For a moment, no one spoke.
The soldiers stood stiff, uncertain whether to draw their swords or run.
Gareth's hand slowly moved toward his own blade, eyes locked on the imposter—on himself.
The fake just smiled, casual, like he hadn't just strolled out of the most secure vault in the region wearing the heir's skin.
"What sort of trick is this?" Gareth asked, voice low, sharp with restrained fury. "Who are you?"
The fake tilted his head, pretending to think. "Well… depends who you ask. You see 'Gareth.' She saw someone else. And the vault?" He let out a short breath, amused. "It didn't see anyone at all."
Gareth's face twisted. "You bastard."
His mana surged, crackling faintly around his shoulders.
But Vox raised an arm in front of him. "Wait!" he barked, stepping between the real Gareth and the fake.
Vox didn't know what he was doing—only that charging in now would get them all killed.
That glamour… it wasn't magic from this region. It was deeper. Older.
