Morning.

Soren stood in front of the mirror, staring at himself.

The face staring back was his. But it wasn’t.

His dark hair was slightly tousled from sleep, his sharp features drawn tight with exhaustion. His eyes—his own, unmistakably—looked like they didn’t belong.

The same way the city felt a little too stretched, a little too wrong.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away. It was nothing.

Just a trick of the mind.

Breakfast was quiet. His mother moved through the kitchen, pouring tea, arranging food, speaking only when necessary. Tia was reading again, her fingers absentmindedly tapping against the table’s edge.

The knock at the door last night.

The voice saying his name.

Soren gripped his teacup, trying to push the memory aside.

It was nothing.

Tia spoke suddenly. “You should eat more, Rowan.”

The cup froze halfway to his lips.

His heart stopped.

“…What did you just say?”

Tia blinked, looking up from her book. “I said you should eat more.”

“No.” His voice came out quieter than he intended. “You called me something else.”

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A pause.

Tia frowned, tilting her head slightly.

“I didn’t.”

The room felt smaller.

The shadows in the corners stretched just a little farther than they should.

His mother, silent until now, finally spoke. “Are you feeling unwell again?”

Soren stared at her.

Did she not hear it?

Did she not notice?

His fingers dug into his palm beneath the table.

“No,” he said after a moment. “I’m fine.”

Tia smiled slightly, returning to her book.

Soren forced himself to keep eating.

Harper’s Apothecary.

The bell above the door chimed as Soren stepped inside.

The air smelled the same. The same dried herbs, the same candle wax, the same faint hint of something metallic.

Mr. Harper stood behind the counter, examining a vial of dark liquid against the light. His usual gray coat was slightly wrinkled, his expression one of quiet focus.

Soren exhaled, stepping forward. “Morning.”

Harper froze.

His grip on the vial tightened.

Slowly, too slowly, he turned to look at Soren.

For a moment, his sharp gray eyes flickered with something unreadable.

Then—his brows furrowed. “Can I help you?”

Soren’s breath caught in his throat.

“…What?”

Harper frowned deeper. “Do you need something?”

The world tilted.

Soren stared at him, pulse hammering.

“It’s me,” he said, his voice uneven. “It’s Soren.”

Harper’s expression remained unreadable for a second too long.

Then, as if something clicked back into place, his face relaxed.

“Ah.” His lips curled into a faint smirk. “Right. Long night, lad?”

Soren forced a laugh. It came out wrong.

Something about the moment felt fractured, like two pieces of a conversation that didn’t quite fit together.

He knew Mr. Harper. He had worked here for years.

But for one terrifying second—

Harper hadn’t recognized him.

And Soren didn’t know why.

The Streets of Luthathel.

Soren walked quickly.

His breath was uneven, hands clenched in his coat pockets. The city pressed in on him, the buildings towering just a little higher than before, the gaslamps flickering against the thickening fog.

Harper’s reaction.

Tia calling him a name that wasn’t his.

The way everything felt slightly off-center, like reality had been misaligned.

His footsteps echoed strangely.

He turned a corner, heading toward home—

And nearly ran into himself.

His own reflection stood in the glass of a shop window.

But it wasn’t a reflection.

Because the other him was facing the wrong direction.

Soren froze.

The man in the glass stood facing the street, hands tucked in his coat pockets. His face was shadowed, but his posture was identical to Soren’s.

A shiver crawled up his spine.

Slowly, carefully, Soren raised a hand.

The reflection did not move.

His chest tightened.

A deep, heavy silence settled over the street. The gaslamps flickered in unison.

The reflection slowly, so painfully slowly, turned its head toward him.

Soren stumbled backward, heart hammering.

The moment he blinked—

The reflection was gone.

The shop window was empty.

His breathing came sharp and ragged.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

The street felt longer now. The buildings too tall, too narrow.

Soren forced himself to move.

He walked quickly, refusing to look into any more windows.

He did not turn around.

He did not check if someone was watching.

Because if he did—he wasn’t sure what he would see.