We remained silent until we traversed three shadowed corridors from the Council's wing, and even then, Luthen's words escaped him in a breathy whisper.
"We're doomed," he murmured. "Doomed beyond salvation. We merely linger, still drawing breath."
I seized his sleeve, drawing him into a narrow alcove cloaked in darkness. "Enough. Hush. Panic is exactly what they crave."
"They've threatened our removal."
"Yes." The word etched a metallic taste upon my tongue. "But if they truly desired our obliteration, it would have come to pass already."
"Reassuring," he replied, his voice a frail echo.
I leaned back against the frigid stone, feeling the chill seep into my bones. "They are terrified. That is why they feign ignorance of what has transpired."
Luthen rubbed at his weary face with trembling hands. "What could instill fear within the Calyra?"
I knew the bitter truth. And yet, I hesitated to utter it aloud.
Mirrors that breathe. Mirrors that choose. Mirrors that softly whisper names into shadowed corridors.
But I forced those thoughts into the depths of my mind. We needed knowledge, not terror.
So we forged a solemn pact--no mention of cards or murmurs near lamp-lit corners or glass, no solitary walks beneath the gathering darkness, and no extending trust to any archivist unknown to us.
And above all: We would investigate side by side.
The first destination lay within the forbidden floors--the ancient confinement chambers, entrenched in the western wing. Sealed for decades, they had fallen into silence. No soul ventured there anymore, and they were uttered only in whispers, ghostly tales shared among friends.
Yet, as I returned from the Council, a flicker of light caught my eye--a faint glimmer beneath a door that should have huddled in sorrowful darkness.
Luthen trailed behind, reluctance shadowing him. "Why here?"
"This wing has been forsaken for years."
"Exactly," he breathed sharply. "It's the very last place we ought to tread."
"Answers await us. This could give us something."
We turned the last corner into the desolate hallway. The air thickened around us, not colder, but suffocating, as if we waded through spectral fog. The stone wall towered overhead, illuminated only by a few sputtering lamps that buzzed futilely, as if resenting their own existence.
At the corridor's end loomed a door--metallic, ancient, its frame warped and bolted tight.
Except--it wasn't truly barred. The bolt dangled ajar, tilted as though something within had summoned it into disarray.
A soft light pulsed beneath the door, gentle and flickering, like the embrace of candlelight.
Luthen's voice trembled, "No. Absolutely not. Vaerin, I'm telling you--let's turn back."
I disregarded his plea, stepping forward. The light threw pale wraith-like forms across the floor, lengthening and thinning, reminiscent of grasping hands.
Then came a gentle tapping from beyond, slow and deliberate, like fingernails stroking glass.
I reached for the handle--Luthen grasped my wrist, his grip taut with urgency.
"Vaerin...what if there's someone trapped within?"
"Then they should not be."
But my resolve had hardened into stone.
I twisted the handle. The door groaned, creaking open with a mournful sigh. A thin breath of air escaped--warm, dusty, and almost cloyingly humid.
Inside lay a small, circular cell, its walls lined with forgotten shelves and broken restraints. Papers were strewn across the floor, shattered jars, cracked sigils, and old chains hung like melancholic vines. The air carried a scent of centuries' worth of wax and a faintly metallic odor, a pungent reminder of long-lost memories.
But the candle--the solitary relic that should never have graced this forsaken table--flickered steadily in the dimness.
And beside it...
A shard of mirror. Oval. Silver. Frame-less. Simply the surface, unyielding and cold.
It leaned against a precarious stack of tomes, just large enough to capture the countenance of any who dared approach.
My breath hitched in my throat.
Luthen's voice quivered as he murmured, "That wasn't here yesterday."
Compelled, I inched closer, unable to resist the gravitational pull. The mirror's surface shivered faintly--akin to a disturbed pool of water--and as I neared, my image coalesced into view.
But it was not quite my image. My eyes strayed from familiarity. Wider. Brighter. Too astutely aware.
I became a statue of dread.
Luthen recoiled, his hand clamped over his mouth. "Vaerin--please--stop--."
Yet a darker curiosity seized me: a notebook sprawled next to the mirror, pages splayed in disarray, brimming with hasty scrawls, not aged, not faded--fresh.
Inscribed in varied scripts, some deliberate, others frenetically drawn, all heralding the same foreboding truths:
"It sees through reflections."
"Do not respond when it calls your name."
"The theologians can no longer hear it--only we remain."
"Mirror Twelve was the first to awaken."
"If it answers, RUNNING is your only salvation."
The final page bore signs of violent neglect, torn almost entirely away--yet one line stood defiantly intact:
"The chosen archivist always receives two cards: one urging caution, one inciting command."
Two. I froze in the icy grip of realization.
I had received two cards.
And beneath the notebook, obscured by a shard of glass--a thin card lay in wait. My heart thundered like an ancient bell, its echo drowning all reason. Luthen whispered, "Vaerin...don't pick it up--"
But the urge overwhelmed me. I had no choice.
This one was raw, not polished, nor silver. It was black. Deep, heavy, void of light.
Letters were etched into its surface. Small. Precise. Undeniably formed by my own hand.
"YOU TOOK TOO LONG."
With a bone-chilling sound, the steel door behind us slammed shut.
