Kaelith didn't remember walking out.
One moment she was standing over him, his head bowed, the space between them trembling with silence—and the next, she was alone in the corridor, the steel door of Cell 77 shut behind her, the keypad glowing dimly like an afterthought. Her palms were cold. Too cold. As if the heat from Saevus's skin had drained something from her that hadn't been hers to begin with.
The relic burned through the fabric of her blouse.
It had never done that before.
She walked quickly, turning down the long west corridor with a precision that felt reflexive rather than conscious. A nurse passed her, said something she didn't register. Her own name, maybe. She didn't stop. She needed to be somewhere no one could follow. Somewhere the walls didn't press so tightly.
Her office.
The door closed behind her with a dull thud.
The moment she was alone, she tore open her collar. The chain came free. The relic swung loose against her skin.
It was searing.
Small, round, deceptively simple. But now it glowed faintly at the edges, as if light were trying to escape through cracks too narrow for the human eye. Her fingers trembled as she touched it. It felt alive. And angry.
She pulled it off.
Dropped it onto her desk blotter like it had bitten her.
It didn't cool.
Instead, it pulsed.
Once.
Then again.
Kaelith stared, breath shallow.
She didn't know what compelled her to do it. Maybe it was madness. Maybe something worse. But she reached for the drawer beside her—one she hadn't opened in years—and pulled out a scalpel. Clean. Stainless steel. The kind kept in surgical kits, never used outside emergencies.
She didn't hesitate.
She cut into her palm.
Not deep. Just enough.
Blood welled.
The relic responded.
A pulse. Stronger.
Then it rolled—moved on its own—toward her outstretched hand. It stopped when it touched the blood.
And the moment it did, the pain changed.
Not sharper. Not duller.
Just deeper.
Like something crawling through her nerves, whispering in a language she didn't speak but had once known by heart.
She staggered back.
The mirror above the sink caught her movement.
She glanced up—
—and froze.
Her reflection didn't match her.
Not exactly.
Same posture. Same clothes.
But the eyes were wrong.
Too dark. Too still.
The woman in the mirror raised her hand an instant before Kaelith did.
And on that hand—drawn in blood—was the slit sun.
Kaelith hadn't drawn it.
But it was there.
She stepped closer.
Her reflection didn't.
It stayed still.
As if waiting.
Kaelith reached out slowly.
And for a second—just a second—she saw someone else standing behind the glass. A flash of white. A child. Barefoot. Holding a candle.
Then gone.
She blinked.
Nothing.
Just her face again.
Drawn. Pale. Eyes wide.
A knock at the door shattered the silence.
Kaelith whirled around.
"Dr. Nyraen?"
It was Mills. The night guard.
She didn't answer.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "Didn't mean to interrupt. Just… Patient 77 requested another session."
Her breath hitched.
She stared at the closed door.
"Now?" she asked, voice hoarse.
"Yeah. Said it was urgent. Said you'd understand."
She closed her eyes.
Of course he did.
Of course he knew.
Kaelith grabbed a tissue, pressed it to her palm. The cut was already clotting, the pain already gone. But her skin still tingled. Her chest still ached. And her throat—
—it felt like it was trying to speak something that wasn't a word.
She stood.
Didn't take the relic.
Didn't need to.
It would follow.
She left the room without another glance at the mirror.
And behind her, the relic pulsed again.
Once.
Then again.
And again.
As if it was remembering her name.