The lich stood before an enormous, ornate mirror, its surface rippling like disturbed water. It showed him not his own reflection, but her. Leona, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed in thought, the soft lamplight catching in her auburn hair. She flipped through pages, her delicate fingers gliding over centuries of forgotten knowledge.

The green glow of the amulet flickered faintly in his laboratory, casting shadows against the towering bookshelves that lined the stone walls. Scrolls and tomes sat in precarious stacks, their pages filled with incantations and histories long lost to mortal minds. Vials of luminous liquids lined the shelves, their contents swirling with ancient power. Crystals of every hue shimmered in their casings, humming softly with energy. A massive iron chandelier hung above, its candles flickering despite the absence of a breeze.

His skeletal fingers curled at his sides as he watched her.

For centuries, he had gathered knowledge, piecing together the forgotten magic of dying worlds, hunting for what was lost. But this this woman, was not part of his calculations.

She was not supposed to exist.

His lips parted, words forming too quietly for even the shadows to hear.

And then, he sensed it.

A shift in the air. An intrusion.

The lich turned sharply, his crimson eyes flaring as he scanned the chamber.

He was not alone.

Beyond the bookshelves, past the towering relics of his dominion, something moved. A man, silent as a predator, watching.

Major Dmitry Volkov had been careful. He had slipped into the lich’s domain, keeping to the edges, moving without a sound. But in that moment, as the lich turned, he knew he had pushed his luck.

Those red eyes locked onto him.

Volkov didn’t hesitate. He stepped back, retreating into the darkness as swiftly as he had come.

But not before he saw her.

The woman in the mirror.

Leona Cavendish.

His breath caught. He had sat in on the briefings, heard Ivan speak of her. But seeing her like this, unaware that a monster watched her, sent a chill through him.

He slipped away, knowing he would have much to report.

***

Back in her apartment, Leona sighed, rubbing her temples. The amulet remained silent. Nothing strange had happened for hours.

Maybe she really was imagining things.

She reached out, running her fingertips over the stone once more.

The feeling of being watched never faded.

***

The scratch of pen against paper slowed. Leona’s notes blurred as fatigue tugged at her. She blinked hard, fighting the weight pressing against her eyelids, but exhaustion won out. The lecture, the confrontation with Marlowe, the meeting with Ivan, and now this, staring into the unknown through an emerald lens, had drained her.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head before glancing at the amulet one last time. It sat where she had propped it against a stack of books, unmoving, its green depths dark and cold. Whatever strange vision she had witnessed earlier hadn’t returned. No fiery eyes, no shifting faces, just stone.

A sigh escaped her lips. I imagined it. I’m just overtired.

Cleo, had curled up on the desk beside her, a warm, reassuring presence. Leona reached out, running her fingers gently through the cat’s thick fur.

“Well, Cleo,” she murmured, her voice thick with exhaustion, “if this thing starts talking, wake me up.”

Cleo gave a slow blink.

Leona chuckled softly, rubbing her temples. She had meant to go to bed, but her body refused to move from the chair. The lamplight cast a soft, golden glow over her notes, over the sketches she had made of the amulet’s carvings. The patterns still didn’t make sense. They were similar, but still didn’t match anything in her records.

She would look again in the morning.

Her head dipped forward, chin resting against her arm. Within moments, sleep claimed her.

And the moment it did, he knew.

***

Far away, the Eternal King stood before the mirror, his skeletal fingers tracing slow patterns across its smooth surface. The emerald amulet shimmered in Leona’s home, serving as his tether, his key to her world.

She had fallen asleep.

He could feel her presence across the distance. The slow, steady rise and fall of her breathing. The warmth radiating from her body. The delicate rhythm of her pulse.

The wards of his sanctum were sealed. He was alone.

Now was the time.

With the quiet command of an ancient tongue, his form dissolved into shadow. The flickering candles of his vast library dimmed, and in an instant, he was no longer there.

***

The room was still. The only sound was the soft ticking of a nearby clock, the rustle of Cleo shifting in her sleep.

And then, he was there.

The lich did not enter through the door. He did not need doors. His presence simply arrived, as though he had always been there, unseen and waiting.

His crimson eyes glowed faintly as he took in his surroundings.

Books. Endless books. Some of them ancient, others, recent, mere theories scrawled by mortal hands. He let his fingers skim the spines, absorbing the words imprinted within without ever opening them. She sought truth. She hunted it, gathered it, wove it together in desperate hope of understanding.

She was not like the others.

His gaze moved next to the scattered papers on her desk, the sketches of the amulet’s markings. Some of them were correct, others frustratingly incomplete. The carvings meant so much more than she could yet comprehend. But she was close.

He stepped closer, his presence pressing against the air like an unseen force.

And there she was.

Leona Cavendish, slumped over her desk, dark auburn hair spilling over her arms, her breathing deep and even. The glow of the stained-glass lamp cast soft shadows over her skin, illuminating the delicate line of her cheekbone, the faint crease between her brows. Even in sleep, she was thinking.

He tilted his head, studying her.

For centuries, he had seen empires rise and fall, had taken power where he pleased, had consumed the secrets of worlds. But never had he expected this. Never had he expected her.

His skeletal fingers twitched as if reaching, but he did not touch her. Not yet.

Instead, he turned his attention to the only other soul in the room that could sense him.

Cleo.

The Persian cat sat on the desk, awake now, her golden eyes wide and unblinking. She did not flee. She did not hiss.

Interesting.

Slowly, carefully, he reached out a hand. His form had no warmth, no weight, only the sensation of something that should not be. But Cleo did not recoil. She only watched as his hand drifted over her fur.

He let his fingers graze lightly along her back. The cat purred.

He had seen countless creatures tremble before him, but this one acknowledged him.

Fascinating.

At last, he straightened, the movement slow, deliberate. He did not linger. There was no need. She would come to him soon.

She had already made her decision.

With a final glance at Leona, at the way the light caught her face, at the ink smudged along her fingertips, he murmured a word too ancient for mortal ears to comprehend.

And he was gone.

The room was silent once more.

Leona slept on, unaware that the shadows had watched, had reached, had lingered.

Cleo sat motionless, her tail flicking once. The cat knew. She always knew.