Luke gasped as he awoke in the forest clearing, the cold grass beneath him damp with dew.
The mirror was gone.
No fragments. No shimmer. Just emptiness.
Arthur sat beside him, hands covered in blood—his own. A thin line across his palm.
Luke sat up, blinking hard. "You… you cut yourself?"
Arthur nodded. "Blood binds. That world functioned on metaphor and belief. I made us one unit. The mirror couldn't divide us."
Luke exhaled shakily, half-laughing. "You're insane."
Arthur stood up, brushing off his coat. "You're welcome."
And then—before Luke could ask anything else—Arthur looked toward the forest's edge.
Just for a second.
There, in the trees, a girl stood. Pale skin. Black hair. A stitched smile.
She didn't speak.
She simply raised a hand.
And waved.
Arthur said nothing.
He just turned and walked away.