Legacy of Death

Arthur stood frozen, staring at the mirror. His own reflection stared back at him—but something was off. The fogging on the glass was fading, revealing his features, yet for a split second, his reflection didn't move the same way he did.

A trick of the light. That's all it was.

"Get a grip, Arthur," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He forced himself to look away and collapsed onto his bed, arms stretched out as he stared at the ceiling.

Moving. Just like that.

He wasn't surprised, not really. His father had never been the type to sit still when things got complicated. His solution had always been to pack up and start over. Arthur should've seen it coming.

But still…

Something felt wrong.

It wasn't just the sudden decision to leave. It was the way his father had looked at him. The way he had asked that question.

"Do you ever feel like something's watching you?"

Arthur inhaled deeply, exhaling slow. The room was silent—too silent. The kind of silence that pressed against his ears, suffocating and unnatural.

Then, a whisper.

Barely audible.

Arthur sat up immediately. "Eleanor?" His voice was low, wary.

No answer.

He glanced toward the door. It was still closed. His father and Eleanor were probably downstairs.

The whisper came again.

This time, he realized where it was coming from.

His eyes snapped back to the mirror.

The surface had fogged up again.

Arthur's pulse quickened. He moved cautiously, placing his feet on the floor, every step slow and deliberate as he approached the glass.

The closer he got, the colder the air became.

Then, just as he was inches away—

A shadow shifted behind the glass.

Arthur stumbled back, heart hammering in his chest. "What the—"

Before he could finish, the whisper grew clearer.

"Arthur..."

He stiffened.

The voice wasn't unfamiliar. It was his own.

A slow, sickening dread coiled around his stomach as he forced himself to look again.

This time, the fog had cleared completely, and his reflection was normal. No shadow. No movement. Just him.

Arthur exhaled shakily and ran a hand down his face. "Lack of sleep is messing with me," he muttered, turning away.

But the second he did—

Thump.

Arthur's body locked up. The sound had come from the mirror.

Like a fist knocking from the inside.

A cold shiver crawled down his spine.

Then—silence.

Arthur stood there for a long time, waiting. Expecting something.

Nothing happened.

With clenched fists, he exhaled sharply and walked away, refusing to give in to whatever this was.

As he crawled into bed, his mind screamed at him to stay awake. To be alert.

But exhaustion won. His body was heavy, his thoughts muddled.

His eyes fluttered shut.

And in the darkness of his room, the mirror fogged up one last time.

Just before fading, a single word appeared on the glass.

A name.

Azrael.