The city was still shrouded in gray as Lyos, Liora, and Soren left the hospital. The girl’s warning echoed in Lyos’s mind: It knows you’re coming. He felt exposed, as if every shadow on the street was watching, every pane of glass a silent accomplice to the thing that haunted him.

  They stopped at a small café to regroup. Soren spread out the Architect’s journal and the stack of old blueprints he’d dug up from city archives. The foundation building-abandoned for nearly two decades-loomed on the map like a scar.

  “It’s here,” Soren said, tapping a spot labeled Research Wing – Sublevel B. “The earliest records mention a sealed room beneath the main hall. If the Architect called it ‘the cradle,’ that’s where we’ll find it.”

  Liora sipped her coffee, her hands trembling only slightly. “We need to be careful. If the shadow is growing stronger, it might not just be waiting for us-it could try to stop us from getting there at all.”

  Lyos nodded, feeling the weight of their trust. “We stick together. No one goes anywhere alone. And we don’t look in any mirrors unless we have to.”

  They gathered what supplies they could-flashlights, rope, a crowbar, and the battered journal. Lyos tucked the Architect’s book into his backpack, feeling its weight like a stone between his shoulder blades.

  The walk to the foundation building felt longer than it should have. The city’s noise faded behind them, replaced by the hush of empty streets and the distant rumble of thunder. The building itself was a hulking relic, its windows boarded up, its doors chained and padlocked.

  Soren made quick work of the lock. The door groaned open, releasing a gust of stale, cold air. Inside, the entrance hall was choked with dust and debris. Their footsteps echoed as they moved deeper, flashlights cutting narrow paths through the gloom.

  They passed faded portraits of the Architect and his early staff, their faces warped by time and damp. Every so often, Lyos caught his own reflection in broken glass or a polished tile-always a half-second behind, always with that faint, mocking smile.

  The main hall was vast and empty, the ceiling lost in shadow. Soren led them to a rusted metal door at the far end. According to the blueprints, the sublevel stairs lay beyond.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Liora hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you feel that?”

  Lyos nodded. The air was heavy, thick with something unspoken. It felt like standing at the edge of a storm.

  They descended the stairs, the beam of Lyos’s flashlight trembling with every step. The basement corridors were lined with doors, most hanging open to reveal empty offices and storage rooms. But at the very end, a heavy steel door waited-its surface etched with symbols Lyos recognized from the journal: intersecting lines, circles, the number 26.

  Soren tried the handle. It was locked, but the old metal gave way under the crowbar’s pressure. The door swung open with a screech, revealing a small, windowless chamber.

  The cradle.

  Inside, the walls were lined with mirrors-some intact, others shattered. The floor was covered in a mosaic of broken glass, each shard reflecting a thousand fragments of the room. In the center stood a battered wooden chair, bolted to the floor.

  Lyos’s breath caught. The air in the cradle was colder than the rest of the building, and every hair on his arms stood on end.

  Liora stepped forward, her voice trembling. “This is where he did it. Where he split himself.”

  Soren swept his flashlight across the mirrors. “Look-some of these are covered in writing.” He knelt, reading aloud: “To confront the shadow, you must become whole. The self divided is the self devoured.”

  Lyos approached the chair, his reflection multiplying in every direction. He felt dizzy, as if the room itself was spinning. For a moment, every mirror seemed to ripple, and he saw not just himself, but dozens of other faces-some familiar, some strange, all watching him with hungry eyes.

  He gripped the back of the chair, grounding himself. “This is it. If I’m going to face it, it has to be here.”

  Liora squeezed his shoulder. “We’re with you. No matter what happens.”

  Soren nodded, his face grim. “We’ll watch your back.”

  Lyos opened the Architect’s journal to the last marked page. The ritual was simple, but the instructions were clear: The host must face the shadow alone, but the witnesses must anchor him to the world. If the anchor breaks, the shadow will claim the host forever.

  He took a deep breath and sat in the chair, the cold wood biting through his clothes. Liora and Soren stood on either side, each gripping one of his hands.

  Lyos stared into the largest mirror, his own face staring back-tired, afraid, but determined.

  He began to speak the words written in the journal, his voice echoing in the silent room. The air grew colder, the shadows deeper. The mirrors began to tremble, their surfaces warping and twisting.

  And then, all at once, every reflection in the room smiled.

  Lyos felt himself slipping, the world tilting as the shadow surged forward, hungry and triumphant.

  But this time, he didn’t look away.