The Elandra drifted slowly into the bay of Crownsplit Isle, its hull cutting through waters as dark as ink. The jagged cliffs loomed overhead, sharp as spearheads, casting long shadows across the docks.
Herzl stepped onto the weathered planks, the wood creaking under his boots. A salty wind stung his face, carrying the smell of seaweed and something metallic… blood, faint but unmistakable.
"This place feels… wrong," Kael muttered, glancing at the strange symbols carved into the dock pylons—spirals intersected by jagged lines, almost like a shattered sun.
Herzl crouched to study them. "Warning signs. Or maybe a challenge."
Kael smirked. "And you're the kind of man who sees both as the same thing."
A figure approached—tall, cloaked in dark red, with a carved wooden mask depicting an expressionless face. The mask's eyes were two narrow slits. The figure spoke in a slow, measured tone.
"Travelers are welcome… if they remember the three rules."
Herzl straightened. "And those are?"
The figure's head tilted slightly.
"One: Speak no lies to the Island's Watchers. Two: Trade only what you own. Three: Never look into the Shattered Mirror."
Before Herzl could ask, the figure turned and walked away, vanishing into the fog curling through the streets.
They wandered deeper into the settlement, which was less a village and more a collection of stone huts clinging to the cliffs. Lanterns swayed from hooks, casting flickers of orange across walls etched with more of those spiral symbols. Everywhere, people watched them—faces hidden by masks of wood, bone, or hammered copper.
In the marketplace, they found food unlike anything Herzl had seen—eel-wrapped bread, spiced kelp, and a drink that shimmered like liquid moonlight. Kael bought two cups of it. Herzl sniffed his suspiciously.
"It smells like firewood and honey," Kael said before downing his. "See? Not poison."
Herzl took a sip. His lips burned, but not unpleasantly. "It tastes like… bad decisions."
"Perfect for us, then."
But beneath the strange charm of the market, there was tension. Herzl noticed how quickly people turned away when he met their eyes. Even the traders spoke in clipped sentences, as if measuring every word.
That night, the crew was invited to stay in the Hall of Guests—a long stone building lined with furs and woven tapestries. While Kael played dice with sailors, Herzl explored the hall. He found a door half-hidden by a curtain. Beyond it, a narrow stair descended into darkness.
At the bottom, he discovered a chamber lit by a single oil lamp. In the center stood an object draped in black cloth. A faint shimmer leaked from beneath it.
The Shattered Mirror.
Herzl's reflection flickered in the polished floor. For a heartbeat, he saw not himself, but a twisted version—scarred, eyes burning gold, with a grin too sharp to be human.
A voice, soft but clear, drifted from nowhere.
"You are far from home, soldier. But war follows you."
Herzl stepped back, gripping the hilt of his sword, though the air itself seemed to press against him.
When he returned upstairs, Kael noticed the tension in his face.
"What happened?"
"Nothing," Herzl lied. "Just shadows."
But that night, as the wind screamed against the shutters, Herzl dreamed of the golden-eyed figure—and woke to find a single crack running down the wall beside his bed, shaped exactly like the one he'd seen in the mirror.