Chapter 13 – The First Attempt

Chapter 13 – The First Attempt

The night was colder than usual.

Isabelle stood alone in the circle she had drawn with salt, chalk, and trembling hands. Her room—once a cozy sanctuary—was now shrouded in candlelight and shadow. Every object felt like it was watching her, holding its breath.

She had spent days studying the fragments of her dreams, piecing together sigils and names that surfaced in whispers at the edge of sleep. And tonight, with the help of a mirror older than her own memories, she would try to break the cycle.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

The incantation on the page was written in no known language, but her soul recognized it. Her voice trembled at first, but as she repeated the words, something ancient began to stir in the corners of the room.

The flame of each candle leaned inward.

The mirror in front of her fogged over from within, as if something—someone—was breathing on the other side.

"Show me," she whispered. "Let me see the truth."

The mirror shimmered. A faint glow emerged from its surface, forming hazy shapes: a field of dying flowers, a woman in red walking away, and a man falling to his knees in bloodied snow.

Memories.

They flooded her mind with such intensity that she screamed. Not from pain—but from the unbearable weight of knowing.

Then the circle broke.

A sudden gust of wind shattered three candles and blew salt from the floor. Isabelle staggered backward as the mirror cracked—but did not break. Instead, it pulsed. Alive. Hungry.

And it retaliated.

Pain lanced through her temples. She clutched her head as the visions turned violent—burning walls, drowning water, a child's voice calling her name and then… silence.

When she awoke, it was morning.

The mirror was intact, but her notes were scorched. She touched her forehead, only to feel dried blood where she must have hit something on the way down.

Worse than the physical pain was the void.

Some memories—crucial ones—were gone. Faces she had just seen, names she had repeated in the ritual—they were slipping away like dreams at dawn.

For the first time in weeks, she cried.

Not from fear. Not from exhaustion.

But from the gut-wrenching realization: the cycle fought back.

And it had won the first round.