Author's POV
The corridor bent one last time and opened.
Not into another hallway, not into a stairwell or shrine—but into a chamber so still it felt like even sound had been banished for telling too many secrets.
It was vast and circular. The walls were pulsing veils of greenish light, like someone had bottled envy and poured it into glass. Every surface shimmered with reflections that didn't always match the people walking across the floor.
The air was thick. Not with dust, but with memory. Ancient tension. Like every argument the world had ever known had been collected here and fermented until ripe.
At the center stood a platform shaped like an eye—stone lashes curling upward, and at its center, a pupil of polished obsidian. It glistened like wet ink, or spilled blood. Six towering mirrors surrounded it, each one ten feet tall, each forged from black stone and silver veins. They weren't placed randomly—they were aimed inward. Watching the center.
Clive was the first to step inside. His hand didn't leave his blade.
"This is a test," he said.
"No," Grimpel said, floating in behind him. "This is theater. And someone's watching."
The others entered cautiously. The moment Selvara crossed the platform's edge, the floor shifted—no tremble, just a whisper through the stone. Like a spine adjusting itself.
Then the mirrors activated.
A low hum rolled through the room, almost musical. One by one, the mirrors lit up—casting faint images onto their glass. But they didn't reflect. They revealed.
Clive's mirror showed him seated atop a throne of ash and bone, one boot on a pile of broken crowns.
Selvara's image was her arm-in-arm with Clive, draped in royal blue, while Nylessa stood in chains at their feet.
Grimpel's showed him whole again—alive, young, robed in golden threads, holding a daughter in his arms.
Nylessa's mirror didn't show a future. It showed a burning cradle. Her face twisted in rage, not sorrow.
A voice filled the room. Soft. Seductive. Neither male nor female.
"Envy is the blade that doesn't cut flesh—it carves desire."
The mirrors pulsed in sync.
"Name the one you would replace."
Grimpel snorted. "That's the game? Pick a favorite and stab them in the back? Cute."
Selvara's mirror pulsed green. Her reflection grinned.
"No lies," the voice warned. "Truth is the toll. Lies are punished."
Clive stepped back from his mirror. His reflection didn't move. It stayed on the throne.
Grimpel floated forward, arms crossed. "Fine. I'd replace Clive. Just to see how you all survive without your favorite angsty meat puppet."
His mirror rippled. Then flickered.
"False envy," the voice said. "You desire legacy. Not his fall."
Grimpel rolled his eye sockets. "What, you've got a soul scanner built in?"
Then Nylessa walked forward. She stared into her mirror. The flames reflected off her eyes.
"Let me guess," she said coldly. "This is the part where I confess who I hate most."
"Who would you replace," the voice repeated.
"I wouldn't replace anyone," she said. "I don't envy children."
The mirror cracked. A hairline fracture ran across the surface. The flames flickered. Then the glass screamed. Not audibly—but in the mind.
Nylessa stepped back, lips parted in pain.
Selvara's voice cut through the tension. "You think you're above this?"
Nylessa laughed, but it had no warmth. "No. I just know how envy feels when it stares back."
Selvara turned to her own mirror. Her reflection now sat where Nylessa should have been—in chains, at Clive's feet.
She hesitated.
"I'd replace her," she said quietly. "Nylessa."
The mirror pulsed in approval. Her reflection smiled.
Nylessa said nothing. Her shadow seemed to grow darker.
Clive turned to his mirror.
It didn't speak.
Instead, it shifted. The image inside became a battlefield, corpses all around. At the center was Verrin—on his knees, laughing, alone.
"Where is he?" Clive asked.
The voice answered: "You left him."
Grimpel's flame dimmed. "No. No, that's not—"
Then the sixth mirror pulsed. The one no one had stood before.
It shimmered slowly.
Inside it—Verrin. Suspended. Arms slack. Eyes closed. As if held in sleep.
The others moved forward. Selvara gasped. "Is that—?"
"It's him," Clive said.
The mirror shimmered again—and Verrin's eye opened.
Only… it wasn't his eye.
It glowed green. Solid green. Like the Veil itself had entered him.
Nylessa whispered, "Oh no."
The voice spoke once more:
"Only envy sets him free."
Grimpel floated back. "You mean we have to betray someone… to save him?"
"Offer the replacement. The most honest envy. One name. Spoken together."
The room darkened. The mirrors pulsed faster. The floor cracked. The Veil grew hungry.
They all hesitated.
Then Selvara stepped forward again.
"I stand by my answer," she said. "Nylessa."
Nylessa turned. Her voice low. "Of course you do."
Clive looked between them. "This isn't real. They want us to—"
"Say it," the voice demanded. "Or he remains mine."
A second voice whispered now. From the mirror with Verrin.
"Please," he said. "Don't let me stay here."
Grimpel whispered, "This isn't a test anymore. This is possession."
Nylessa closed her eyes.
"Fine," she said. "Replace me."
All mirrors stopped.
Verrin's cracked.
And then he screamed.
The chamber shook. His mirror shattered. Glass fell like feathers.
He fell with it. Onto the platform, coughing, clutching his head.
The Veil-light pulsed violently—once. Twice. Then faded.
The mirrors went black.
And a final voice—cold and pleased—spoke:
"Envy always feeds."
Verrin opened his eyes. They were his. But something lingered behind them.
The group stood in silence. No one spoke of who had named whom.