Aries, beware the velleity that whispers secrets to your shadow self at dawn, for it may lure you into unraveling a thread best left intact. Tonight, when the clock strikes twelve, a forgotten key buried beneath last summer’s ashes will call to you, but only if you confront the figure peering back from the unpolished side of a broken mirror. Let the dying year’s embers warn you: the ultracrepidarian voices in the crowd will claim to chart your path, but their maps are etched with lies forged in forgotten moons.