The world didn't feel right when I woke the next morning.
It was like someone had swapped out my bones for glass copies—hollow, echoing, ready to shatter with the wrong move. My reflection in the basin confirmed it: a glimmer in the pupils that wasn't quite mine, faint aura whorls leaking from my skin in unpredictable rhythms.
The Grimoire lay half-open on my desk, humming like a lazy predator with a full belly. I didn't dare touch it.
Not yet.
My hands trembled as I laced my boots. Not from fear.
From absence.
There's a sort of gravity we all take for granted—the anchor of knowing who we are. After the ritual, mine had split. Cross. Drelmont. The shell and the soul. They circled each other now, like wolves unsure who deserved the kill.
I didn't know which part of me had chosen to wear this coat, slick my hair back, or smirk at the mirror. But I did it anyway. Habit, maybe.
Or performance.
The halls were quiet as I stepped into them. Too quiet.
That was the first warning.
