The stormglass visions still echoed across the chamber walls, fading slowly like lightning scars in the sky.
Two Arans.
One wreathed in golden fire, eyes burning with defiance.
The other cloaked in stormlight, calm, cold, eyes empty of mercy.
Aran stared at the image long after it vanished. "That... wasn't a metaphor, was it?"
"No," the Oracle replied. "It was memory. And warning."
The council murmured among themselves, but none stepped forward. It was not their place. Not yet.
Elira's voice was low, uncertain. "What does it mean? A reflection? A twin?"
The Oracle descended the dais, her bare feet sparking against the marble as she approached Aran. "Not a twin. A fragment. Torn from you the night you first touched the Oathbrand. When Elira gave you her vow, you chose fire—but fate demanded balance."
She paused, then touched Aran's chest with a hand humming with power.
"A piece of you was cast into the storm. A second self, shaped by what you did not become. Now, that self rises. Stronger. Colder. And it walks the world as if it owns it."
Aran backed away, fury and disbelief crashing through him. "You're saying I made this? That this version of me is my fault?"
"You didn't create him," the Oracle said gently.
"You."