It began with footsteps.
Not Riftborn screeches or tectonic tremors—but just… footsteps. Bare. Slow. Deliberate.
Valen was the first to sense them.
He sat in the corner of the sanctuary infirmary, his right hand bandaged and blackened from the Rift-seared wound left by Xarion. He hadn't slept in over thirty hours, and his skin itched from the Echo backlash, but his eyes were sharp. Focused. Waiting.
Then the air shifted.
Kira entered moments later, her expression unreadable. Behind her walked a stranger—cloaked in dirt-stained rebel gear, body half-burned, but upright. Eyes like dry lightning. Hollow. He didn't ask for food. He didn't ask for help. He just spoke.
"I came from the east cell. We're the last of them."
Valen stood, silent. His presence filled the room like a shadow folding into form.
"What happened?" he asked.
The man looked up.
"We had a Valen too. Strong. Cold. We called him the Bastion."
A pause.
"But he took the Eye."
The room went still.
Kira frowned. "The Eye? What do you mean?"
The man's voice cracked, just once. "It appeared to him, just like they said it would. A gateway. A promise. He said he could end the Rift forever if he accepted. Said we didn't have the right to choose anymore. He… changed after that."
Valen stepped forward. "Changed how?"
The survivor's lips trembled.
"He stopped fighting the Rift. Started becoming it."
Silence.
Then the man looked Valen directly in the eye. "He looked like you. Talked like you. But he wasn't you anymore. And now our city's dust."
It hit the room like a hammer.
Murmurs rippled. Even the most loyal rebels—those Valen had bled beside—wavered. Some stepped back. Some didn't meet his gaze.
Kira said nothing. But she didn't stop them either.
Valen walked past them all without a word.
He needed air.
But what he found was something else.
The Mirror Chamber.
It wasn't built—it had always been there, deep in the bones of the sanctuary. A forgotten ruin from before the world cracked, now unearthed by the tremors from Xarion's arrival. A domed chamber of silver and stone, the walls warped like liquid glass, reflecting not just the body—but the soul.
He stepped inside alone.
The door sealed behind him.
No footsteps echoed here. No voices. Just him and the mirrored walls, curving upward like a hollowed-out heart. The glass pulsed faintly with Rift energy.
And then it twisted.
From the far wall, his reflection moved.
Not in sync.
Not him.
The other version stepped out of the mirror with eerie calm. Same face. Same scars. Same fire in the eyes—but wrong. Too composed. Too quiet.
"You saw it too," Valen said.
The reflection nodded. "I accepted it."
Valen tightened his fists. "You let the Rift consume you."
"I became what this world needed," the reflection replied. "I stopped bleeding for everyone who refused to understand. I stopped hesitating."
"You became a monster."
"I became a solution."
The real Valen stepped forward, his boots grinding against the cracked stone. "How many did you kill?"
The other version tilted his head. "How many did you fail to save?"
The question lingered.
And cut deep.
The mirrored Valen walked in a slow circle around him. "We were the same once. But I saw what the Eye truly offered. Clarity. Order. Purpose. You think you're better because you cling to your guilt like a badge. But the Rift isn't the enemy, Valen. It's the next step."
Valen turned to face him fully, hands trembling—not from fear, but fury. "You're not me. You're what I'd become if I gave up."
The other Valen smiled. "You're wrong. I'm what you're becoming."
Then he attacked.
No weapons.
Just raw Echo warped by Rift.
The chamber erupted.
Dark fire lashed across the mirrored walls, reflections shattering into a kaleidoscope of nightmare images—hundreds of broken Valens screaming in silence. The corrupted version moved fast, faster than any Riftborn. He struck with memories—fragments of guilt, visions of Kira dying, of Lira burning, of the old world crumbling all over again.
Valen staggered.
Each blow wasn't physical—it was emotional. Personal.
"You're not strong enough," the reflection whispered. "You're not ready. You're afraid."
Valen dropped to one knee.
The Rift inside him pulsed.
The Eye burned just beyond his thoughts.
He clenched his jaw.
And stood.
"Maybe I am afraid," he said. "But I haven't given up."
He reached inside—not for more power, but for anchor.
The face of his mother as she placed his hand on the emergency door before the fall.
The feel of Lira's small fingers grasping his wrist after she collapsed in the Hollow ambush.
Kira's voice, defiant, when she refused to leave him in the burning wreckage.
I am still me.
Valen's Echo roared back to life.
He lashed forward, not with vengeance—but with resolve.
The reflection tried to strike again.
But Valen grabbed his arm mid-swing—and crushed it.
The illusion flickered.
The monster hissed, eyes burning white. "You'll lose everything."
Valen drove his fist through its chest.
"Then I'll lose it on my terms."
The reflection shattered.
Glass exploded outward, raining down like memory shards. The chamber went still. The Rift energy faded.
Valen stood alone, panting, blood running from his brow.
But he was still whole.
Still Valen.
He emerged from the Mirror Chamber in silence. The rebels were waiting.
They didn't speak.
Not yet.
But something in their eyes had changed.
Not doubt.
Not fear.
Respect.
Kira walked beside him as he passed, her voice low but steady. "What did you see in there?"
Valen didn't answer immediately.
He looked out at the distant sky, where a pulse of Rift shimmered faintly, almost like a heartbeat.
"I saw what I could become," he said.
"And?"
"I made my choice."
He kept walking.
Behind him, the storm loomed.
But this time, it didn't feel like the end.
It felt like the beginning.