Chapter 19: The Veil Cracks

The air in the manor had thickened, as though the walls themselves had grown lungs and begun to breathe, slow, heavy, with a dampness that clung to Elara's skin like invisible cobwebs. Every step she took deeper into the west wing echoed like a scream caught in stone. The shard of obsidian pulsed faintly within the pouch at her side, not with light, but with something older, something sentient.

She couldn't shake the thought that it was watching her.

No, not just watching.

Calling.

The hall stretched longer than it ever had before. Mirrors lined both sides, but the glass was warped, twisting her reflection into grotesque parodies of herself. In one, her mouth was sewn shut; in another, her eyes bled ink. And in the center of every distorted Elara… the obsidian shard floated just above her chest, as if trying to burrow in.

She tried to look away, but her feet moved toward the last door at the end of the hallway, the door Veylan had forbidden her to open.

The one painted black, bolted with silver latches that shimmered unnaturally even in the dim light.

Something moved behind the door.

"Elara…"

The voice wasn't spoken aloud, it hissed inside her head, silky and insidious. It wasn't Veylan's voice. It was hers.

A version of her that had been locked away.

She unlatched the first bolt. It slid open with a sound like bones being snapped out of place. The second took more effort; it resisted, as if the door itself feared what lay behind.

The final bolt came free with a shriek that echoed down the endless hallway.

The door swung open.

The room beyond was circular, carved entirely from dark stone, obsidian like the shard, but pulsing with ancient veins of silver that throbbed faintly, like the walls were alive. Chains hung from the ceiling. Not rusted. Fresh. Some still glistened with something too thick and red to be water.

In the center of the room was a pedestal.

And on it, resting as if it had always been there, was a mirror.

But this wasn't the Mirror Cloak she'd seen Veylan wrap himself in. This was older. Bigger. Shaped like an eye, and the moment she stepped inside, it blinked.

Elara staggered back.

The shard leapt from her pouch, hovering mid-air like a bird freed from its cage. It spun once. Twice.

Then slammed into the mirror.

There was no shattering, no explosion, only silence, followed by a deep hum as the mirror rippled and cleared.

She saw herself.

But not this Elara.

This Elara wore a crown made of bone and ash. Her eyes were voids, bottomless, and her lips curled in a smile that was anything but kind.

"Welcome back," the reflection whispered. "I've been waiting."

Elara's knees buckled. The room shifted, and suddenly, she wasn't standing anymore. She was falling.

—

She landed in a field soaked in twilight, where the stars bled and the moon dripped shadows. The wind carried whispers that weren't made by mouths.

This was memory.

No—not memory. Recollection.

In the distance, a younger Elara—no more than sixteen—walked toward an obsidian monolith. Behind her, the world burned. Screams, war cries, thunder.

A thousand souls being torn from their bodies.

This was before she became Elara.

This was who she had been.

And she was walking willingly into the fire.

"Stop," Elara called out, her voice hollow in the vastness of this place.

The girl didn't pause.

When she reached the monolith, the shard floated out of her chest and embedded itself into the stone.

And then everything screamed.

Reality tore like paper. The sky cracked, spilling something black and sticky onto the ground. From the abyss rose Veylan—not the man she knew, but something wearing his face. Something ancient and hungry.

He turned toward the younger Elara.

"Do you accept the Binding?"

And she said, "I already have."

The ground split. Chains erupted, wrapping around the girl's wrists and ankles, pulling her into the monolith. She didn't fight. She smiled.

"I remember now," Elara whispered, trembling.

This was the moment she gave herself to the Mirror Cloak.

This was the life before the transmigration.

—

When she woke, she was on the stone floor of the circular room again. But something was wrong.

The pedestal was gone.

The mirror shattered.

And the chains were moving.

They slithered along the floor like snakes, coiling toward her. One of them wrapped around her ankle before she could react, dragging her forward. She kicked, screamed—but another chain caught her wrist, then another. They dragged her toward the shattered mirror.

And from within its broken reflection, something was coming through.

A hand—black, with silver veins.

Then an arm.

Then a face.

It was hers.

But not her.

"I told you," the other Elara purred, "you were only ever half awake."

She clawed her way out of the mirror with impossible grace, standing tall over the chained Elara.

"You thought transmigration made you special? That you were chosen?" She laughed. "You chose this. You sought power. You made a deal with the Obsidian Gate, and now… it's time to pay."

Elara screamed as the mirror exploded, shards burying into her skin. The pain was fire—but also clarity. She saw it all now:

The first life.

The betrayal.

The ritual.

The mirror wasn't just a conduit.

It was a prison.

And she had been the jailer.

Now the prisoner was free.

The mirror-Elara leaned in close, her breath ice against Elara's ear.

"Veylan was only the beginning. You opened the door. Now… we walk through it."

Then she vanished into smoke.

The chains uncoiled, dropping Elara to the floor.

But the damage was done.

She felt it inside her.

A seed of something monstrous, blooming.

—

The house groaned.

Walls cracked. Paint bled. Whispers rose from every corner.

She stumbled into the hallway, covered in cuts, eyes wide with terror. The mirrors reflected not her, but a thousand versions of her—all screaming. All trying to claw their way out.

In the distance, someone called her name.

"Elara!"

It was Liraen.

She ran toward the sound, desperate. The walls melted behind her, rooms folding in on themselves.

When she burst into the atrium, she found Liraen crouched beside something.

A body.

Veylan.

But not breathing.

His chest had been ripped open—nothing surgical. Brutal. Ritualistic.

Carved into his skin were symbols—some she recognized from the monolith.

Others she didn't want to understand.

"I tried to stop him," Liraen whispered. "He was going to open it. All of it."

Elara collapsed beside the corpse, trembling. The obsidian shard had fused with his ribcage. It pulsed faintly. Still alive.

Still waiting.

Liraen grabbed her by the shoulders.

"We have to leave. Now. This place is no longer bound."

"No," Elara said quietly.

"It's over."

Elara stood slowly, something terrible flickering in her eyes.

"No, Liraen. It's just beginning."

From the corner of the room, something creaked.

The door to the west wing swung open again—on its own.

A whisper echoed from within.

"Elara…"

This time, she didn't run.

This time, she stepped forward.

Smiling.