You turn back to the mirror.

It’s small and old, the glass slightly warped with age, the wooden frame scarred from years of use by gem-born children who came before you. You’ve looked into this mirror a thousand times—checking your appearance, practicing expressions, watching yourself grow from child to almost-adult.

But this morning, something is different.

You step closer, studying your reflection. Your own face looks back at you. Familiar features. Familiar eyes.

And yet.

There’s a shadow behind your eyes that wasn’t there before. A weight. As if something is looking through you from very far away.

You lean closer, your breath fogging the glass—

Purple light. A woman’s voice: “Remember. Remember what they want you to forget.”

A warrior’s face where yours should be. Older. Scarred. Eyes that have watched friends die.

“The child is the key,” the woman says. “The child will remember.”

A man in armor, his smile wrong, his eyes empty. “I see you,” he whispers, and his voice is cold. “I’ve always seen you.”

The purple light cracks. Splinters. Dies.

—You stumble backward, your hand knocking against the washbasin, water splashing across your feet.

The mirror shows only your reflection now. Pale. Shaking. Ordinary.

But your heart is pounding, and you can still feel the echo of that voice.

I’ve always seen you.

The knocking at the door comes again—Maren, calling your name, asking if you’re all right.

You look at your hands. They’re trembling.

These aren’t just dreams. These aren’t just visions. Something is happening to you. Something connected to the gem, to the ceremony, to this day that everyone keeps saying will change everything.

You take a breath. Then another.

Whatever is coming, standing here shaking won’t stop it.

You straighten. Wipe your hands on your clothes. Turn toward the door.

Time to face the day.