Ryneth lay in bed, eyes open but afraid to blink.
If he closed them, the reflections came — twisted parodies of himself, shifting and stretching, staring straight into the marrow of his soul. But keeping them open was no better. In the corners of the room, shadows rippled and faces flickered in the dark glass of the window, all wearing that same dreadful smile.
He didn't know which was worse — sleeping or staying awake.
His own mind had turned against him, the thoughts whispering in rhythms not his own, the air pulsing with silent echoes. Only a sliver of his will remained — fragile, trembling — as if his sanity were sand slipping through his fingers.
"If I sleep tonight," he murmured to no one, "I don't think I'll ever truly wake up."
The words hung in the cold room. His candle had burned to a stump, the faint flame barely enough to keep the dark from swallowing everything whole.
He hesitated for a long while, feeling the weight of exhaustion drag at his chest. Then, almost as if surrendering, he whispered, "Maybe it's for the better. My life's always been a string of tragedies anyway."
As if summoned by that thought, memories began to flood in — the orphanage's narrow corridors, the stench of rot and candle wax, the cold hands that pulled him from the streets.
And then, Mr. William — the old transcriber who had taken him in, not out of affection, but because he needed another pair of hands to copy texts. Even so, Ryneth had learned from him. The man had been gruff but patient, teaching him the old scripts, the structures of Vesric, and the rhythm of careful thought.
William had died years later — quietly, one morning, hunched over his desk, quill still in hand. The apartment they lived in had been his, but not truly. The lease was in William's name, and after his death, Ryneth was allowed to stay only by the grace of the landkeeper's forgetfulness.
Now, that lease would soon expire.
He let out a shaky breath.
Everything in his life — the room, his sanity, even the reflection that stared back from the dark window — was borrowed time.
But after the onslaught of memories, a flicker of something else stirred — determination. As if the last fragment of his mind had seized hold of itself, even if only briefly, it pushed him forward.
He opened his eyes. The reflections and shadows still lingered, the whispers still nipped at the edges of his thoughts, but for a heartbeat, he refused to let them dictate him.
"No," he muttered, voice low but steady, "I can't lose to my own mind."
The words hung in the air, calm yet sharp, carrying the weight of defiance. It wasn't courage in its full form — far from it — but the spark of resolve was enough to pull him from the bed.
He swung his legs over the edge, planting his feet firmly on the cold floor. Every flicker in the corner of his eye, every whisper clawing at his thoughts, was now a challenge he would meet head-on.
Even if only for a moment, Ryneth felt the last of his faltering mind rally, ready to fight, ready to think, ready to act.
Ryneth stood in the middle of his small, dimly lit room, the candle flickering shadows across the walls. The reflections still danced in the corners of his vision, pale faces twisting and whispering, mocking him, testing him. Every flicker of motion — a hand reaching, a foot shifting, his own heartbeat — seemed to summon new horrors.
He clenched his fists and tried to steady his mind. His first attempts were clumsy. He froze, focusing on the smallest details, trying to resist the whispers, to make his reflections obey. But the effect was instantaneous: the reflections multiplied, their movements more erratic, the whispers shriller, almost chanting. The walls seemed to ripple, the candlelight bending in impossible angles. A cold sweat dripped down his temple.
"Why won't it work?" he muttered, voice trembling. He tried again, pacing slowly this time, watching the reflections mimic every micro-movement he made. A whisper called his name. He responded silently, resisting the urge to panic — only to have the reflections swell into dozens, dozens of him staring, grinning, clawing at the edges of his perception.
Minutes bled into hours. Every attempt felt like sinking deeper into a hall of madness. He tried slowing his breathing, closing his eyes, holding his thoughts still, but each method only seemed to invite new distortions. A shadow stretched across the ceiling, then snapped back, elongating, splitting into more faces than he could count. Every whisper became a chorus, every reflection a mirror multiplied into infinity.
And then — something shifted.
Ryneth noticed it almost by accident. When he moved — even a simple step toward the table — the reflections surged, forming patterns he could anticipate. Each whisper had a rhythm; each distorted face repeated certain motions. His heart raced, but his mind clicked.
Movement triggers the peaks. If I can predict them, I can control them…
He began to experiment. One step forward — the shadows flowed in a predictable wave. A flick of his hand — the reflections echoed, but in a mirrored delay. He forced himself to pause, mid-motion, holding his body still. The reflections hesitated, stuttered, then settled.
Slowly, he started matching their flow, testing the second step: mirroring their patterns, their whispers, their movements. It was exhausting, terrifying, almost unbearable. The whispers still shrieked, the faces still leered, but gradually, the chaos began to waver. The reflections no longer multiplied uncontrollably; the whispers no longer pierced his thoughts with the same force.
By the time he sank to the floor, knees shaking, he had achieved a fragile equilibrium. The first two steps had worked — enough to calm the storm to something he could measure, something he could manipulate. His chest heaved, but a small, dangerous spark of hope ignited.
And then he looked up at the candlelight, at the walls, at the subtle flickers still lingering in the corners of his room. He knew what came next.
The final step — acceptance, the mirror of thoughts and perceptions, the direct confrontation with the mind itself — the most perilous. One false move, one flicker of fear, and he could break completely, dissolve into the infinite reflections he had been facing.
Ryneth's body trembled as he stood in the center of his room, candlelight flickering across the walls. The reflections, the distorted faces, the whispers — they surged with renewed ferocity. His heart hammered in his chest. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, to close his eyes, to hide.
He had mastered the first two steps — pausing mid-motion, predicting the waves of reflections, and mirroring their flow. That was methodical, calculable, almost safe. But the third step… the third step was something entirely different.
He forced himself to breathe, the shadows crawling closer with every heartbeat. This was no longer about observation. This was surrender, confrontation. Acceptance of the chaos his own mind had conjured. The whispers clawed at his thoughts, circling him, filling the room with incomprehensible murmurs. Faces pressed in from every corner, staring, grinning, mocking.
Ryneth reached out with trembling hands. His voice shook as he whispered back at the murmurs, daring himself to answer what he could not understand. The faces quivered. The whispers grew louder, almost screaming in response. For a heartbeat, he felt himself losing entirely — reality bending, the candlelight warping, his mind teetering on the edge of dissolution.
"No… I can't let it win," he muttered, teeth clenched.
He forced his gaze to meet the nearest reflection — a pale version of himself, its features grotesque, twisting in ways his own face could not. He refused to look away. He mirrored the movement, just slightly, and allowed it to exist without fear. But each second felt like an eternity. The room seemed to stretch infinitely, reflections multiplying, whispers devouring, shadows slinking closer with every heartbeat.
The candle flickered violently, shadows dancing like jagged teeth. His knees buckled, sweat stinging his eyes. He wanted to flee, to scream, to collapse into unconsciousness. Every fiber of his being trembled, threatening to give in to the madness. The reflections reached out, the whispers filled every corner of his mind, and it felt like his very essence was being torn apart.
And yet — he held.
Gradually, painfully, he began to sense a rhythm beneath the chaos. The faces, the reflections, the whispers — they were following patterns. He mirrored them, acknowledged them, accepted them as extensions of himself. He replied to the whispers, let the shadows move, and confronted the reflections that refused to obey. He did not flinch. He did not scream.
The first moment of clarity was almost imperceptible. The reflections quivered, their grotesque edges softening. The whispers softened, echoing rather than assaulting. The shadows stopped lunging, lingering instead as if testing him. His breath came ragged, his body shaking, but the storm had slowed, held in fragile equilibrium.
Ryneth slumped against the wall, body trembling, mind still roaring with the residue of the struggle. "I… I survived," he whispered. "I think… I controlled it."
It was not a victory. Not yet. But for the first time, he understood — he could confront the chaos within him and emerge, even if battered.
The third step had nearly broken him, nearly consumed him entirely. But he had endured. And now, for the first time, he saw a sliver of what mastery over his own mind might truly mean.