Chapter 5: The Mirror's Truth
The southern edge of the Shattered Crown was quiet under the bruised sky, where dusk had draped the ruined land like a heavy, sodden veil. The sun was gone, and the temperature had dropped, leaving the world cold and expectant. Above them, the distant violet glow of the Rift pulsed faintly—a reminder of the unrelenting shadow that hadn't ceased its hungry watch. It was patient, unforgiving, like a debt collector from fate itself.
Kael led his companions through the broken village. The shard in his palm hummed gently, its faint light flickering across the debris. The remnants of what had once been a vibrant, messy, human village—charred wood, shattered pottery, overgrown paths—were slowly being erased by nature, a slow, inevitable decay.
Toren followed, the weight of his massive hammer—the physical reality of his strength—a silent testament to his readiness for battle. His steps were heavy, but the rhythm was unwavering. Lirien, her hand tightly clutching Toren's, walked alongside him. Her eyes darted nervously, her gaze restless, as if she could feel the ghosts and the lies clinging to the crumbling stones.
Mara was the last, her cane tapping against the cracked cobblestones in a steady rhythm that contrasted sharply with the tense silence. She said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes—a tension, a hidden, ancient sorrow, a stillness pregnant with catastrophic unspoken words.
At last, they reached the objective: the heart of the ruins where the broken statue of the Weaver stood. It was a once-majestic figure, now half-collapsed. One outstretched, mossy arm still pointed uselessly to the heavens, as though attempting to spin invisible threads, while the other was shattered and scattered. Its serene face was cracked and blind, its hollow eyes staring into a nothingness that now felt entirely too real.
But it was the base that drew Kael's gaze. A great, jagged fracture ran through the foundation, revealing a set of stairs spiraling down into pitch blackness. It was a maw, yawning to swallow them whole.
Kael halted. The shard's light flickered, hesitant—uncertain whether to guide them into the abyss or warn them away. Dread and resolve mixed in his chest, producing a sickening, dizzying cocktail. His breath caught in his throat as he stood at the threshold.
"Looks like a tomb," Toren muttered, stepping up beside him, his voice gravelly and low with wariness. "A very poorly maintained one, at that. You sure about this, lad?"
"No," Kael admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "But we have no choice. The shadow's not stopping. We either move forward and fix this cosmic thread, or we lose everything out here, and frankly, I'd like to keep my ribs intact for the effort."
Mara joined them, her eyes fixed on the crumbling face of the statue. There was a strange, heart-wrenching mixture of reverence and sorrow in her gaze. "It's been sealed since the Sundering—or so I believed. The shard can unweave the lock, but…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked at each of them in turn, her gaze heavy with finality. "Once we cross that threshold, the path only leads down. There will be no turning back. No scavenging runs, no peaceful sleep. This is the end of the line."
Kael nodded. He looked at Lirien—her face pale, but her resolve stronger than he'd ever seen—and then at Toren, whose jaw was set in grim determination. They were with him. He couldn't fail them now, or the humiliation would be worse than death.
Just as Kael lifted the shard toward the entrance, the air around them rippled. It wasn't the earth or the wind—it was the very fabric of space itself, bending and shifting like cheap canvas. The distant hum of the rift surged, growing louder, almost like a pulse. And then, a voice whispered into Kael's ear—soft, insidious, and terrifyingly close.
"Kael… see…"
His vision twisted. Reality bent, like water disturbed by a falling stone.
The ruins vanished.
In their place, a vast Plaza of polished, gleaming stone stretched before them, each tile shining like a perfect mirror. The sky above was black velvet, studded with countless, glittering stars, a perfect reflection of the cosmos. The statue stood whole here—magnificent, aglow with golden threads that shimmered above it, weaving a tapestry of vibrant, beautiful life.
The village—it was alive.
Jessa sat beside a pristine fountain, knitting with nimble, energetic fingers. Korrin hauled warm loaves from a nearby oven, the aroma of freshly baked bread mingling with genuine laughter. Lirien ran past him, a brightly colored kite soaring behind her, her giggles echoing like bells.
Kael stood frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs. Overwhelmed by the vision, he could barely whisper, "What… is this?"
A figure stepped beside him—a younger Mara. Her hair was long and dark, wild like it had been in her youth, and she wore elegant priestess robes etched with glowing Weaver runes that pulsed with starlight.
"A thread that could have been," she said softly, her voice a clear, melodic tone that carried a deep, unspoken sorrow. "The Shattered Crown, before the shadow rooted itself in our fates and decided it didn't like happy endings."
Kael turned to her, his breath quickening. The shard pulsed in his hand, almost pulling him into the vision. "A dream?"
"No," Mara replied, her gaze distant. "This is the Mirror Plaza. The Weavers built it to see the possibilities of fate—what was, what might have been. It shows truths we've lost, and truths we may yet shape. Think of it as a cosmic mood board."
The scene shifted before Kael's eyes, violently, like a stone being dropped into glass.
The laughter stopped.
The villagers screamed.
Rifts opened across the beautiful plaza, black and jagged, spewing beasts of shadow and flame. The kite caught fire. Jessa's knitting needles vanished in a flash of smoke. The statue cracked down the center, the golden threads snapping one by one. Above them, something vast and dark began to emerge—a writhing silhouette with burning eyes. It reached directly for Kael.
"Kael…"
He stumbled back, nearly dropping the shard as it flared with protective light. "The shadow—it's here too? In the possibility thread?"
Mara's youthful form aged instantly, her robes dimming, her hair turning silver, and her face etching with the years of profound sorrow Kael knew. She was the woman he knew now, the weight of time and loss suddenly bearing down on her. "It's always been here. In every thread. Feeding. Watching. Waiting. This… this is what it wants. A world unmade. A Loom of Fate it can reshape as its own dominion."
The vision shifted again, stabilizing.
The plaza stood still, quiet.
The village was damaged, yes, but not destroyed. Jessa and Korrin were still alive. Toren worked the forge under the twilight. Lirien was drawing flowers on the stone. Peace. A fragile, flickering dream of a second chance.
Kael's chest tightened with a dangerous, sharp hope. "This… could this be real? Could we get that?"
"If you choose it," Mara said, her voice almost a whisper. "The Loom beneath us can spin it—or it can destroy it. The shadow guards it now, and it knows your name."
The plaza trembled violently. The stars winked out one by one.
"Closer…"
Kael raised the shard high, its light cutting through the encroaching dark. A thread of light shot toward the statue's base, and the runes flared—spirals and arcs forming an urgent puzzle, a desperate call in code.
"Show me the way, you old piece of rock," Kael muttered.
He gripped the shard tightly, tracing the first rune. It glowed, stabilizing the dream. The second rune brightened. Then the third. Each mark was a promise, a path forward, a ward against the encroaching dark.
The voice whispered again—louder now, filled with both anticipation and a mounting fear.
But the vial, the anchor Mara had given him, burned warm against his skin beneath his shirt. A tether, stabilizing his consciousness against the Tyrant's overwhelming power.
He carved the final arc.
The vision shattered.
The Mirror Plaza was gone.
Kael stood once more at the foot of the real, crumbling statue, sweat beading on his brow, his knees trembling beneath him. The shard's light dimmed in his hand, exhausted from the psychic effort.
Toren placed a steady, massive hand on Kael's shoulder. "You alright, lad? You went still—like one of these damn statues. Very convincing, but less helpful."
Kael blinked, shaking off the remnants of the vision. "The Mirror Plaza," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "It showed me what could've been. What the shadow wants. The Loom… it's down there. And it's real."
Mara approached them, her cane tapping softly against the stone, her eyes holding the knowledge of centuries. "The Loom of Fate," she confirmed, her voice somber. "An artifact of the Weavers that binds this city's destiny together. And the shadow is trying to feed from it. Twist it. That's what you felt. That's what's calling you."
Kael looked at her, his gaze hard, cutting through her sorrow. "And you? What's your part in this? You used to serve it—the shadow. You said so yourself."
Her eyes flared with guilt and regret. "I was a Priestess of the Weavers once. I guarded this Vault. The shadow is a fragment of an Aetherial being, sealed beneath the city after the Sundering. The Sleeping Tyrant. I thought it was dead. I was wrong."
Toren stiffened, his grip tightening around his hammer. "The Sleeping Tyrant. I've heard those old military tales. That's what's been whispering to him?"
Mara nodded gravely. "A piece of something that once stood beside the First Weaver… now corrupted. It wants the Loom to weave its own dominion. A tapestry of nightmares."
Kael gritted his teeth, the shard humming faintly in response. The whispers in his skull grew louder—a cacophony of secrets and temptations. But he held onto the vial, the tether that anchored him. "Then we reach it first."
He stepped to the base of the statue, tracing the runes carved into the cracked foundation. With slow, precise movements, Kael pressed the shard into the central groove.
A cold jolt of energy coursed through him.
The runes ignited.
The stone groaned, a sound of profound geological effort, and the statue's base shifted, grinding against itself, revealing the stairs fully—glowing faintly with an inner, cold light. Cold, damp air rushed up from the vault, heavy with the scent of forgotten dust and something darker still.
Toren clapped him hard on the back. "Well done, lad. Now that the door's open, let's go smash something before the landlord notices."
Lirien slipped her small hand into Kael's. Her grip was firmer than before, steady, a small, warm anchor. She didn't speak, but her presence was a stronger encouragement than any prayer.
Mara stepped beside them, her cane no longer tapping, her immense, complicated past trailing behind her like a shadow of its own making.
Behind them, the rift pulsed once more, a last desperate attempt to hold them back.
"Kael…"
The voice followed them. Hungry.
Together, they descended into the vault's cold embrace, vanishing into the welcoming darkness below.