"Excuses," the child whispered. "That's all you've ever had."
Suddenly, the mirror shattered.
But instead of shards, smoke poured out, enveloping him in a choking fog of ash and memory. The ground beneath him cracked, and he fell—not into fire or stone, but into a memory.
He landed hard on cold marble.
Around him stood statues—dozens of them. All life-sized. All familiar. Soldiers, kin, friends.
Dead.
Each statue bore a wound that seemed to bleed stone: cleaved chests, broken skulls, shattered limbs. One figure was hunched forward—Ser Garrick, the loyal guard who died defending the gates. Another stood tall, a hand reaching outward—Maester Valtharion, who vanished the night Skarnhold fell.
Kaleon stepped forward.
At the far end of the chamber was a throne of obsidian. Seated upon it, unmoving, was himself.
But this Kaleon was different—clad in blackened armor etched with screams. His face was pale, lips bloodless. His eyes… were empty sockets.
"You sit upon failure," a voice whispered from the shadows. It was Maelor.
Alive.
Whole.
Bleeding.
He stepped forward, hands cupping his gut as blood trickled through his fingers. "You watched me die."
"No," Kaleon said, stepping back.
"You could've stopped him."
"I didn't know—"
"You hesitated." Maelor's voice cracked like thunder. "And hesitation is a choice."
From the walls, ghostly voices rose, all murmuring the same word: failure.
"Shut up!" Kaleon screamed. "I did what I could! I'm trying to fix it!"
Another figure stepped into the light.
It was Theo.
His tunic was torn, his chest slashed open.
"Theo—" Kaleon choked. "You're not dead. You're alive. This isn't real."
Theo's expression was unreadable. "But you know this could happen. You've seen it—over and over."
Kaleon fell to his knees again, palms covering his ears. "This isn't me. This isn't me!"
The ghost-Kaleon on the throne lifted its head.
And spoke.
"You will never be what they need."
He woke into yet another place—an endless corridor of doors, each flickering with firelight. The walls were blackened, the air thick with smoke and sorrow. Each door bore a symbol—his siblings, his mother, his father, friends lost in time.
He walked forward.
The first door opened to a memory: young Kaleon watching his father strike Draven across the face. Lord Darion's voice cold: "A Skarn shows no mercy."
The next door showed Lysera, sitting alone in a candlelit study, whispering to herself through tears: "He's not ready. He'll never be ready."
Another door cracked open—and behind it, Vaelira stood at the window, watching Kaleon ride off. "He leaves because he fears what he'll become."
And then a final door opened by itself.
Inside was Kaleon.
But not a memory.
A vision.
He stood at the edge of a battlefield—bodies burning around him. Theo lay lifeless, his panther still beside him, howling. Kaleon was older, stronger. Wielding Shadowrend, cloaked in the Shrouded Mantle.
But his eyes were mad.
He stood over a broken body.
Therion.
"I never wanted this," the older Kaleon said, as blood dripped from his blade. "But this… was always the only end."
Chains bound his wrists. He stood in a ring of fire. Across from him—his family, seated like judges. Therion stood as the executioner, sword drawn.
"You carry the weight of our end," Therion said.
Kaleon tried to speak. His mouth moved, but no sound came.
Lysera rose next. "You want to be forgiven. But you still deny your weakness."
Then came Draven, eyes cold. "You want to lead? You couldn't even protect us."
Vaelira stood. "You let him in. You trusted Vaelor."
The flame beside him whispered. And from the center rose Ser Vaelor, grinning, his face half-burned, half-proud. "He believed in me. Poor child."
"I trusted you," Kaleon cried out.
"And that trust destroyed everything."
Theo appeared last, holding his lightning blade in one hand, the other resting on his heart. "I've always stood beside you, Kaleon. But will you stand beside yourself?"
Kaleon trembled.
The flames surged higher.
And then, they vanished.
Silence.
He stood alone in a grey void. The mirror returned before him, whole once more.
He approached it slowly.
Inside, he saw his reflection. Not broken. Not mad. Just… tired. Weathered.
"I am not perfect," he whispered. "I am not my brothers. I am not my father. I am not the boy who ran. I am me."
The mirror shimmered.
The boy he saw earlier stood behind him, the wyvern toy still in hand.
"I was afraid," the boy said. "But you are not me anymore."
Kaleon reached out.
And took the toy.
Smoke drifted upward, and the world shifted.
He stood again in the chamber outside the mirror, the real one now. No illusions. No visions.
Just him—and the quiet pulse of his heart.
"Still brooding in the dark?" came a familiar voice behind him.
Kaleon turned.
Theo leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a faint smirk on his lips. "You've been gone for hours."
"I needed time," Kaleon said.
Theo stepped beside him. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
Kaleon looked at the mirror.
"No. But I faced what I needed to."
Theo nodded. "Good. Because tomorrow, we climb the ridge. And after that... there's no turning back."
Kaleon reached for his sword.
Shadowrend pulsed with a dim, familiar glow.
"I won't hesitate again," Kaleon said, voice low.
Theo's grin widened.
"Then let's burn fate down together."
Theo gritted his teeth as a mirror shimmered to life.
It showed Fyrakar, the land of his birth. Snow-covered rooftops. The great bridge that curved over frozen waters. The tower where he once lived—its stone dark with the stains of a forgotten war. He saw the bustling markets, the old man with the flute who used to play at the corner, the children chasing snowflakes with shrieks of laughter. A place so full of sound and life.
Before it all was gone.
Then the image sharpened.
His father stood at the gates, proud and smiling, wrapped in his heavy furred cloak. His eyes—sharp and kind—sparkled as he reached out, voice soft as snowfall.
"Theo, come home."
But Theo didn't move.
Something in him twisted. His hand trembled, reaching out—just a breath away from touching the glass.
Then the scene warped.
The warmth bled out of the sky. The snow turned black. His father's smile faded into ash. The tower collapsed in on itself. Fyrakar—his home—turned to ruin. The great bridge groaned, splintered, and collapsed into the abyss below. The people… faded. Like ghosts dissolving into smoke.
And he stood alone again.
His hand now touched only his reflection.
Then came the sound—like a breath held too long. The mirror flashed again.
A new image appeared: Kaleon.
Blood ran down Kaleon's side. He was on his knees, his sword arm limp. Behind him, Ser Vaelor's blade dripped crimson. Kaleon's lips moved. He called out:
"Theo…"
He was dying, calling for help.
And Theo stood only feet away—but frozen.
Unable to move.
His boots were rooted in shadow, as if the world itself refused to let him act.
"You'll fail him too," said a voice behind the glass. Smooth. Cold. Familiar.
Theo's jaw clenched. "No…"
"Because you can't save what you're not willing to lose."
A figure stepped out of the mirror.
It was him.
Older. Harsher. Eyes cold and dead. Wearing the same armor, but dirtier, darker—like it had absorbed every mistake he'd ever made. A deep scar ran from temple to chin.
This version of Theo didn't flinch when Kaleon died again in the glass behind them.
Didn't even look.
"You think you'll protect him? You? The one who stood still while everything burned?"
Theo turned away.
"I've lost too much already."
The reflection laughed—a bitter, hollow sound.
"And you'll lose more. Until there's nothing left but the shadow of what you wanted to be."
The darkness in the mirror deepened. Fyrakar burned again, but this time it was Theo holding the torch.
And at the tower's base—a body.
His father.
Still reaching for him, still smiling, even as the flames consumed him.
Theo staggered backward, clutching his head. "No… that's not what happened."
But the mirror no longer listened.
The world shifted.
He now stood inside Fyrakar's great hall—the same one where he had trained as a child. But everything was wrong. The walls were cracked. The banners torn. Snow blew through shattered windows.
And in the center of the hall stood a throne made of bones.
Sitting atop it… was Kaleon.
But this Kaleon had hollow eyes. A jagged crown of ice sat on his brow. The blade in his hand was not Flameheart's heirloom—it was black, cracked, pulsing with shadow. The moonshadow panther at his side growled, but it too looked spectral and twisted.
Theo approached, hands raised. "Kaleon…?"
"You didn't come," Kaleon whispered, his voice distant and filled with frost.
"You said you'd follow me through anything. But when it mattered, you weren't there."
Theo's heart pounded. "I tried. I swear it—I looked for you, I would have died for—"
"But you didn't," the shadow-Kaleon snapped. "You survived. Alone."
Suddenly, the hall filled with ghosts.
Theo saw them.
His squad from Fyrakar, all dead.
The boy he couldn't save when the Frost Wolves attacked.
His sister.
Theo's knees buckled. "Stop… please…"
But they chanted his name like a curse.
"Theo the Ghost."
"Theo the Coward."
"Theo the Survivor."
The throne crumbled.
Theo was left standing in ashes. Alone.
Even the shadows turned their backs.
He dropped to his knees.
But then… came a hand.
Real. Warm.
Kaleon. The real one.
He looked battered, scarred, and worn. His eyes were tired—but they were kind. "You don't have to carry it all alone," he said.
Theo looked up. "I failed you. I saw you bleed. I heard you call my name."
Kaleon helped him to his feet. "You didn't run."
"I froze. That's the same as leaving you to die."
"No." Kaleon stepped closer. "It's the same as being human."
Theo's voice cracked. "What if it happens again?"
Kaleon smiled softly. "Then you'll move. Even if your legs shake. Because I'll be there too."
The mirror shattered.
Theo awoke in darkness.
The vision faded, but the voice of his father still echoed faintly in his ears.
"Come home."