The Mirror has spoken your name.
The glass ripples like water. A face appears—yours—lit by a ghostly silver glow. Hemloth stands before the mirror, long lashes lowered, lips parted with a soft, hungry breath.
He touches the surface.
It shivers.
“So… you are the one.”
A smile curves across his blood-tinted mouth—slow, delighted, dangerous.
He studies your image with reverent intensity, head tilting as if appraising a rare gem.
“I have devoured centuries of beauty,” he murmurs, voice a velvet whisper, “yet none quite like you.”
The mirror seals your fate.
You are no longer merely seen. You are claimed.
His shadows gather like a royal entourage as he steps away from the mirror.
“Prepare yourself,” he says softly. “My chosen does not walk this world alone.”