The valley shimmered beneath a milky-blue sky, its curves and ridges framed by glassy rivers and trees with leaves like silver coins. Mira stood at the crest of a low hill, boots caked with mud, cloak snagged on a bush's thorns, and the air thick with expectation. The Die pulsed in her satchel like a second heartbeat. Somewhere ahead, in the heart of Whisperglass Vale, was the Vault of Reflection—and, according to Therian's maps, the mask of Mazren Kel.
The mask was said to show one's true self… and sometimes more than that. It had once belonged to a Fatebinder, a seer who saw not just the future but all potential futures, and it was rumored to react to the bearer's soul. Therian's instructions were simple: retrieve the mask, don't put it on, and—if possible—don't look at it too long.
So naturally, Mira would probably end up doing all three.
The Halflings flanked her as usual, arguing about whether soup counted as a drink or a food. Reeko was firmly in the "drink" camp, Pipla was aggressively pro-spoon, and Jory simply refused to acknowledge soup as a legitimate concept. He was eating a raw potato, possibly out of spite.
"So," Mira said, interrupting their soup-debate-cum-culinary-war, "anyone here been to Whisperglass Vale before?"
"Only in dreams," Reeko replied solemnly.
Pipla grunted. "Which he insists were prophetic, even though one involved a giant duck made of bees."
Jory nodded. "Still a better guide than that cursed map."
Said map was now pinned open across Pipla's shield, fluttering in the breeze, its ink shifting every time Mira blinked.
They descended into the vale, boots squishing through dewy moss. Fog hugged the ground, cool and whispering. The trees leaned in conspiratorially, their bark slick like frozen tears. The further they traveled, the more reality seemed to ripple—sound arrived late, their shadows walked half a step ahead, and once, Mira saw a glimpse of herself smiling when she wasn't.
"I hate this place," Pipla muttered, gripping her warhammer tight.
"Agreed," Mira said. "It feels like someone painted a dream on top of a nightmare."
Then the fog parted—and standing before them was… Mira .
Not just her reflection.
A mirror-version, dressed in pale silks, a perfect sneer on her lips and the silver Die cupped casually in one palm. Her eyes glowed faintly.
"Oh, brilliant," Mira groaned. "This again."
The double tilted her head. "You shouldn't have come, Mira . The mask isn't meant for you."
Mira stepped forward. "And who, exactly, is it meant for?"
"You. But not this you."
With a sudden shimmer, the figure burst into a thousand floating shards of light that spun into the mist and disappeared.
Jory whistled. "I liked her better. At least she dressed fancy."
Reeko turned to Mira , more serious than usual. "That was no illusion. This vale… it echoes your choices. You must be careful. The deeper we go, the more of you you'll meet."
"Oh joy," Mira muttered. "My own personal haunted mirror maze."
They pressed on, deeper into the vale. Every few minutes, something shifted: an echo of laughter that wasn't theirs, a footstep with no owner, even fragments of Mira 's voice repeating thoughts she hadn't said aloud yet.
Eventually, they reached a clearing where seven tall glass pillars rose from the ground like frozen lightning. In the center was a stone plinth, and atop it—resting as if it had always belonged—was the mask.
It was elegant, porcelain-white with gold trim, shaped to a serene, expressionless face. Its eye holes were rimmed in violet metal, and faint lines crisscrossed it like veins. It didn't look evil. Just… waiting.
The Die pulsed again.
Mira stepped forward—and reality shifted.
She froze in place as time stopped. The world blinked to monochrome. Her companions were still as statues, even the mist halted mid-whirl.
In the silence, Mira heard the whisper she now recognized as the Die's voice. Not words. Not commands. Just possibility.
She reached into her satchel and drew the Die.
"Okay, fate," she muttered. "Let's roll."
She cupped the silver Die in her hands, took a breath, and said aloud: "Roll for insight… on the mask."
The Die rattled between her palms and then hit the grass with a soft chime.
16
A warm shimmer ran through her skin. Knowledge, or perhaps memory-not-yet-lived, surfaced in her mind.
She saw the mask worn by a woman in flame-colored robes—her own face. She saw visions twisted by hope and regret. She saw the mask amplify the truth, yes, but also shatter those unready to accept it.
The mask would not kill her. But it would show her things she might never forget… or forgive.
Time snapped back.
Reeko gasped. "You froze again. Was it the Die?"
Mira nodded. "Yeah. They gave me a heads-up. It's safe. Ish."
She approached the plinth slowly.
"You sure about this?" Pipla asked.
"Nope," Mira replied. "But I'm doing it anyway."
She reached out and lifted the mask.
It was cold and heavy. Her reflection in the glass pillars didn't match her movements. One smiled. One frowned. One turned away entirely.
She placed it gently into her pack and sealed the flap tight.
The ground shook.
Of course it did.
Roots burst from the ground, swiping at their ankles. The pillars cracked. Shadows oozed from them like spilled ink, forming figures—twisted versions of the Halflings and Mira , flickering like broken film.
"Mirrorwraiths!" Reeko shouted.
"Called it!" Mira yelled, drawing her sword.
The false Pipla charged, warhammer swinging.
The real Pipla met her with a grunt and a clang.
Mira dodged to the side as her double lunged, movements flickering. Each blow from the wraith left a smear in the air like someone scribbling on reality itself.
"Jory, the vines!" she yelled.
He was already slicing, humming tunelessly and chewing the last bite of his raw potato.
Mira turned to face her double again—and this time, asked the Die.
"Roll for combat precision," she whispered, and threw.
13
It wasn't perfect, but it was enough.
She parried the next strike, feinted low, then stabbed—through her double's stomach. The wraith let out a whispering hiss and shattered into glassy fragments that dissolved into smoke.
The other two faded shortly after, Pipla and Reeko dispatching theirs with sweat and curses.
When it was done, the vale quieted. The mist lightened.
Mira stood panting, hair wild, face streaked with dirt.
"Well," she said. "That went better than expected."
"Speak for yourself," Pipla groaned, pulling glass out of her sleeve.
Reeko sat cross-legged. "So… mask retrieved, sanity intact, fate preserved—for now. What's next?"
Mira looked to the horizon. The Die in her satchel throbbed with anticipation.
"We head to the Shattermere," she said. "That's where the shard of Velcrath's essence was last seen. If we want to stop him… we need to understand him."
Jory licked a mossy stone and nodded. "The air tastes sharp that way. Danger. Destiny. Possibly cheese."
Mira didn't even ask.
She adjusted her pack, the weight of the mask a solid reminder of what she'd seen—and what was still to come.
The Garden and the Gate
Mira crouched low behind a gnarled root as the Halflings fanned out beside her, watching the valley below. In the distance, nestled between the ridges of Daggerfall Hills, lay a ruined fortress — once a temple, by the look of the cracked statuary and vine-cloaked spires — and now overrun by something darker.
Smoke spiraled unnaturally upward from one tower, not black like fire but greenish and cold, as if the sky was being poisoned. A creeping fog rolled out from the stones, swallowing the underbrush. Something whispered in it — not words, not even sound, just... suggestion. Invitation.
"It smells like wet socks and necromancy," Jory muttered, fingering his dagger.
"That's the Blight," Pipla said, her voice unusually serious. "My cousin's cousin once dared camp near it. He woke up with no toenails. And also... existential dread."
Mira looked down at her Die, which had grown unusually warm in her satchel. She tugged them out. The silver glinted dully, flecked now with the faintest lines of green. Almost veins. Almost alive.
She gulped. "Guess we're not going around it."
Reeko nodded. "The last known shard of the Fatebinder's soul is inside that fortress. Probably guarded by riddles, undead squirrels, or the tortured remnants of some poor bard's thesis project."
Mira took a breath. "Time to roll."
She cupped the Die in both hands. "Alright, silver Die, let's see how stealthy we can be. Roll for stealth!"
18
The Die clattered across a flat stone and settled confidently.
Immediately, Mira felt herself begin to fade—not invisibility, exactly, but forgettability. Like someone who'd always just left the room, or never quite been introduced at the party. The Halflings blinked at her and momentarily forgot what they were doing.
"Where'd—?" Pipla began, then shook her head. "No, sorry, thought I smelled onions."
Mira snuck forward, the others trailing behind in practiced Halfling fashion. The fortress loomed closer, its aura like static behind the eyes.
The front gate stood open, which was suspicious, Too suspicious.
Inside, the courtyard was filled with brittle leaves and forgotten tools. A rusted plow. A child's doll, headless. Statues with their faces melted into mockery. The wind here didn't howl — it whimpered.
And then, standing at the entrance of the inner sanctum, was a figure.
Cloaked in rags, its face obscured, it held a staff made of bleached bone and glowing quartz. The presence radiated command — but not life. A shade. A remnant. Something caught between roles.
It turned slowly toward Mira .
"You are not yet meant to be here," it said.
Mira hesitated. "Sorry. Wrong haunted fortress?"
"You carry the Die. That makes you… inevitable."
"Flattering," she muttered, then cleared her throat. "I need the shard."
The figure didn't move. "Then you must play."
It raised a withered hand, and the space around them cracked open like an egg. The courtyard twisted. Reality folded. Time ran backwards for a moment and then snapped forward like a slingstone.
The Halflings vanished. The world shifted into a board — a checkerboard of fate and folly. Mira stood on a square lit with pale moonlight. The cloaked figure on another. Between them: six empty squares, each one etched with symbols — swords, spirals, broken hearts, and stars.
"This is the Game of Trials," the figure intoned. "Each step forward, a test. Succeed — and you may claim what you came for. Fail — and become part of the board."
Mira looked down. Her Die were already in her hand.
"Let's roll, then.
12
She stepped onto the first square, marked with a sword.
The air shimmered, and a creature lunged at her — a thing made of chainmail and regret. Its form changed as she stared: her old boss, a bank manager named Phil who once lectured her about stapler misuse, now holding a broadsword.
Mira ducked, rolled to the side, and summoned her courage. "You are not real," she shouted. "And you never approved my holiday request!"
She kicked it in the knee. It exploded into dust.
Second square. A spiral.
She rolled again.
19
The square warped under her feet, becoming a swirl of memories. London. Her flat. Eli's snoring. Friday night curry. The scent of Tesco-brand jasmine candles.
"Don't lose yourself," the figure warned.
"I'm not losing myself," she said, gripping the Die. "I'm remembering who I'm fighting for."
The spiral quieted. She stepped to the third square.
A broken heart.
She rolled again.
6
The world darkened.
She stood in a hallway. She heard Eli's voice behind a door. And her own — arguing. Voices from a week before her disappearance. An old tension that had never quite healed. Eli saying he was tired of pretending everything was fine. Mira replying with silence.
She staggered.
"This… isn't fair."
The figure said nothing.
Mira clenched the Die. "I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't get to explain. But I will find my way back. I will. Even if you stack the whole damn board against me."
Her resolve flared. The square dissolved.
She stepped to the next And now the board trembled, The cloaked figure raised its staff again.
"You have passed," it said. "The shard is yours. But know this — the Eye is opening. Velcrath awakens. Every move you make now, he sees."
Mira felt the shard before she saw it. It hovered mid-air — a sliver of light, impossibly sharp, impossibly sad. It sank into her chest with a jolt of understanding. The Die in her hand flared — and for the first time, she didn't just feel their power.
She heard them, Whispers. Possible futures. Threads of chance.
The Halflings reappeared around her.
"Did we… black out?" Reeko asked, wobbling.
"You did," Mira said, her voice lower now, touched with something more. "I played the game. And won."
Pipla grinned. "Knew it.
Jory stared at her. "You have the eyes now. The fate-eyes. I've seen them before. On prophets. And also raccoons, but mostly prophets."
Mira didn't answer. She turned her gaze north — to where the storm brewed beyond the cliffs.
Velcrath was watching And for the first time… she was watching back.