Rheia left at twilight.
No letter. No whisper. Just a silence shaped like goodbye.
She rode north to the Vale of Shards, where the first mirrors were born—ancient relics said to hold trials for witches who'd bonded too deeply. Magic didn't like entanglement. It punished intimacy, twisted loyalty into labyrinths.
The valley was glass.
Not sand, not stone—glass. Cracked plates, jagged spirals, and towers made from mirrors that never stopped reflecting the same face.
Hers.
Not Rheia now—but Rheia without Solene.
The Trial didn't speak. It showed. One mirror shimmered—Rheia stepped inside.
She was alone in a room she'd never seen. Cold. Vast. Silent.
Then: Solene, appearing in flickers.
Laughing with someone not her.
Kissing.
Happy.
The mirror asked: Would you choose her joy without you, or her grief beside you?
Rheia reached for her own throat. Couldn't answer.
Next mirror: Solene lying in a bed of ash, murmuring Rheia's name. Fire burnt her hands. Her soul unraveling.
Would you bear her destruction if it meant being loved completely?
Rheia whispered, "No."
The mirror shattered.
Final mirror: Rheia alone. Unbound. Powerful. Whole.
But her eyes—empty.
Would you trade wholeness for longing? Or longing for peace?
Rheia stepped back. Her heart was breaking in too many directions.
Then something twisted.
A figure emerged from the shards. Pale hands. Eyes ancient. It wore her face—but colder. Mirror-born.
"You were meant to stay untouched," it said. "You've unraveled the sacred code. Possession is not love."
Rheia drew her blade. "Then love can fight you."
The figure grinned.
"So fight. And lose her."
Rheia leapt—and the valley howled.