharper. Emptier.
"The flame is alive.
Feed it, or it feeds on you."
A crack spiderwebbed across the mirror.
When he blinked, the vision was gone.
Only his own wide-eyed reflection remained.
He didn't sleep.
Morning. Rain.
Elior sat by the window, the journal in hand, scanning the notes for anything—anything—about hallucinations or mirror images.
Nothing direct.
But one entry stood out:
"The First Ring awakens perception. Not all of it comes from within.
The flame draws echoes. Memories. Hungry things.
Some wear your face."
A knock on the door made him flinch.
Twice.
Not the postman. Too early. Too intentional.
He approached cautiously, hand over his palm.
Opened the door.
A young woman stood there, soaked in rain, wearing a black hoodie.
She didn't speak at first.
Just held up her arm.
The same three-ring mark burned faintly across her wrist.
"You've opened the first one," she said quietly. "That means you're almost out of time."