They stood at the edge of the mirror.
A sky laid bare—wide and fractured—where time bled like ink through cracks too old to seal. The ash beneath their boots had stilled. The ghosts had vanished. Yet their presence lingered in the quiet that followed. Every breath felt thinner now. Not from lack of air. But from the pressure.
Leon stepped forward.
The mirror rippled.
He saw himself—not young nor old—but worn.
Tired. A sword in one hand. A child's hand in the other. He blinked. The image vanished.
Behind him, Elena's fire rose, bright as dawn. Her gaze fixed not on the sky, but the figures now forming in the distance.
They began to descend.
Ten shapes. Towering. Shifting. Robed in flame and power. They were not gods. Neither were they men. But something that once stood in between. They bore no weapons. No faces. Only crowns of broken metal, and on each chest, a seal. Seven burned gold.
The eighth—a hollow brand, pulsing faint.
"They are the Vowed," Elena whispered.
