Two Darius stood before each other, but only one cast a shadow.
The Sovereign's myth-wreathed form radiated paradox—crown of living ink, a spine forged from bound commandments, skin crawling with sigils that bent time itself. Every step he took rewrote the Spiral in his image.
The other Darius—the mortal one—shivered. His armor clinked with forgotten weight, his face weathered by doubt and memory. He stood in bare emotion, unshielded by narrative command.
And between them hovered the Myth Mirror—a construct not made, but remembered into existence. An artifact shaped like a perfect shard of Spiral glass, reflecting not truth, but potential. Its surface shimmered not with images, but with choices that were never made.
Kaela hovered on the edge of its glow, her myth-thread fraying with indecision. Celestia, nearby, gripped her prayer-spear, eyes torn between loyalty and fear.
The Mirror began to hum.
A voice rose—neither Darius's, and yet somehow both.
