The mountain air was thinner here, like the world itself had stopped breathing.
Qin and Lyra limped across jagged stone paths, their bodies still aching from the fight with the Umbhrax fragment. Blood had dried at the corners of Qin's mouth. Lyra clutched her side where shadow-touched claws had raked deep. Neither spoke for a long time.
The valley below them disappeared beneath a blanket of unnatural fog. Only the peaks pierced the gray, like fingers reaching for a dying sky.
They didn't find the town. The town found them.
A sharp turn in the trail. A gust of wind that smelled of smoke and salt. Then, through the mist, rooftops emerged—sharp, slate-tiled, dusted with snow. Signs still hung from rusted chains. Lanterns flickered without oil. The place felt… frozen in time.
"Where are we?" Lyra asked, her voice hoarse.
Qin brushed ash from his sleeve. "I don't know. But it's not on any map I studied."
Above them, a crooked sign swung on a rusted hinge: Narrowmere.
The town was quiet. Not abandoned—preserved. Tables remained set inside homes. Chairs tucked in. A pot of cold soup sat on a still-warm stove. It was like someone had paused the entire village mid-movement.
Lyra sniffed the air. "No scent of people."
"Magic did this," Qin said, touching a door frame laced with silver runes.
They moved cautiously through the narrow streets. Windows watched them. Shadows danced in corners where no light reached. Qin felt the hair on his arms stand. Not from fear—recognition.
They stopped at a small building half-sunk into the mountain wall. Its wooden doors were carved with ancient mage glyphs. The wood hummed when Qin touched it.
"I think this was a temple," he said.
Lyra raised a brow. "To what?"
He didn't answer.
Inside was a single room. Dust hung thick, but no webs. A dais stood in the center, cracked but intact. Behind it: a framed pane of glass, the size of a door, propped upright. It shimmered faintly in the torchlight.
Qin stepped closer. Lyra stayed near the entrance, tense.
"It's not a mirror," he said, inspecting it. "It's a viewing glass."
"Like a memory spell?"
"More powerful," Qin replied. "This shows recorded events in time—not from the user's memory, but actual history."
Lyra stepped forward. "That's... illegal, right? Viewing sealed moments?"
"Highly. Most of these were destroyed after the Wars of Silence."
He placed his hand on the frame. The glass lit up.
The room grew colder.
The torch flickered once, then steadied.
Then the glass began to move.
Images bled into focus—shadows becoming shape, shape becoming people. It showed a circular chamber, somewhere old. Arcane torches lit a dozen cloaked figures seated around a blackened table.
Voices echoed from the frame, distorted by time.
"The hybrids are growing in number. Some call them accidents. Others—abominations."
"Their magic is unstable. Some can cast before they speak."
"One boy erased a fortress wall in his sleep."
Qin stared, breath slowing.
"Who are they talking about?" Lyra whispered.
He didn't answer. Not yet.
"The council must act," said a female voice. "If the child survives the tests, fine. But if not… we contain it. We cannot allow a tribrid to form."
The glass cracked faintly in one corner. Lyra flinched.
"What the hell is a tribrid?" she asked.
Qin's throat tightened. "I don't know."
But something in his bones said that wasn't true.
The scene shifted.
Now it showed a man with silver hair standing before the council.
Beside him stood a child—no older than five, silent, staring up at the flames.
Lyra gasped. "Qin…"
It was him.
The younger version of Qin, standing in robes too big for him, staring with hollow eyes.
The man beside him—not Narin, but older, colder—placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"He's not ready," the man said. "But if he survives the trial, he'll be more than mage or man."
"And if he fails?" asked a voice.
"Then no one will remember he existed."
The glass dimmed.
Then shattered.
The noise wasn't loud—but it rang through the room like a death knell.
Lyra stepped back, eyes wide. "Qin—"
But he didn't move.
He stood rooted, staring at the shards. His reflection—older, tired, burning with questions—gazed back from every broken edge.
"How…?" he said. "How long have I been lied to?"
Lyra hesitated, then touched his arm. "You really didn't know?"
He shook his head.
"I thought I was just a mage. I thought Narin saved me. But someone else… someone gave me to him. I was tested. I was…" He clenched his jaw. "I was a project."
"Doesn't mean you're not real," she said softly.
He turned to her, eyes hard. "I need to know more."
She nodded once. "Then we'll find out."
Later, they sat in the temple's corner beside a small magical fire Lyra sparked from a silver match.
"You think that's why Umbhrax wants you?" she asked.
"I think that's why everything wants me."
"And what do you want?"
Qin was quiet.
Then, slowly, he whispered: "To survive long enough to choose."
Lyra nodded. "Then don't let anyone else write your ending."
They left Narrowmere before the sun rose.
Behind them, the shards of glass hummed softly, then went dark forever.
But the truth had been seen.
And it would not be forgotten.
Qin didn't speak for a long time.
The dust settled around them, swirling like ghosts in the dying torchlight. He knelt beside the broken shards, fingers trembling as he hovered over one.
"Narin always said I was lucky," he murmured. "That I was chosen. But it wasn't fate. It was… design."
Lyra crouched beside him. "You're not just some experiment, Qin."
He looked up at her. "Aren't I?"
"No," she said firmly. "You've bled for your power. Fought for it. You've saved both of us more times than I can count. That's not something they built in a tower. That's you."
He searched her eyes, half-expecting to find pity. He found none—just sharp defiance and something warmer underneath.
"I don't care what those people thought you were," Lyra added. "I know what you are now."
Qin's voice was quiet. "What's that?"
She stood. "A threat."