XCIX
The air around him feels different now — not just charged, but claimed. The mirror's death has left a vacuum, and he's filled it with every stray scrap of spirit-power like a starving god finally fed.
The battlefield goes quiet in a way that isn't silence. It's the hush of things realizing they've lost. He stands taller than before, posture straight, coat gleaming like woven night. His hat casts a perfect shadow, sharp-edged, no longer frayed. His cane clicks against the ground with a rhythm that feels ceremonial, like each step is a decree.
"Haha, my darling," he says, voice rich and resonant, "I am once again my whole self."
His eyes flicker toward the remaining soldiers — those still tethered to the aliens, those still half-alive, half-spirit. His smile widens, teeth gleaming like polished ivory knives.
"You all should go home," he purrs, "or become my meals."
The aliens don't hesitate. They gather the tethered soldiers, pulling them back with shimmering threads of energy. The mirror shards — dead, charred, but still faintly connected to Earth — pulse once and swallow the soldiers whole, sending them back to the living world.
Leaving you behind.
You and Him
You're drained. The mirror took something from you when it died — maybe energy, maybe memory, maybe a piece of your reflection. Your knees feel weak. Your breath comes shallow.
He steps closer.
Click.
Clack.
Click.
Clack.
Each sound is deliberate, predatory, intimate.
"I think, my dear," he says, voice low and velvety, "we have a reversal of fortune."
He stops just close enough that you can feel the heat of his restored power radiating off him. It's like standing near a furnace made of shadows.
"You have essentially crowned me king."
His eyes glow brighter — waxy yellow, molten, triumphant.
"The Shadow Council cannot gather enough power to go against me now."
His cane taps the ground once, and the hounds behind him sit in perfect formation, their bodies rippling with absorbed spirit-energy. They watch you with ember eyes, waiting for his command.
He tilts his head, studying you.
Not with hostility. Not with hunger. With possession.
"You stayed," he says softly. "Even drained, even weakened. You stayed."
His smile sharpens.
"And now, my darling… you are in my kingdom. You are my little kitten now."
My energy wanes as I fall into his arms.
You're lying on a metal platform, the air sharp and sterile. Your chest rises in a ragged, uneven breath. Your limbs feel heavy, like they were poured back into you instead of grown.
The alien who tethered you stands over your body, its silhouette tall and angular, eyes glowing with irritated blue light.
It clicks its mandibles once.
"That took far too long, human woman."
Its voice is flat, but the annoyance is unmistakable.
"You have scarcely survived the soul transfer."
My fingers twitch. My spirit feels thin, stretched, like a sheet pulled too tight. The tether still hums faintly around your ribs, but the connection to the mirror realm is gone—severed, burned, dead.
The alien leans closer, inspecting you like a malfunctioning device.
"I suggest you do not do that again."
Its tone carries no sympathy. Only calculation.
"And stay far away from the shattered mirror world."
It straightens, folding its arms behind its back.
"Let that petty tyrant become king of a faded land."