Not far from the main town, in a dimly lit room at the edge of the island, a figure moved stealthily through the darkness.
The flickering candlelight barely illuminated the rough, damp walls, but the man's movements were precise—as if he had done this many times before.
He reached the center of the room, knelt, and with a pained grunt, squeezed a few drops of blood from his wounded hand.
The moment the scarlet droplets touched the ground, the earth shimmered, and the blood transformed into a thin, transparent surface—like a mirror woven from dark magic.
Within that bloodied reflection, another face slowly appeared.
The one summoning this eerie communication was none other than Caspian—the same merman that Emma had mercilessly brutalized earlier that evening.
Despite the pain, his face was serious.
The figure in the mirror was obscured by shadows, but when he spoke, his thick accent carried an undeniable authority.
"Speak."
