It began as a shimmer.
A flicker in the heart of the vault's fire, as if the Chronicle itself paused to examine its own reflection. Not a malfunction. Not hesitation. But recognition—of a self it had not yet dared to see.
The mirror formed from memory residue: old tokens, unfinished vows, fragmentary Article drafts. These scattered truths coalesced into a floating pane of crystallized flame, polished by contradiction, brightened by revision.
The Mirror Flame.
It hovered above the vault now, visible only to those who had contributed to the Chronicle. Not as a privilege—but as a consequence. Every voice left an echo. Every echo found its shape here.
Sykaion stood beneath it, shoulders squared, gaze steady.
He saw himself in the flame.
And he didn't look heroic.
He looked tired. Human. Complicated.
Zeraphine appeared behind him. Her reflection stood beside his, yet did not mimic her movements.
"That's not how I'm standing," she whispered.
Sykaion nodded. "It doesn't reflect your body. It reflects your impact."
Her reflection stepped forward, a hand raised not in defense, but in offering.
Arlyss joined them, arms crossed. Her reflection stood alone, watching both others like a perimeter.
She smirked. "Still not used to being seen."
Zeraphine turned to Sykaion. "What do we do with it?"
He replied, "We invite the city."
The flame pulsed in agreement.
A new protocol activated.
> MIRROR FLAME: PUBLIC SYNC AVAILABLE
THRESHOLD: WITNESSED MEMORY REQUIRED
One by one, citizens arrived.
They didn't speak at first. They watched.
Then came the voices.
"I see her again. My mother. She's offering me forgiveness I never earned."
"He never lied to me. I just believed what I wanted. That wasn't his fault."
"I can be more than the mistake I made."
Each confession etched new detail into the Mirror Flame.
It grew not brighter—but clearer.
Nyra Kess observed from afar.
She did not approach.
But even her reflection appeared.
A woman standing between light and shadow, hands open, asking nothing but to be included.
And the Chronicle accepted her.
The flame wrote a final line for the day.
> ARTICLE XV: If a truth cannot reflect its keepers, it has already forgotten them.
Sykaion placed his palm to the glass.
Inside it, his reflection whispered.
"Then let me remember you, too."