I waited until the third bell of the night — that breath between the shifting of guards and the silence of the sleeping.
Then I moved.
No plan. No allies. Just the shard in my satchel and the fire curling slowly behind my ribs.
Pain Conversion: 42%
System dormant.
No skills unlocked.
But it was there — humming. A whisper beneath my skin. Not a voice, exactly, but a pull.
And it was pulling me north.
The Eastern Tower Vault was the oldest part of the palace. Abandoned for decades. Said to be unstable. Dangerous.
They closed it off after a fire twenty years ago — a fire I now suspected was less accident, more cover-up.
I followed the passageways that had long since been erased from public maps. I remembered some of them — not from memory exactly, but from motion. My feet moved like they'd walked this path before, even if my mind refused to catch up.
Twice I had to stop. Once to hide from patrolling guards. Once because the shard in my bag began to burn — so hot I thought it might ignite through the linen.
When I finally found the sealed arch, my breath caught.
It looked untouched.
Iron door. Ancient sigils. A royal crest that had long since worn down.
But I recognized it.
Because I designed it.
Back when I still ruled.
I pressed my palm to the center of the seal.
Nothing happened.
Of course not.
That queen was dead.
And this hand…
...wasn't hers.
Not to them.
So I did the only thing I could.
I took the shard.
Pressed it into the center of the seal.
And bled.
The iron groaned.
Sigils flared — not with light, but with heat. Faint. Flickering.
The door didn't swing open.
It exhaled.
And then, slowly, it began to part.
Dust spilled into my lungs.
The smell of old fire. Melted glass. Memory.
And something else.
Something watching.
Inside was darkness.
Deeper than I expected.
Not just shadow.
Weight.
The kind that made your thoughts loud and your breath sharp.
I stepped in.
One foot. Then another.
The torch in my hand sputtered. But the shard in my pocket flared — a soft red pulse, lighting the chamber better than flame ever could.
There were mirrors everywhere.
Broken.
Some shattered. Some warped. Some humming quietly, like they were still dreaming.
And in the center, on a pedestal of stone…
The Mirror of Vasselreth.
Whole.
Untouched.
Tall as a man. Its frame a spiral of bone-white silver. Its glass surface perfectly black, like ink on water.
It didn't show me.
Didn't reflect.
It only stared.
I approached, slow.
Each step echoed too loudly.
The mirror remained still.
But the shard — the one I'd carried — floated from my satchel on its own.
I didn't touch it.
It rose.
As if it remembered the place it belonged.
And then—
It screamed.
Not aloud.
In my head.
A sound like fire being torn open. A sound like a thousand voices dying in reverse.
I fell to my knees, hands on my ears, though it didn't help.
Pain Conversion: 52%
System Warning: Mirror contact initiating internal recall.*
Mental integrity threatened.
Do not proceed.
I should've stopped.
I didn't.
Because I saw her.
In the glass.
Me.
But not this face.
My old one.
Delmira.
Hair long. Eyes dark with rage. Gown shredded. Skin blackened in places, still glowing from the flames that had eaten her alive.
She was inside.
Not a reflection.
A prisoner.
And she looked at me with fury.
You left me.
"No," I whispered, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes. "They tore me from you."
You forgot me.
"Never."
Then come.
The surface of the mirror began to shift — rippling like liquid, like silver swallowing itself. The shard floated forward.
I stood.
Reached.
Just as my fingers grazed the edge—
Steel rang.
A blade slammed against the stone behind me.
I turned.
And saw a shadowed figure at the edge of the vault.
Not a guard.
Worse.
The knight-commander.
Kaelen's executioner.
His face was hidden beneath a hood. His blade dripped something dark and oily. His voice, when he spoke, was colder than the vault.
"You should not be here."
I stepped between him and the mirror.
"I've earned the right."
"No one earns the mirror," he said. "They only die with it."
Pain Conversion: 58%
System active.
Warning: Defensive protocol may trigger at 60% threshold.
My skin began to burn.
Not pain.
Power.
And the mirror behind me?
It smiled.