Nyx lay restless in his bed, the thin blanket barely warming his skin as the dim moonlight slipped through the curtains like a blade cutting through silence. Sleep clung to him unwillingly, dragging his thoughts back to the lake, the sealed portal, and Eleus's hollow gaze blocking his path. His mind replayed the scene again and again, as if searching for a flaw, a missed sign, a crack in fate itself.
Then the dream came.
It did not arrive gently.
The world around him dissolved into pale fog, and suddenly he was standing somewhere unfamiliar—neither his room nor the lake, but a space that felt suspended between moments. Before him sat Jane Cullen.
She looked exactly as she had the last time he had seen her image in Eleus's memories—pale, fragile, yet burning with urgency. Her dark hair was loosely tied back, strands clinging to her damp cheeks, and her eyes were ringed with exhaustion. She hunched over a wooden desk illuminated by a single flickering lantern, its flame trembling as if afraid of what she was writing.
Her hand moved rapidly across parchment.
Nyx stepped closer.
The scratch of her pen echoed unnaturally loud, each stroke cutting into the silence like a wound. Letters lifted from the page and floated into the air, rearranging themselves before his eyes.
Portals are not found. They are made.
Jane's lips moved, though no sound emerged. Yet Nyx heard her clearly, her voice seeping directly into his skull.
She wrote of forbidden rituals—acts erased from witch records, condemned not for failure, but for what they demanded in return. She explained how witches crossed worlds when desperation outweighed consequence, when survival demanded sacrifice. Nyx saw Eleus's name written again and again between the lines, not in ink, but in longing.
Jane had wanted him to follow her.
She had prepared for it.
Nyx's breath hitched as the ingredients appeared one by one, glowing faintly as they hovered in the air.
Blood of a human, Jane wrote.
If taken, the donor will descend into instability of mind.
Nyx's jaw tightened.
Skin of an animal freshly hunted.
A faint scent of fur and iron filled the dream.
Feather of a bird, pure and untouched.
A single black feather drifted downward, spinning slowly.
Then—
The final line blurred.
Nyx stepped forward urgently. "What is it?" he demanded, his voice cracking through the dream. "Tell me."
Jane stopped writing.
She looked up.
Her eyes met his.
For the first time, fear crossed her face.
The parchment smudged itself violently, ink bleeding into meaningless shadows, as if something unseen was deliberately erasing the truth. Jane's lips trembled.
"Don't," she whispered—not as a warning, but a plea.
The lantern went out.
Nyx woke with a sharp gasp, his body slick with sweat, his heart slamming against his ribs as though it wanted to escape. The moon still hung in his window, indifferent and cold.
But something had changed.
The Book of Blood lay open beside him.
A page he had never seen before glowed faintly, pulsing once—then fading into stillness.
Nyx stared at it for a long time before finally sitting up.
"That wasn't a dream," he murmured.
It was a message.
Morning broke reluctantly over the town, sunlight glinting weakly off icy rooftops and frozen streets. Nyx moved through the world like a ghost, his expression sharp, his thoughts locked inward. The Lory household loomed ahead, its once-proud structure now wrapped in a suffocating stillness.
Grief clung to the air.
Inside, the curtains were drawn, light muted, voices hushed. Relatives moved through the halls with hollow eyes, whispering condolences that sounded rehearsed and meaningless. Nyx's boots echoed faintly against the marble floor as he stepped in, every sound feeling like an intrusion.
Eleus was truly gone.
Nyx felt it now—not as pain, but as absence.
Then he saw Farana.
Eleus's mother moved stiffly through the hallway, her posture rigid, her face carved from stone. In her hands, she clutched a bundle of papers tied loosely with faded thread.
Nyx's eyes narrowed.
Letters.
Jane's letters.
His pulse spiked.
He followed at a distance, careful, silent. Farana stepped into the courtyard, her lips pressed thin with bitterness. Without hesitation, she lifted the bundle and tossed it into the dustbin as though discarding rot.
Nyx waited.
Counted breaths.
When no one was watching, he moved.
His fingers closed around the papers, pulling them free from dirt and ash. The pages were crumpled, stained, some edges torn—but the ink remained. Alive. Whispering.
He slipped them beneath his coat and left.
Back in his room, Nyx spread the letters across his desk with reverence, arranging them carefully like relics recovered from ruin. He read quickly, skipping Jane's confessions of love, her guilt, her longing. His eyes searched with ruthless precision.
Then he found it.
The letter from his dream.
His breath slowed as he read the list again.
Blood of human.
Skin of animal.
Feather of bird.
The final line—
Blurred.
Unfinished.
His fingers curled into fists.
"You knew," he whispered. "You left it out on purpose."
Anger surged—but beneath it, excitement burned hotter.
A challenge.
His mind drifted effortlessly to Jury.
The sneer.
The humiliation.
The satisfaction that would come from watching him break.
A slow smile curved Nyx's lips.
"Perfect," he murmured.
The yoga hall was quiet, incense heavy in the air. Students moved through practiced poses, eyes closed, minds blissfully unaware.
Jury stood near the center.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
Nyx moved like a shadow.
One swift strike.
Jury crumpled without a sound.
The vial filled quickly, blood shining like rubies.
Nyx left without looking back.
He did not see the nurse.
Did not notice the exchange.
Fate had already begun to twist.
Back in solitude, Nyx prepared the ritual.
Rabbit skin.
Raven feathers.
The vial of blood.
He stripped away everything—clothes, jewelry, identity.
Moonlight bathed his bare skin as he poured the blood into the mixture, whispering his desire.
The air thickened.
The ground trembled.
Reality screamed.
And the portal opened.
Nyx stepped forward.
Without hesitation.
Sound vanished first—as if reality had sucked in a final breath and refused to release it. The scream of tearing air cut off mid-note, swallowed by a crushing silence so dense it pressed against his skull. His body felt weightless and impossibly heavy at the same time, stretched thin, pulled apart, then forced back together by unseen hands.
Colors bled into one another.
Red. Black. Emerald.
Nyx tried to breathe and realized breath was optional here. His lungs burned without pain, his heart thundered without rhythm. The portal did not carry him—it consumed him.
Images flashed violently through his mind.
Eleus standing at the lake, eyes empty.
Jane's trembling hand smearing ink into shadows.
The emerald moon drowning the sky.
Then—
Impact.
Nyx stumbled forward, boots scraping against unfamiliar ground, and dropped to one knee. The air rushed back into him in a violent gasp, sharp and metallic, burning his throat like rusted iron.
He lifted his head.
And the Mirror World unfolded before him.
The snow-white mountains of his homeland were gone.
In their place rose jagged crimson peaks, glowing faintly as though veins of molten blood pulsed beneath their surfaces. The sky above was not blue, nor black, but an endless void of darkened green and shadow, dominated by a colossal emerald moon that hung impossibly low, its light sickly and watchful.
Nyx rose slowly to his feet.
The ground beneath him was cracked and uneven, glowing faintly red through deep fissures as though the land itself bled. Each step he took felt acknowledged, the soil shifting subtly, responding to his presence like a living thing.
The air reeked of iron.
Of ash.
Of old death.
Twisted trees lined the landscape, their trunks gnarled and blackened, branches stretching upward like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. No wind stirred them, yet they whispered—low, indistinct murmurs brushing against Nyx's ears, speaking in a language older than fear.
"This…" Nyx breathed.
His heart hammered—not with terror, but awe.
This was not a world that tolerated visitors.
This was a world that judged them.
As he moved forward, the land revealed more of itself.
Rivers flowed in the distance, not with water, but shadows—thick, undulating currents that swallowed light whole. Creatures slithered beneath their surfaces, their shapes impossible to define, their presence known only by the ripples they left behind.
Nyx felt watched.
Not by eyes.
By intent.
Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to turn back while the portal still existed—but when he glanced over his shoulder, there was nothing.
No doorway.
No tear in reality.
Only barren land stretching endlessly behind him.
The Mirror World had closed its jaws.
A slow smile touched Nyx's lips.
"So be it."
The mansion appeared gradually, rising from the scarred earth like a wound that refused to heal.
It stood colossal and ancient, constructed from blackened stone that gleamed faintly as though perpetually wet. Its towers curved inward like hooked claws, and its iron gates were twisted into shapes resembling fangs mid-snarl. Windows dotted its façade—too many, too evenly spaced—and Nyx could have sworn they shifted when he wasn't looking.
Each step toward it tightened something around his chest.
The closer he came, the heavier the air grew, thick with power and expectation.
When he reached the gates, they loomed over him in oppressive silence.
Nyx raised his hand.
Knocked once.
The sound echoed unnaturally loud, rippling outward as though striking more than stone.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
The gates groaned.
Metal screamed as ancient hinges turned, and the doors creaked open on their own, releasing a violent swarm of bats that burst outward in a black tide. Wings struck Nyx's face, claws scraped his skin, shrill screeches tearing through the air like shattered glass.
He staggered back instinctively—but did not run.
When the bats vanished into the sky, the doorway stood open.
Waiting.
From the darkness within, footsteps echoed.
Slow.
Measured.
A tall figure emerged, cloaked in layered robes of deep red and black, their fabric moving as though alive. His skin was pale—unnaturally so—sharp features carved with an elegance that felt predatory rather than beautiful. His hair fell dark against his shoulders, framing a face untouched by time.
Then Nyx met his eyes.
They glowed faintly.
Ancient.
Unblinking.
Not surprised.
The man studied Nyx in silence, his gaze stripping layers away, seeing not just flesh and bone but intent, hunger, and blood-deep desire.
Nyx felt it then—the undeniable truth.
He was no longer prey.
He was claimed.
"You crossed without invitation," the stranger said at last, his voice smooth and heavy, like silk dragged over steel.
Nyx straightened.
"I came by right," he replied coldly. "I paid the price."
The man's lips curved faintly.
"Did you?"
Before Nyx could respond, the ground beneath his feet pulsed once, violently. Pain exploded through his skull, sharp and sudden, forcing him to his knees as symbols flared beneath the stone—runes igniting in crimson light.
The Book of Blood burned against his chest.
Not heat.
Recognition.
The stranger's gaze dropped to it.
"So," he murmured. "You carry that."
Nyx clenched his jaw, forcing himself upright despite the pressure crushing down on him. "I didn't come to kneel."
The man chuckled softly.
"No," he agreed. "You came to bleed."
The world tilted.
Darkness surged up from the runes, swallowing Nyx's vision as something unseen seized him, dragging him across the threshold of the mansion. The doors slammed shut behind them with a finality that echoed like a verdict.
Inside, the air was colder.
Heavier.
The walls were lined with mirrors—not reflective, but opaque, their surfaces rippling faintly as though something pressed against them from the other side.
Nyx struggled, muscles straining against invisible restraints.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The stranger stopped.
Turned.
Stepped close enough that Nyx could feel the chill radiating from him.
"I am the one who decides," he said quietly, "whether you survive what you have begun."
His fingers brushed Nyx's chest.
The Book of Blood pulsed violently.
Somewhere deep within the mansion, something answered.
A roar—not loud, but vast—rolled through the walls, shaking dust from the ceiling, rattling the mirrors until fractures spread across their surfaces like spiderwebs.
The stranger's expression sharpened.
"Interesting," he murmured. "The world has noticed you."
Nyx's blood sang.
Fear curled in his gut—not of death, but of revelation.
"What happens now?" Nyx asked.
The man smiled fully this time.
"Now," he said, "you learn what it means to step into the Blood Realm."
The emerald moon outside dimmed.
And somewhere far beyond the mansion walls, something ancient awakened.