I've seen ghosts before.
Specters, phantasms, shade-cloaked memories. I've fought them, taught students to banish them. Hell, I've even become one in the eyes of a few survivors from my past life.
But this?
This wasn't a ghost.
This was Cassandra, split like a riddle sharpened into steel.
The girl I knew stood beside me—silent, alert, breathing slowly through her nose like she was keeping something inside from escaping.
The other Cassandra—the one rising from the cradle—wasn't breathing at all.
Her eyes fluttered open.
No whites.
Only ink.
Living ink, shifting across her sclera like moving script. She didn't blink. Didn't need to. The moment she locked eyes with me, my knees threatened to buckle. My Grimoire hissed in protest, closing itself.
"Lucian Drelmont," she said—not like she was speaking to me, but naming me. Like an archivist dusting off a forbidden entry.
"Still corrupt. Still unfinished. Still trying."
My mouth went dry. "Who... are you?"
