Silas awoke in a corridor that seemed endless, walls of mirrors reflecting not only his image but infinite versions of himself. Each reflection whispered a memory, some true, some false, weaving a labyrinth that threatened to trap him forever.
Lyra's violin played faintly in the distance, a beacon guiding him through the mirrored maze. Every step felt heavier than the last; the tyrant's influence was pervasive, reshaping reality to confuse, torment, and consume.
"Silas," Lyra called from afar, "the key isn't to fight him here. It's to remember who you are, even if it costs you everything else."
He clenched his fists. The reflections mocked him—faces of friends and foes blurred together, shadowed by time's distortion. He struck the mirrors in frustration; each crack echoed like a gunshot in the stillness. Pieces of himself fell away with every strike, memories he could no longer summon.
At the center of the labyrinth, a grand clock tower appeared, impossibly tall. Its hands spun with reckless abandon, the numbers crawling like insects across its face. Silas sensed the tyrant there, waiting, drawing strength from the chaos.
He took a deep breath. Lyra's melody strengthened, intertwining with his own notes. Together, they began a composition so raw and desperate that it threatened to tear the very walls of the universe. The labyrinth trembled, mirrors shattering into shards that floated like petals around them.