The comet‑lantern vanished into the horizon less than a day ago, yet its shockwaves already reverberated through Nightspire. Servants whispered of thunder over the Surface Realm though no cloud marred the sky. Scribes rushed parchment into the archives, chronicling "The Empress's Ultimatum" before the ink had even cooled on my signature. And everywhere I walked, nobles dipped lower, measuring the distance between fear and respect.
I couldn't savor their newfound caution; unease knotted behind my ribs. Power never flows one way. What I hurled at King Myron would circle back—whether as capitulation or cunning reprisal, I could not guess. Waiting for news felt like lying on a sacrificial slab, blade spinning overhead.
So, when the Blind Archivist sought me at midday with an invitation sealed in black wax, I welcomed distraction.
Her Imperial Grace is requested in the Mirror Wing.—R. E. S.
Ravan's initials. A summons to the one corridor he had repeatedly warned me from. Was this another test of courage, or a necessity born of last night's declaration? Either way, I would not be turned aside by riddles. I sent Calia to gather a satchel of soul‑salt and moon‑dust. The child returned pale; still, she laced my gloves without complaint.
The Blind Archivist waited at the threshold of the forbidden wing, hands folded atop his cane. At our approach, old glass lamps flared to a ghostly glow, revealing a hall narrower than the others—its walls seamlessly mirrored from floor to vault, reflecting infinity upon infinity until sight blurred.
"I thought mirrors here remember," I told him.
"They do," he answered softly. "Today, they recite."
We entered. Footsteps thudded muffled by carpets woven in roses the color of dried blood. Every few strides my reflection splintered—past selves, half‑selves, possible selves flickering like shards in a kaleidoscope. In one pane I wore a crown; in another, shackles. I forced myself not to flinch.
"The Mirror Wing was built by the first Empress of Tenebris," the Archivist said, guiding me deeper. "She believed prophecy could be bound within glass. Each panel traps echoes of futures aborted, choices unmade."
"Can futures bite?" I murmured.
"Some do worse than bite."
At last we reached a vaulted chamber whose center rose into a colossal mirrored obelisk. Its eight faces rippled with silver light; veins of red pulsed beneath, reminiscent of blood coursing under skin.
Ravan stood before it, wings furled tight, hands clasped behind his back. He nodded as we approached. "Leora. Archivist." His eyes glittered with unusual gravity. "Time runs narrow. Listen well."
The Archivist withdrew to the doorway, leaving us alone with the mirrored monolith.
Ravan gestured to its surface. "This is the Chrona Glass—heart of the Mirror Wing. It reflects a singular future most probable at the instant one gazes upon it. Twice before, I have risked its vision: on the eve of my first coronation, and the night I forged covenant with shadow flame."
I thought of faded portraits, erased emperors. "Did the vision spare you?"
"It scarred me with truth. But truth is the only armor worth wearing." He faced me fully. "After your ultimatum, threads of fate convulsed. Prophets choke on contradictions. I need clarity—and clarity is costly. The Chrona Glass demands two lives' worth of memory for each glimpse."
"Lives?"
"Not people—experiences. Years you have lived may vanish, leeched to feed the reflection. A cruel tithe, but lesser than blind calamity."
A tide of doubt rose. To forfeit memory was to rob myself of self. Yet ignorance might doom realms under my name.
"What must I do?" I asked.
He opened his palm. Within lay a strip of silk embroidered with silver sigils—a blindfold.
"You will see through absence," he said. "Vision strikes the mind's core, not the eyes. Trust me to guard your body while your spirit weighs the future." A wry tilt of lips. "I have some practice."
I drew a breath, steadying tremor. "Very well." I handed Calia my satchel; she accepted with white knuckles and excused herself. Alone now with Ravan and the monolith, I allowed him to tie the blindfold. Silk caressed lids, shutting the world to black.
His fingers lingered at the knot. "Hold to my voice," he murmured. "If memories slip, anchor yourself in the sound."
"Then keep talking," I whispered.
He guided my gloved hand, pressing my palm flat to the cool glass. A jolt like winter lightning sparked through my nerves. Darkness behind the blindfold fractured—then flooded with color.
I stood on fractured marble strewn beneath a blazing, split sky—one half sapphire day, the other star‑strewn night. Two armies faced each other: mortal banners of Aurelian snapping in a cold wind; demonic legions of Tenebris advancing with silent purpose. Between them, atop a dais of bone, the Demon Emperor—no crown, eyes like abyss—and opposite, King Myron in gilded armor tarnished by fear.
As I watched, the king knelt, proffering chains. Ravan raised a hand—yet from those chains poured black fire, engulfing him. The emperor staggered. In a blink the battlefield inverted: Demons fell writhing, mortals surged. An arrow of white light shot from Myron's scepter—straight through my own chest. Pain blossomed; I tasted iron and roses.
The vision warped, rewove: Now I sat on Tenebris's throne, crown too heavy, skin cracked like porcelain. Every breath exhaled ash; each blink shed memories—faces dissolving into smoke until only Ravan's lingered, distant, unreachable beyond a prison of mirrors.
Scene shattered; shards spun outward, each reflecting alternate horrors: a city drowned in molten gold, Calia weeping over empty armor, the Blind Archivist blinded anew and flayed.
Voices echoed: Choose, choose, choose.
I clutched my head—yet remembered Ravan's instruction. Anchor to his voice. But silence reigned… until faintly, I heard him.
"Leora, hold," he said somewhere far. "Take the reins."
I reached for the sound. Threads of memory tugged: stargazing atop Aurelian's spire; my queen's laugh; the plague cures; Calia's tea; Ravan brushing ash from my cheek. I seized them, weaving a cord around my heart.
The visions slowed. From their whirlwind one frame crystallized—sharp, bright: Ravan and I standing back‑to‑back before a vortex of shattered crowns, our joined hands radiating twin lights—one silver, one emerald—fusing into blinding white. The vortex imploded, leaving dawn across both realms.
The image burned gold, then folded into darkness.
Hands caught me as numbness lifted. The silk blindfold loosened; light stabbed my eyes. I sagged, but Ravan's arms steadied me.
"How much did it take?" I rasped.
He studied me—half sorrow, half awe. "A single year," he said. "Your seventeenth. Can you recall it?"
I rifled mental shelves. Sixteenth year: apprenticeship, first soul‑stitch. Eighteenth: outbreak at the Silver Mines. Seventeen… misty. Music in gardens? A crush on a court scholar? The span felt hollow, like pages torn from a diary. But the rest remained.
"I'll survive," I muttered.
"And what did you see?"
I described the armies, the poisoned chains, the duel of lights, the fused dawn. He listened keenly.
"That arrow striking you," he said at last, "was forged of sanctified star‑iron. Nulls demonic power and mortal soul‑craft alike."
"Then Myron plots more than apology," I said.
Ravan's jaw flexed. "I will double Nightspire's veils."
"Wait." I laid a hand on his arm. "The final vision—when we joined powers—undid the calamitous future."
"Perhaps," he allowed. "But prophecy rarely gifts instructions. Only possibilities."
"Let's make that possibility certainty," I said. "We train—learn to merge magicks before he arms such an arrow."
A breath of silence. Then a slow, genuine smile curved his lips, rare as comet fire. "Ambitious witch."
I tried to return the smile but dizziness swamped me. He swept me into his arms with alarming ease. "You gave a year; you'll rest."
I found no strength to protest.
Back in my chamber, Calia fussed while Ravan issued curt orders to a healer who applied cool salve to my temples. As the healer departed, I caught Ravan's sleeve. "One question more."
He arched a brow.
"The first empress who built the Mirror Wing—what became of her?"
He hesitated. "She saw a future where Tenebris enslaved all realms. To prevent it, she imprisoned herself within the glass." He gestured toward the Mirror Wing's distant hall, now dark. "Her sacrifice shaped millennia."
"Self‑sacrifice again," I murmured, eyelids heavy.
Ravan brushed hair from my face. "Rest, Leora. Tomorrow, lessons. And soon, the king's answer." He paused at the threshold. "Whatever future the glass favors, remember: my realm has never bowed to mortal treachery."
I drifted into sleep.
Dreams came—echoes of the stolen year. I glimpsed dancing under lanterns with a faceless boy, laughter ringing—then the memory dissolved, for it no longer existed. Emptiness yawned where sentiment once lived. Yet in its place, a seed of something new sprouted: determination not to lose another year, another heart, another realm.
When I woke, morning's violet hue pulsed brighter—an omen? Calia perched beside the bed, holding a sealed missive trembling in her hands.
"A messenger from the Veil Gates," she whispered. "The king's reply arrived… not by rider, but by raven wrought of silver sand."
She handed it over. I broke the seal. Within, on parchment scorched at the edges, sprawled a single sentence in the king's florid hand:
Surrender yourself or watch your demon fall by star‑iron; dawn of the next full moon will decide.
Beneath, a smear—not ink, but blood, dried rust‑brown. My stomach clenched.
"We have eight nights," I said aloud.
The chessboard of fate slid into focus. I would not surrender; equally, I would not trade Ravan's life for vengeance. The fused light in the vision—silver and emerald—hinted at a path between.
I rose, donning the blue coat Calia had laid out. "Fetch the Blind Archivist," I ordered. "We begin research into star‑iron lore. Then find Lord Auron. It is time the Surface Realm learns fear."
Calia hurried off. I pinned the king's letter to my dressing mirror with a dagger, a reminder of the blade suspended above us all.
Eight nights. Enough to forge alliance or armageddon.
Outside, thunder cracked though the sky remained clear. Nightspire heard the challenge and answered with storm‑born echoes. I inhaled, tasting metal on the air.
The game had entered its next gambit, and I, memory‑scarred but unbroken, was ready to play.