The First Lord did not speak at first.
Leon felt the weight of him—more than height, more than his imposing presence. It was years of history layered into form. The cloak of ash moved without wind, and where the figure stepped, the stone blackened and whispered old names.
Vaerin Thorne.
Marien raised her blade.
Leon didn't move.
The mirror behind him still shimmered, the reflection smiling faintly, though Leon's own face remained grave. In that moment, he understood. The mirror wasn't showing him—it was showing what came before. Or what could become of him.
"So you are the one," Vaerin said at last. His voice was layered and raspy—one tone beneath another.
Marien shifted forward, in a protective stance. "You're supposed to be dead."
"Yet i stand before you," the First Lord said.
Leon stepped forward. Ashveil flared in his hand.
Vaerin's eyes moved to the blade. "Ah. My mistake made steel."
