By IMERPUS RELUR
--
There were no doors.
There never had been.
Imer stood inside a chamber without walls, yet somehow, it enclosed him completely. Time did not pass here—it rotated. Like an eye, blinking sideways.
A mirror hovered before him. Not glass. Not metal. It reflected nothing.
It waited.
He raised his hand, and the mirror breathed.
It didn't show his face. It showed a question.
> "When did you first forget that you were more than a name?"
The mirror rippled. A second question followed:
> "How many masks have you worn, hoping one of them would become your skin?"
Behind him, a presence stirred. Silent. Immense.
Not hostile. Not welcoming.
Just aware.
Imer didn't turn around. He knew it was himself. A version that had eaten too many stories and was now too full to speak.
He closed his eyes and walked through the mirror.
It shattered.
But he didn't bleed.