The iron door grinned at him.
Rust-dark, serrated with teeth-shaped reliefs, its seams leaked cold air that smelled of blood. A shallow bowl sat beneath the handle, blackened with old stains.
[Trial Door Detected]— Sigil: Mouth of Teeth— Entry Cost: 1 drop of blood— Rule: Do not speak while inside— Failure: The Room learns your name
Kael's throat tightened. Speaking already felt dangerous. Now the Room itself warned him.
He pricked his thumb, let a drop fall into the bowl. The door shuddered open with a groan.
Inside, the chamber curved like a jaw. Torches burned cold light. At the far end stood a pedestal with a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. Behind it, a mosaic of mirrors gleamed, hundreds of tiny panes angled toward him.
Above the pedestal, words carved in dried blood read:
SILENCE FEEDS THE TEETH. SPEAK, AND THEY ARE HUNGARY FOR YOU.
Kael forced his steps soft as he crossed the chamber. The mirrors followed, reflections tilting unnaturally.
He touched the bundle. The oilcloth crinkled around a small, pitted mirror. He lifted it—
—and froze.
Not his reflection.
A woman stared back. Wet hair braided over her shoulder, a paper crown tilted on her brow. Her eyes were sharp, alive. Her lips shaped a word without sound—then vanished.
Kael slammed the mirror down, heart hammering. The mosaic shivered. Tiny mouths opened across the glass, whispering without sound.
[Rule Triggered]— Mirror Reflection Detected— Prompt: Trade one Memory for passage— Refusal Penalty: Teeth will learn your name
The shard pulsed inside him: a boy on a riverbank, the smell of oranges. Fragile. His only tether to himself.
His chest ached. If he gave it away, what would remain?
The Compass burned against him, its needle fixed on the pedestal. The Key of Low Tide seared his palm.
Kael pressed it to the floor. The stone shuddered. Chains rattled behind the walls. The whispers faltered.
[Partial Acceptance]— Outcome: Passage granted (conditional)— Cost: 1 Token reserved— Memory Shard remains, but is marked
Relief washed through him. He tucked the mirror back beneath the cloth.
A scrap of parchment lay at the pedestal's base, edges damp. He unfolded it.
If you feel the Compass pull past the door—follow the seam, not the smiling path. —R.
Another letter. Another ghost.
He stepped toward the archway, where stairs curled down into shadow. The mirrors cracked and warped, mouthing one last word:
HOLLOW.
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