The world twisted violently as he plunged through the surface. The cold enveloped him entirely, not like water but something far more alien - a liquid stillness that seemed to devour sound, light, and time. For a fleeting moment, there was absolute silence, a void so profound it felt as though even his thoughts had been swallowed.
Suddenly, it felt as if he broke through a wall, and then he was falling through empty air until he slammed into a hard, smooth surface. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping for air.
For several heartbeats, he lay still, his mind struggling to process what had happened. Then he pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around.
Gone were the violet crystals that had nearly killed him. In their place stretched corridors of black glass, their surfaces so perfectly reflective they seemed to hold depths that extended forever. The walls pulsed with a sickly phosphorescent glow that seemed to breathe beneath the surface, casting everything in an otherworldly pallor.
Cel pushed himself to his knees, wincing at the cold that radiated up through his palms. His reflection stared back at him from every surface - but not just one reflection. Dozens of them filled the black mirrors, and none moved when he did.
One reflection tilted its head. Another pressed its palm against the glass from the inside, fingers splayed. A third simply smiled with too many teeth.
"What in..." The word died in his throat as every reflection turned toward him in perfect unison, their movements creating a ripple effect through the mirrored halls.
He scrambled to his feet, backing away from the nearest wall. But there was nowhere to go - reflections surrounded him on all sides, each one wearing his face but moving independently. Some wept tears that left dark streaks down their cheeks. Others snarled with animal fury. One stood perfectly still, its eyes tracking his every movement like a predator sizing up prey.
The silence that had plagued him since the crystal maze was gone. Here, sound returned with vengeful intensity. Every breath he took echoed from a hundred mirrored throats. His heartbeat thundered back at him, amplified until it felt like war drums pounding in his skull.
He took a step forward, and the obsidian floor rippled beneath his feet like the lake's surface. The motion sent fresh waves of nausea through his stomach, but he forced himself to keep moving. Standing still felt like surrender.
As he walked deeper into the mirrored world, the reflections began to change. They no longer wore his current face - scarred, hardened by suffering. Instead, they showed him as he had been. The boy who had cowered before his father's fists. The son who had disappointed everyone who ever looked at him.
In one mirror, Lord Aldric's face materialized behind his younger self. His father's mouth moved in familiar patterns of rage, though no sound escaped the glass. But Cel didn't need to hear the words - he knew them by heart.
The reflection of his younger self flinched with each silent blow, shoulders hunching in the defensive posture Cel had perfected through years of beatings. Blood welled from the boy's split lip, and his eyes - Cel's own eyes - burned with helpless rage that had nowhere to go.
"Stop," Cel whispered, but the scene continued to play out behind the glass. His father's hands closed around the boy's throat, shaking him like a broken doll.
More mirrors awakened around him. His mother appeared in one, her face a mask of cold indifference as she turned her back on her bleeding son. 'He brought this on himself,' her lips seemed to say.
Darian filled another mirror, standing in the doorway with his fists clenched and his feet rooted to the floor. The older brother who had never lifted a finger to help, who had watched every beating with the detached interest of someone observing the weather. His reflection mouthed words that cut deeper than any blade. 'Not worth it.'
The mirrors multiplied as Cel stumbled forward. Faces from his past filled every reflective surface - clan members who had sneered at the failure of House Solmar, servants who had whispered about the family's shame, lords and ladies who had looked through him as if he didn't exist.
But it was the cult members who made him stop breathing.
They emerged from the deepest mirrors like nightmares given form. Purple robes that seemed to devour light, hoods that cast shadows too deep for natural darkness. Their faces remained hidden, but their presence filled the mirrored halls with the memory of pain so intense it had carved channels in his soul.
One stepped closer to the glass, and Cel saw the glint of the blade that had opened his veins countless times. Another held a vial of his own blood, dark and congealed. They had fed on his suffering for an entire year, growing strong on his weakness while his father counted the gold they'd paid for his torment.
The reflections of his younger self began to speak then, their voices overlapping in a chorus of self-hatred that made his knees buckle.
"You'll never be enough."
"You should have died in that cell."
"They saw you for what you are - weak and pathetic."
"Do you really think the gods care about your suffering?"
"You've always been a failure."
"No one is coming to save you. No one ever will."
"They were relieved to be rid of you."
Cel's ears remained useless, yet he heard everything. Each word finding the spaces between his ribs where doubt had always lived. Cel's breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling like a bellows worked by desperate hands. The silence that had plagued him since yesterday was a distant memory now - here, every cruel whisper thundered with the force of absolute truth.
He pressed his palms against his skull, fingers digging into his scalp until he felt the sharp bite of his own nails.
"You know we're right."
"You've always known."
"Stop fighting what you are."
Tears burned behind his eyes, but Cel bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood. He wouldn't break. Not for them. Not after everything he had endured.
But even as he stood defiant, the mirrors began to change. The black glass surfaces rippled like water disturbed by stones. Hairline cracks appeared, spreading outward in spider web patterns that caught the sickly light and threw it back in fractured rays.
The first reflection pressed its palm against the glass from inside, and where flesh met mirror, the barrier began to soften. Like wax held too close to flame, the obsidian surface warped and stretched.
Lord Aldric's face emerged first, pushing through the yielding mirror as if surfacing from deep water. But this was not the man Cel remembered - this version gleamed with an inner light that made his skin appear translucent, veins of silver running beneath the surface like captured starlight. When his boots touched the obsidian floor, they rang out like hammer strikes on an anvil.
"Look at you," he said, his voice carrying the weight of mountains. Each word fell like a physical blow, driving Cel back a step. "Still cowering. Still weak."
The mirror behind him continued to ripple, and more figures began to emerge. Cel's mother stepped through with ethereal grace, her form wavering like heat shimmer. His sister clung to her skirts, eyes wide with the same terror Cel had seen on that terrible day. But there was something else in her gaze now - disappointment, so profound it made his stomach clench.
"We tried to love you," his mother whispered, her voice barely audible yet somehow cutting through every other sound. "But you made it so hard."
Darian came next, his crystalline form catching the phosphorescent light as he moved. He met Cel's eyes for only a moment before looking away, his fists clenched so tightly that light leaked between his fingers.
"I wanted to help you." His crystalline form shifted slightly. "But you never made it worth the risk."
The clan members followed in a cascade of silver and shadow, their sneers frozen on faces that gleamed like marble. They moved in perfect synchronization, pointing at Cel with fingers that extended like accusatory daggers
"Disgrace."
"Failure."
"Mistake."
Their voices overlapped, creating a harmony of condemnation that made the air itself seem to thicken.
Behind them, the cultists stepped through their mirrors with barely a whisper, purple robes settling around them like shadows. They took their places among the gathering without fanfare, silent reminders of past torment.
But it was the mirrors cracking wider still that made Cel's breath catch in his throat.
His own reflections began to emerge.
They came slowly and deliberately, like hunters who knew their prey had nowhere to run. The first was himself at seven years old - small, bruised, with eyes that had already learned to expect pain. Its mirror-born body moved with the jerky, uncertain gait of a child who had been struck too many times to trust his own balance.
Another followed: the prisoner, gaunt and hollow-eyed, his ribs clearly visible beneath gaunt skin. This version of himself moved with the careful, measured steps of someone who had learned that sudden movements brought punishment.
A third reflection stepped through - older, harder, with Cel's current face but twisted by something that looked like madness. This version smiled with too many teeth, and when it spoke, its voice carried the rasp of someone who had screamed until his throat bled.
"Nothing changed," the child-reflection whispered, its voice high and broken.
The prisoner-reflection tilted its head, studying Cel with the detached interest of a scholar examining an insect. "You think escape means freedom? We know better, don't we?"
The mad-reflection threw back its head and laughed, the sound like glass grinding against stone. "Freedom? There is no freedom. There's only what they made us."
More emerged - dozens of versions of himself, each one representing a different moment of breaking, a different surrender to despair. They formed circles around him, creating a forest of accusation and self-hatred.
"You should have died in that cell," hissed a reflection with lips cracked and bleeding from dehydration.
"Death would have been kinder," agreed another, this one bearing scars the cultists had carved into his flesh.
"But you were too weak even for that," sneered a third, its throat raw and damaged from screaming.
Cel's legs gave out. He crashed to his knees on the reflective floor, the impact sending ripples across the surface. His breath came in sharp, desperate gasps, each inhalation feeling like it might be his last. The weight of their collective judgment pressed down on him, heavier than chains, more suffocating than the cultists' dungeon walls.
"Weak."
"Pathetic."
"Failure."
"Worthless."
"Coward."
"Nothing."
Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, and this time he couldn't stop them. They carved hot tracks down his cheeks, each drop hitting the ground with a sound like a funeral bell. His shoulders shook with the effort of holding himself upright as everything he'd survived, all the pain that had become his foundation, rose up to claim him.
For a moment that stretched like eternity, he felt himself falling into that familiar darkness. The void where nothing mattered because nothing had ever mattered. Where the pain was so complete it became a kind of peace.
Suddenly, he heard laughter - a wild, broken sound that scraped against the obsidian walls like fingernails on glass. It bubbled up from somewhere deep and fractured, edged with hysteria.
It took him a moment to realize it was coming from his own throat.
"Ha... haha... HAHAHA!" The sound grew louder, more unhinged with each breath. His shoulders shook violently, not with sobs but with mirth that felt like madness clawing its way out of his chest. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and burning, but still the laughter poured out of him.
The reflections paused, their sneers faltering as Cel's hysterical cackling filled the mirrored halls.
"You think... haha… you think this hurts?" He gasped between fits of laughter, his voice turning savage, primal - the sound of something fundamental snapping inside him.
"You want me broken?" he shrieked, the words torn from his throat between bursts of manic laughter. "If that's what this world wants from me - if that's what you ALL want from me - then fine! I'll break!"
For the first time since he'd entered this trial, a smile crept across Cel's face. It was a wide, happy smile full of pure delight, even though tears still streamed down his cheeks.
The mad-reflection stepped closer, its twisted smile widening. "Oh, what's this? Finally cracking, are we? About time you—"
Cel launched himself forward with a burst of euphoric laughter that sounded almost joyful. His hands slammed into the reflection's chest, sending both of them crashing to the ground. The impact rang out like a bell, but Cel barely felt it.
His laughter bubbled out of him like a spring, bright and musical as his fists pounded into the reflection's face. Each blow sent spider-web cracks racing across its crystalline features, and each crack made him laugh harder, as if this destruction was the most wonderful thing he'd ever witnessed.
The reflection tried to speak, its mouth opening in protest, but Cel's fist crashed into it again. And again. And again.
His knuckles split against the crystalline surface, his own blood mixing with the fragments. But the pain only made him laugh harder, as if each strike brought him genuine happiness.
With a final, devastating blow, the reflection exploded beneath his fists. Fragments scattered across the floor like fallen stars, each piece reflecting his tear-streaked face - still wearing that beautiful, terrible smile.
Cel knelt there in the debris, his laughter gradually fading into ragged breathing. The other reflections had gone silent, watching him with something that might have been fear.
He looked up at them with a wide and radiant smile of mad delight.
"Who's next?"