The mountains of Rathamar had always been considered unmappable — not because of their terrain, but because the stars above them lied. Compasses spun endlessly, celestial alignments shifted nightly, and even the birds flew in spirals. It was a place the Dominion avoided, not out of superstition, but strategy. Even they feared what could not be calculated.
And that is where the path led Indra next.
He didn't question how he knew — the knowledge had simply… settled inside him. A quiet knowing. Since the Second Silence, the world no longer revealed itself through logic, but through intuition carved by cosmic weight. Every step toward Rathamar felt like a descent into a truth too large for language. The sky here bent differently — constellations blinking like eyes that forgot how to close.
On the third night of his climb, the winds stopped completely. No rustle, no howl — not even his own breath dared break the stillness. That was when the mirror appeared.
It was not placed.
It had always been.
Hidden in a crevice between two crooked peaks was a smooth slab of obsidian the size of a temple wall, polished as though by ancient devotion. No frame. No pedestal. It simply grew out of the stone, like the mountain had been waiting all this time to speak. It reflected nothing. Not the moon. Not Indra. Only versions.
He stepped in front of it.
And it awakened.
The surface shimmered — not like water, not like metal — but like memory catching fire. Then came the visions.
A boy. Himself. But not him. Younger. Without the Forge. Without loss. Playing in sunlit fields near Kara-Tor's edge, dreaming of birds, afraid of thunder.
A man. Him again. Older. Crowned in Dominion regalia. A tyrant. Eyes dead. Voice sharp. Ordering executions with the same cadence as morning prayers.
A god. Himself, yet more — robed in light, beloved and worshipped, but utterly alone. The price of divinity plain: to be needed, but never known.
A corpse. Himself, still breathing, still walking — but hollow. The Forge devoured his soul. He moved only because the world remembered he once did.
Each version stared back.
Each spoke with his voice.
And each accused him.
"You will fail because you are weak."
"You will win because you are cruel."
"You will rise because you forget."
"You will break because you believe."
The Mirror showed no monsters. Only Indra — unfiltered, unsoftened, unforgiven.
But amidst these selves, something else emerged.
A figure draped in silk shadows. Face veiled, hands gloved. Genderless. Motionless. Watching. Not a reflection. Not a vision.
A presence.
Indra reached forward — not to touch, but to confirm — and the mirror cracked.
Just a hairline fracture. But it bled.
A thin stream of gold trickled down the obsidian surface, hissing where it touched the ground. The presence in the mirror did not move, but it whispered a name. Not his.
"Val'Shar."
The name struck something buried. A bell in the bones. The Godshard inside him pulsed. Violently. The mountain groaned in response. Valleys below quaked. Something ancient had been spoken — something forbidden.
Then the mirror shattered completely.
Not into pieces, but into possibilities.
Fragments hovered in midair — each one a portal, a door, a question. Through one, he saw the Dominion assembling warships, blood-red banners raised under artificial moons. Through another, a forest where wolves walked upright, speaking the language of flame. Another still showed a version of himself seated beside a girl with silver eyes, both staring into a fire that whispered sins.
And through one shard alone — the smallest — he saw Val'Shar.
Not a god.
Not a man.
A memory wearing skin.
The shards imploded. Light engulfed the ravine. The mountain roared and knelt. When the silence returned, Indra was alone. The mirror gone.
But in its place, a single line of text burned itself into the stone beneath his feet:
"The Third Seal will not wait to be found. It will come to you."
And he knew, without doubt — something had been released.
Not from a vault. Not from a cage.
But from within him.