Lyra stood still in the void, surrounded by towering mirrors that didn't just reflect light—they reflected truths she wasn't ready to face. Her lips parted as she turned slowly, catching glimpses of herself in a thousand fractured forms.
The Third Lyra watched her with arms crossed, one foot resting casually against the base of the Shadow Throne. Her smirk was infuriating. Confident. Detached.
But it was the faceless Lyra that made her heart thunder.
She stood silent and still—white-haired, featureless like a statue sculpted from mist. No eyes, no mouth, no identity. And yet... Lyra felt a chill crawl down her spine every time she looked at her.
"Who is she?" Lyra asked.
The Third Lyra didn't answer.
Instead, she raised a hand—and the mirrors began to move. Slowly at first. Then faster, circling Lyra like a storm of truth.
