Elara stood alone inside the dream of the Herald. The landscape shifted around her—a sky made of dying stars, mountains bleeding shadow, winds that whispered her failures.
Before her rose a staircase of glass.
She climbed.
Each step showed her a memory. Her father in the hospital, asking her to save the company. Nathan laughing beside her as a teenager. Aldric's voice in the dark, whispering I chose you before I knew who you were.
At the top stood a mirror.
Her reflection blinked—then stepped out.
It was her, but not her. This Elara wore white armor cracked with age, her eyes glowing like moonfire. "You seek to wield the glyph. Then prove you can bear its weight."
They fought—not with blades, but with truth.
Every strike was a truth she'd denied: her fear of power, her guilt over Nathan, her belief that she would be consumed by Aldric's world.
Each hit shattered part of her.
And yet she stood.
She gripped her other self's hand and pulled her into an embrace.
"I am all of these things," she said. "But I'm still here."
The mirror Elara smiled.
The Herald's voice boomed: "Then you may take your mark. And carry its price."