Echo stood in a room that wasn't supposed to exist.
The Reflection Chamber.
No entrances. No exits. Just her—alone, inside a memory so ancient it predated the Archive's own blueprints. The walls shimmered like breath held too long. Every surface mirrored her—but none reflected her truth. Each pane showed someone else.
One: Ava, serene and distant, spine threaded with light like cathedral glass etched in veins of code, standing like a priestess before a silence no prayer could reach.
Two: Echo herself, younger, fists bruised from endless drills, her body coiled around rage that never learned to resolve.
Three: A child neither of them had ever been—black eyes, a mouth stitched shut with luminous filament, a halo of gold curling around her like solar flares. Araven. Not a person. Not even a ghost. Just the echo of a civilization's final instinct to be remembered.
