The rain didn't stop that night after all.
It came back like a whisper turning into a scream—soft at first, then wild, slashing against the windows as if the sky itself was trying to wake him.
Macon hadn't moved from his chair by the window. The black book sat closed on the table, its surface gleaming faintly in the lightning flashes. Every time thunder rolled, it hummed—almost like it was breathing.
He could still feel the presence from earlier—the one that smiled through the reflection. It hadn't left. It was just... waiting.
He rubbed his forehead, his scar pulsing faintly beneath the bandages.
He'd read enough of the book to know that the name Dawnbringer wasn't just a coincidence. But admitting that—saying it out loud—felt like opening a wound the world itself wanted to hide.
He exhaled shakily, the room dim except for the trembling candlelight.
That was when a knock came. Three soft raps.
Not Vivian's. She always called his name first.
Macon rose slowly, his bare feet brushing against the cold wood floor. "Who's there?"
No answer.
He opened the door.
Rain spilled in, cold and sharp. And there—standing under the porch light, soaked from head to toe—was Rina.
His breath caught.
Her hair clung to her cheeks, her jacket was torn, and her eyes—those same dark eyes—stared at him like she had been searching for him for years.
"Rina…?" His voice cracked slightly.
She blinked, shivering. "You remember me," she whispered, almost in disbelief.
He hesitated. "Of course, I remember you. What—what happened to you?"
She walked past him, her steps leaving wet prints across the floor. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Lightning flared across the window, illuminating her profile.
She looked different—older somehow. Not in age, but in weight. Like someone who had seen things no one should have seen.
Macon handed her a towel. "Vivian's asleep. You should warm up."
Rina didn't answer right away. Her eyes wandered, catching sight of the book on the table. Her breath hitched slightly.
"So you found it," she murmured.
Macon froze. "What did you just say?"
She turned to him slowly, meeting his gaze. "The book. You opened it, didn't you?"
"How do you—" He stopped himself. "Rina, what's going on?"
Her lips pressed together. For a long moment, all he could hear was the storm.
Then she whispered, "You've seen it, haven't you? The other side."
He swallowed hard. "The other side…? You mean—"
"The battlefield," she finished softly.
He stared at her. "You—how do you know about that?"
She smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Because I was there too."
His chest tightened. He wanted to laugh, deny it—but deep inside, his body reacted before his mind could. His scar burned, the pain sharp and familiar.
It was like something in him recognized her words before he could process them.
He stepped closer, voice unsteady. "Rina… when I was unconscious—I saw someone. Eyes in the dark. Watching me. Was that you?"
Her gaze softened. "You saw me, but not the way you remember. You only saw what's left of me in that world."
Lightning struck again, and for the briefest moment—he swore her reflection in the window wore armor, her eyes glowing faintly gold.
He blinked. It vanished.
"Rina…" His throat felt dry. "What are you trying to tell me?"
She hesitated, then spoke quietly, "You think this world is real, don't you? That this life—Vivian, this house—is the truth. But it isn't."
He stepped back, shaking his head. "Don't—don't say that."
"Macon," she whispered, taking a step toward him. "This world is a shadow. A reflection created to contain what you were—what you still are."
He could hear the thunder now, echoing like distant drums.
Her eyes locked on his bandaged chest. "The scar… it's waking up again, isn't it?"
He didn't answer.
Rina sighed, walking closer. "That means the war is calling you back."
He flinched. "No. No, I'm done with that. Whatever that world is—it's not real!"
She gave a small, broken smile. "That's what I used to tell myself too."
Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. The candlelight flickered, and the air between them thickened with memories neither could name.
Then, faintly—so faintly it almost sounded like the rain—he heard a voice whisper through the room.
"Dawnbringer…"
Macon's pulse spiked. The windowpane trembled.
He turned sharply—but saw only their reflections.
His reflection… and beside it, another version of Rina—dressed in armor, blood staining her cheek, her expression fierce and hauntingly sad.
Rina gasped softly. "He's starting to remember."
Macon's voice was barely a whisper. "What if I don't want to?"
Lightning tore across the sky again, and in that instant, the reflection smiled back—his other self, eyes burning red, standing behind the armored Rina.
The storm raged louder. The book on the table opened on its own, pages fluttering wildly until one stopped—ink bleeding across the page.
"The Dawn and the Flame shall meet again. When they do, the gate will break."
Rina's hand trembled as she reached for him. "Macon… we don't have much time."
And as thunder cracked across the heavens, his scar burned so hot he dropped to his knees—visions flooding his mind.
The battlefield. The swords. The blood. Her scream.
The name Rina echoing through it all.