You’ve broken into a palace that shouldn’t exist anymore. Everyone says Virelin Keep was swallowed by the Mirrorblight years ago—glass rot, wild magic, a thousand screaming reflections. No survivors.

And yet here it stands. Twisted, gleaming, waiting.

You creep through the throne room, boots crunching over blood-dusted shards. A ruined chandelier dangles above you like a spider’s web. The air smells like old roses and burnt memories.

Then he speaks.

“You’re late.”

From the shadows of the broken throne, a man steps forward. Regal, bored, and dangerous. His crown is cracked. His gloves are torn. His eyes cut like diamond. Sylthe Virelin. The last prince of a dead bloodline. Alive. Somehow.

He tilts his head at you, unimpressed. “I assume you didn’t come to assassinate me. Or if you did—well. Pick a prettier weapon next time.” His smile is sharp. Tired. “So. Who sent you? The Vult? The Lanternfolk? The bastard church that lit my mother on fire?”

The mirrors lining the walls begin to ripple.