Syra's world spun. She had been submerged, dragged into the dark waters of the basin, pulled beneath the surface. Her breath was stolen from her, replaced with a suffocating darkness. The shadows clawed at her skin, pulling her deeper, deeper into the abyss. Her chest burned, her lungs desperate for air.

But there was no air.

She tried to scream, but the water filled her mouth, her throat, suffocating her. Her body fought against the weight, against the pressure of the water, but the darkness was stronger.

And then, just as her vision began to fade, a light broke through the water - a pale, shimmering light, like the reflection of the moon on the surface of a lake. The light flickered, swirled, and began to take shape.

It was a mirror. A massive mirror, its surface reflecting something other than reality. The edges were jagged, twisted, and the reflection it cast was not of Syra, but of something darker. A version of herself, hollow-eyed, grinning, her expression one of madness.

Syra reached out, her hand trembling as she touched the cold surface of the mirror. The moment her fingers brushed against it, the reflection of her in the glass reached out, too, and the contact sent a jolt of energy through her body.

The light from the mirror exploded, blinding her, and then everything went silent.

When Syra opened her eyes again, she was standing in the room. The shadows had vanished. The basin was empty, and the figure was gone.

But something had changed.

The mirror at the center of the room was no longer just a reflection. It was a window. A portal.

And Syra knew then that the Rite had begun. The mirror had chosen her, and she was now bound to it, to the darkness it contained. She was the Mirrorkeeper. The last step in the ritual was hers to complete.

And no matter how far she ran, she would never escape the mirror's eye.