Light exploded from Jacob's scars. The throne room unraveled like a poorly sewn tapestry—walls peeling back to reveal infinite corridors of memory, each lined with mirrors reflecting different versions of himself:
A Jacob in guard's armor, weeping over Eleanor's corpse.
A Jacob with the Priest's hollow eyes, leading children into the dark.
A Jacob no older than eight, holding a screaming Emily as fire consumed them both.
The Crow materialized before him—not a monster, but a frail girl in a burnt nightgown, her hair matted with blood. "You left me," she whispered.
Jacob fell to his knees. The key slipped from his fingers, its teeth clicking against stone in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat.
"I didn't know," he choked out.
The Priest's remains twitched nearby, his mask now blank again. The embedded corpses had gone still, their hollow eyes fixed on the Crow.
She reached for Jacob, her fingers brushing his scars. "Now you do."
The light intensified. The mirrors shattered.
And Jacob finally remembered the first cycle.