Chapter 21 – The Mirror That Casts No Reflection
The old house stood at the edge of the world. Not fully belonging to spirits, but not to humans either.
Lumina sat on the cold wooden floor, her back resting against a cracked wall that once held protective spells—now only a silent witness to a girl who no longer knew whether she was purifying... or merely destroying.
In her hand was the last card. A blank one, given by Enver. An astral parchment waiting for one thing: a decision.
Not a legacy. Not a fate.
She gripped the card tighter. But her soul trembled. The crack along her right arm, a remnant of spells forced one too many times, had deepened.
Each time she purified, a part of her felt like it died.
But it was a death that came with a strange, unspeakable satisfaction.
"Am I starting to love destruction?" she whispered to herself.
A soft breeze passed. It brought no voice.
But small footsteps echoed outside.
A gentle knock. Once. Twice. Then silence.
Lumina rose and opened the door without a word.
A small girl stood at the threshold. No older than ten. Her round eyes were vacant—but not blind.
Behind that tiny body, an aura rippled like a thick fog bound by chains.
Lumina knew instantly: this child was a vessel. A spirit yet to be purified.
"Your name?" Lumina asked softly.
The girl didn't answer.
But the spirit inside her did—whispering into Lumina's mind:
"Her name is Wound. Her name is a Burden."
Lumina led the girl inside. Within those walls, time seemed to stop.
The floor creaked as the girl walked. Every breath she took made the candlelight in the corner tremble.
The atmosphere thickened.
Then Lumina touched the child's forehead.
An explosion of memories.
Her mother was possessed. Her father made a sacrifice.
This small body had been turned into a seal by a sect that worshipped a primeval spirit.
They believed this child was the balance for their sins.
And now, that spirit slept within her.
But if it wasn't purified today, it would awaken—seek a new vessel—and perhaps massacre more.
Lumina stepped back. A dilemma hung thick in the air.
"You could purify her," whispered Verruksha in her mind. "But you know, purification means breaking the seal. The soul-map will light up. The Archon will find you."
"Or... you could end her life now. She will pass on peacefully. And the world will remain unchanged."
Lumina clenched her fists. A brutal choice.
Then time paused.
Raegar appeared.
From a slit in the astral air, he stepped into the room. His robe whispered softly, but his aura swept through the space like a crashing tide.
"If you cannot purify without hatred, then don't call yourself a Hellseer," he said coldly.
Lumina turned. Their eyes met. No hatred. Only questions.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
Raegar stepped closer. "I want to know... who truly remains within you. Lumina? Vessaria? Or something that can no longer be called human?"
Lumina lowered her gaze. She knew Raegar wasn't wrong.
But she also knew: this time, she would not run.
The little girl clutched Lumina's fingers.
And Lumina chose.
Not with her family's spell.
Not with an inherited card.
But with her own words.
She knelt, placing her right palm gently over the child's heart.
"Forgive the world. Forgive them. Forgive me for coming too late. But now, I won't save you because you're pure. I'll save you because you deserve another chance."
The blank card in Lumina's pocket began to glow.
A silver light pulsed gently.
A symbol slowly appeared—not a seal, not a spell, but a single word in the old language of spirits:
"Amanah."
A soft light enveloped the little girl.
The seal didn't explode. Didn't tear.
It simply... dissolved, like morning mist knowing it was time to go.
Raegar watched in silence.
He didn't interrupt.
But behind that stern face, something cracked—his certainty that Lumina would fall.
The girl fainted.
But her aura was calm now.
The ancient spirit had left.
No return. No residue. No whispers.
Lumina held her briefly. Then gently laid her on a small bed.
The Archon's soul-map lit up in the northern tower.
Elsewhere…
The Archon stared at the glowing map, eyes burning.
"She's begun writing her own fate," he muttered.
And beyond the veil of dimensions, Maxcen chuckled softly.
"Ah… at last, this song shall become a most interesting symphony."
Enver stood atop a temple roof, gazing in the direction of the old house.
"You've chosen. Then I'll wait at the end of the road—whether to save you... or to stop you."
Lumina stared at the card that was no longer blank.
She knew this wasn't the end.
It was only the first note of a song she composed herself.
Not her family's song.
Not the Council's.
But hers.
And for the first time, she smiled.
Not out of peace—
But because she knew she still had a choice.