The mirror did not show faces.
It showed weight.
The first sign of the seeker's arrival was not footsteps or breath or presence—it was imbalance. The plateau tilted in perception, not enough to stagger, but enough to remind anyone standing there that certainty had mass.
Caria felt it and stilled. Puddle responded instantly, sinking lower, its surface tightening as if pressure were being applied from above.
Rhys did not move.
From the far edge of the circle, the air folded.
A figure emerged—not stepping in, but resolving, as if they had always been there and the world had simply finished agreeing. Cloaked, hood drawn low, their outline precise in a way that made the broken pillars seem unfinished by comparison.
No guards.
No escort.
No army.
Just intent sharpened to a point.
The silence did not resist them.
It measured them.
