Chapter 15 – The Well of Reflections
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They entered the canyon before dawn.
The shard Sirael had given them guided their steps—its pulse aligned with the rhythm of Anterz's heart, like it knew where he would walk before he did.
The path narrowed quickly. The walls closed in. Light disappeared behind them.
And still they descended.
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By midmorning, they no longer walked through rock, but through memory.
The canyon's stone shimmered.
Not from heat.
From reflection.
The walls now showed versions of Anterz and Elaria: bloodied, regal, dead, triumphant, monstrous.
One wall showed Anterz with a crown of thorns, seated on a throne made of writhing supplicants.
Another showed Elaria as a Choir Empress, singing armies into being.
Anterz turned away.
But the visions turned with him.
They always did.
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At last, they reached the bottom.
And there, suspended over a mirror so vast it had no end, floated the Third Well.
It hung in the air like a glass heart wrapped in silver roots. Below it, the mirror reflected everything—not just the canyon, but every path, every future, every version of the people who looked into it.
The moment Anterz stepped forward, the Well stirred.
And the reflections rose.
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The first was simple.
A mirror-Anterz, clad in gold, crowned with light, bearing Valteris as a scepter instead of a blade.
"I brought peace," he said. "Why won't you?"
Anterz did not answer.
He didn't need to.
He raised the real Valteris.
And struck.
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Steel clashed with illusion.
But this illusion bled.
Gold-Anterz staggered, shocked.
"You chose suffering," he gasped.
"I chose freedom," Anterz said.
He cut him down.
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More came.
From the mirror's surface, they crawled, climbed, flew.
A hundred versions.
Some noble.
Some monstrous.
Some broken.
Some perfect.
Each one bearing a shard of truth Anterz had long tried to ignore.
Each one declaring: "I am what you should have been."
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He fought them one by one.
Each duel harder than the last—not because they were stronger…
But because they understood him.
His doubts.
His weaknesses.
They moved with his instincts.
Spoke with his voice.
Fought with his worst thoughts.
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One struck low, whispering:
> "Let her die. It's easier."
Anterz parried.
"Not this time."
He beheaded it cleanly.
Another fought beside a Choir-crowned Elaria, laughing, saying:
> "She begged me to stay. You let her go."
He disarmed that one. Left it kneeling.
Refused to finish it.
That silence hurt more than a sword.
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Elaria watched from the edge, eyes wide.
She didn't interfere.
This was his fight.
His reflection.
But she saw what it cost.
With every strike, his eyes dimmed a little more.
With every death, he looked less like a man and more like a scar.
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The final reflection was the worst.
It looked no different from him.
Same voice. Same stance.
But it carried nothing.
No sword.
No armor.
Just certainty.
"You know I'm right," it said. "The Choir offers the only truth that matters: permanence. Peace."
Anterz's hand trembled.
This one was not a tyrant. Not a monster.
It was him, if he'd just chosen to rest.
To stop fighting.
To finally—finally—lay down the weight.
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"What are you?" he asked.
"I'm the end of your burden," it said.
Then it stepped forward.
And embraced him.
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Not in mockery.
Not in attack.
Just held him.
And whispered:
> "Just say yes."
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For one heartbeat, Anterz's arms dropped.
Valteris slipped.
His knees nearly buckled.
He thought of the people in Vel Saren, smiling.
He thought of Rayn, dead and unburied.
He thought of the Choir King, waiting beyond the fifth Well.
And of Elaria.
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He opened his eyes.
Whispered:
"No."
Then drove his hand into the reflection's chest.
No blade.
No magic.
Just force.
And truth.
The reflection shattered.
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The mirror below cracked.
The Well screamed.
Above it, the false possibilities bled out, howling as they were unmade.
Anterz staggered back to the edge.
Elaria caught him.
He looked into her eyes.
And for a moment—just a moment—he didn't hate himself.
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Together, they stepped to the Well.
Drove Valteris through its core.
And let it die.
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This time, there was no explosion.
No storm.
Just a wind.
A breath.
As if the world had exhaled a lie it had been holding for far too long.
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They climbed in silence.
The shard Sirael had given them was gone.
Melted into dust.
Its duty done.
Three Wells remained.
But now Anterz knew something deeper.
He could defeat the Choir's army.
He could even wound its King.
But the final battle would be against himself.
The version the Choir still sang about.
The one they still remembered.
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High above the canyon, the stars aligned.
And from their shifting patterns, a voice whispered through the wind:
> "Come home, Anterz."
> "We remember you still."
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