Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Stolen Mirror
Far beyond the familiar reaches of Riverfort, past the jagged peaks of Silver Ridge and the broken, sunbaked plains known as the Scorching Barrens, loomed Ashwatch Citadel—a fortress as much a legend as it was a prison for secrets.
Built of black volcanic stone, its walls seemed to drink the light, swallowing whole the orange dusk that bled across the horizon. Iron spires reached like claws into the heavy sky, and banners, faded and tattered, hung limp with the scent of smoke and rust.
Few dared venture here—and fewer lived to tell tales.
Inside the labyrinthine halls, the only illumination came from sputtering torches set in iron sconces carved with skulls and curling flame motifs. The heavy air was thick with the acrid smell of smoldering embers and dust, and whispered echoes seemed to twist with every footstep.
At the heart of the citadel lay the Vault of Flames—a chamber sealed by ancient wards and guarded by men sworn to hunt relics older than history itself.
Tonight, a prize rested in its core.
A pedestal of dark stone rose beneath a single shaft of moonlight filtering through the cracked ceiling. Upon it, encased in a prism of reinforced glass, lay the Stolen Mirror—the third of the seven mystical mirrors whose fates were entwined with the world's forgotten truths.
The mirror's frame was wrought from black iron, forged into sinuous shapes like licking flames frozen in time. Its surface was unnervingly smooth and perfectly reflective—but instead of showing the chamber around it, the glass seemed to absorb everything, swallowing shadows and light alike.
It pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
Master relic-hunter Eron paced before the mirror. His lean frame was cloaked in ash-gray robes embroidered with ember-red thread. His eyes—sharp and calculating—never left the dark glass.
"So much power contained within a single frame," he murmured, voice low and reverent. "And yet it refuses to reveal its true face."
From the shadowed corner, his apprentice—a young man with eyes wide from awe and fear—stepped forward cautiously.
"Do you fear it, Master?"
Eron laughed—a sound brittle and sharp, like breaking glass.
"Fear is the refuge of the ignorant," he said coldly. "We use power. We bend it to our will. This mirror will serve us—if we can unlock its secrets."
But the mirror had secrets of its own.
As the citadel's heavy stones groaned under the night's chill, a slow pulse began within the glass.
Like a heartbeat.
From the depths of the blackened surface, soft whispers rose—barely audible, threading through the silence like ghostly tendrils.
Names. Promises. Threats.
Eron leaned in closer, breath fogging the glass.
"Show yourself," he commanded, voice steady despite the tension curling in his gut.
The mirror rippled—liquid darkness flowing like water disturbed by a sudden stone.
Faces emerged—many faces—twisted in silent agony and furious rage.
Then, one voice, clearer than the rest, rang out:
"You hold what is not yours."
Eron's lips curled in a sneer.
"Then take it," he spat.
Suddenly, the mirror flared—black flames licking outward in a sudden eruption that illuminated the vaulted chamber with an eerie glow.
Shards of flame erupted—not burning, but binding.
Eron's hands froze mid-air, fingers stiffening as if gripped by invisible chains.
The apprentice's startled scream shattered the heavy silence.
Thousands of miles away, in the quiet sanctuary of Riverfort, Talen and Lira both felt it—the tremor of ancient power awakening.
The shard from the Cracked Mirror pulsed violently in Talen's palm, a fierce heat radiating from within.
"It's happening," Lira gasped, eyes wide with dread.
Talen's jaw clenched.
"The Stolen Mirror is awake."
Back in Ashwatch, the mirror's surface cracked—fine hairline fractures spidering across the glass.
Beneath the fractures glowed a deep ember, alive and swirling with whispered voices.
The flames were no ordinary fire.
They were voices—echoes of the forgotten.
Calling.
Waiting.
Eron struggled to move but the invisible bonds tightened.
"Who are you?" he demanded, voice trembling with equal parts rage and fear.
The mirror's fractured surface shimmered and shifted.
"We are the forgotten. The silenced. The shadows behind your flame."
Eron's eyes burned with defiance.
"You will not control us."
"No. But we can choose who controls you."
The chamber trembled violently.
Ashwatch's foundations groaned like a wounded beast.
Outside, the first rumble of a storm stirred the night sky.