The Gate Inside Me
Cuco hadn't spoken in hours.
He sat at the farthest edge of the broken Circle, a silhouette framed by the last glow of dying glyphs, the Rootbound Tome resting beside him like a breathing thing. It still pulsed faintly—soft waves of amber curling from its spine—but he dared not touch it again. Not yet.
Not after what it had shown him.
Not after what it woke.
There was a disturbance growing inside him. Subtle at first. Insidious.
His heartbeat slowed—too much, like something was winding him backward.
His shadow stretched longer than it should, even in still light.
And when he caught a glimpse of himself in a shard of broken mirror embedded in the Circle's shattered wall… his reflection blinked before he did.
It was Tariq who noticed it first.
He pulled Isabela aside, voice low with tension. "His eyes," he said, glancing back toward Cuco. "They used to flicker when the mark activated. Now… they glow constantly. Even when he's asleep."
Isa's brow furrowed. "He's stabilizing with the Tome. That's part of the process."
Tariq shook his head. "No. Stabilization is passive. He's not syncing with it anymore."
His gaze lingered on Cuco's still form.
"He's consuming it."
---
That night, Cuco dreamed.
But not of the forest. Not of monsters, or blood-soaked roots. Not even of the Hollow Ones.
Instead, there was a hallway.
Endless. Silent. Constructed entirely of mirrors.
He walked alone, barefoot on obsidian tile, the air thick with something that felt like memory. Each pane of glass reflected him—but not as he was.
One version bore eyes of living flame.
Another wept molten gold, laughing as the Circle collapsed in ash behind him.
One had no face at all.
And the final reflection—at the far end of the corridor—stepped forward and whispered:
> "The gate is not something you open.
The gate is what you become."
Cuco jolted awake, a cry caught in his throat.
His arm burned.
The mark—once a simple glyph on his hand—had spread. Now it climbed halfway to his shoulder, coiled in spiraling rings of light and vein. It pulsed in time with his heart, or perhaps replaced it.
He stumbled to the washbasin, splashing water on his face.
And when he looked up—
His reflection smiled.
He didn't.
---
Elsewhere in the sanctuary ruins, beneath the fractured sigils and crumbled stone, Isabela stood before the remaining Dreamers.
Her voice was calm, but her hands didn't stop moving—tightening the straps of her blade, adjusting her stance.
"Cuco's changing," she said. "Faster than anyone we've seen. Faster than anyone should."
Nox leaned against a fallen pillar, arms crossed, her knives catching the candlelight. "What if he's not Cuco anymore?"
Tariq spoke before the silence could stretch too far. "He is," he said. "For now."
Nox's eyes narrowed. "Then we're running out of time."
They all turned to look across the chamber—at Cuco, seated in the shadows. The Tome at his feet. His fingers twitching. His gaze unreadable.
Not tired.
Not afraid.
Just… waiting.
"Whatever's happening," Nox murmured, "he's not just holding back the gate."
She stared a moment longer.
"He is the key."