Author's POV
The corridor didn't end.
It bent. It pulsed. It deepened.
But it never ended.
Their boots echoed too long after each step. The mirrors beside them rippled with images too real to be lies. And the air smelled—worse now. Not just truth gas and dried blood, but tension.
Bitter, jealous tension.
Selvara's steps grew louder. Not in sound, but in force. Each one hit the Veil like a challenge. Her breath sharpened. Her spine straighter than usual. Her shoulders sat like coiled weapons.
Nylessa walked a half-step behind her, humming. Smirking. Her footfalls were deliberate, but graceful. Unlike Selvara's soldier's stomp, she moved like someone who expected the world to get out of her way.
"Still upset, sweetheart?" she asked sweetly.
Selvara didn't respond. Not at first. But the corridor demanded fuel. The Veil didn't want silence. It wanted bleeding edges.
"You think you're better than me," Selvara said suddenly, her voice sharp and raw.
Nylessa tilted her head. "I know I'm better than you."
Verrin muttered behind them, "Great. More ego duels. Nothing says teamwork like unresolved childhood trauma with boobs."
Grimpel hovered higher, intentionally staying out of scratching range. "I give it ten more steps before someone draws steel."
Selvara stopped walking.
"I was chosen," she said, voice firm. "Clive trusts me. I've bled with him. Protected him. You? You're just the leftover spell that never made it past draft one."
Nylessa's eyes narrowed. Her smile widened.
"Cute," she replied. "Tell me, though. Has he thanked you? Or just grunted in your direction after one of your perfectly timed sword flourishes?"
Selvara opened her mouth—but Nylessa wasn't finished.
"Actually… let's settle this properly," she said, almost lazily. "Clive."
He paused. Shoulders tight. A faint throb from the Wyrmstone.
Nylessa turned to him, eyes glittering.
"Did you and Selvara sleep together?"
The corridor stilled.
Even the distant hum seemed to hold its breath.
Clive didn't flinch.
"Yes."
Selvara blinked.
Grimpel turned his skull. "Oh. This is new."
Nylessa leaned in. "And?"
Clive hesitated. Just one second.
But the corridor thrived on honesty. The Veil made sure of that.
He exhaled, low.
"It was… average."
Time died.
Selvara stared at him like he'd just drawn a blade across her chest.
Nylessa's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh gods," she whispered. "You said it."
Verrin exploded with laughter.
He stumbled forward, clutching his ribs. "Average?! That's what you lead with?! Bro, you just cast disappointment as a spell."
Grimpel actually gasped. "Even I felt that one. Poor girl's got stitched skin and a bruised ego now."
Selvara stepped back. Her expression unreadable—but her eyes?
Fire.
Nylessa raised her hands. "Alright. I wasn't expecting that to work."
But then, before anyone else could speak—Clive's brows furrowed.
He turned around.
"…Verrin?"
Nothing.
Only the mirrored corridor behind them—cold, reflective, and empty.
Selvara turned, scanning. "He was right there."
Grimpel looked around slowly. "Okay. This isn't funny."
"Clive?" Nylessa's voice was sharper now. "You saw him last."
Clive nodded once. "He was behind me when I spoke."
Nylessa's eyes narrowed. "Then where the hell did he go?"
Selvara stepped toward the space Verrin had occupied moments before. There were no footprints. No marks. Just smooth floor. Clean stone. Mocking silence.
"I say we go back," Selvara said. "He can't be far. Maybe the corridor looped somehow, maybe he stopped walking. We should check."
"No," Nylessa said flatly. "We keep moving."
Selvara turned on her. "Of course you'd say that. You'd leave anyone behind, wouldn't you? Maybe that's why you're alone. Maybe that's why your kind died off."
Nylessa didn't flinch.
She just smiled—slow and cold.
"At least I'm not average."
The silence struck like lightning.
Grimpel's eye sockets dimmed. Selvara's jaw clenched so tight it creaked. Even Clive looked like he might say something… cruel.
But he didn't.
Instead, his voice came like steel dragged over frost.
"We move forward."
Selvara looked at him. Hurt warring with duty in her eyes. She hesitated. But she obeyed.
They all did.
Step by step.
The corridor narrowed once more, like a throat preparing to swallow.
The mirrors stopped showing reflections.
Instead, they whispered.
They whispered names.
Old ones.
Forgotten ones.
Ones that had no business being remembered.
Clive's name.
Selvara's former mentor.
Nylessa's mother.
Grimpel's lost daughter.
The voices were low, curling out like mist, sliding past their ears and into their chests.
Grimpel hovered a little closer to Clive. "I think the mirrors want us to feel smaller."
Selvara's hand twitched near her blade. "I already feel like a fucking insect."
Nylessa walked calmly, but her shadow stretched longer than it should have.
Somewhere behind them, a laugh echoed faintly—thin and distant.
It wasn't Verrin's.
They didn't speak again.
They walked forward into the dark.
And the Veil smiled.