The glasslands stretched before them like a sea frozen in mid-wave, shards of old magic captured in the very earth. It crunched beneath their boots—not with the sharpness of breaking glass, but with the haunted hum of something once shattered and still remembering how to scream.
Mira tightened her grip on her staff, its tip glowing faintly in response to the eerie resonance. Even the Die, usually dormant until summoned, gave off a low thrumming beat inside her pouch. Pipla and Reeko trudged behind her, eyes darting to every glimmer of movement within the reflective dunes. Jory, unsurprisingly, had vanished again—off chasing whispers or stealing ghost-flowers.
The sun here hung too low. The horizon shimmered with heat that shouldn't exist, and the wind smelled faintly of burnt parchment and memory.
"Remind me again why we're here?" Reeko asked, adjusting the strap of his lute, which had picked up a new string seemingly of its own accord.
"Because the shard of the Mirror Prophet lies buried beneath the Glasslands," Mira said, trying to sound confident. "Therian said it would help us see the enemy's next move. Possibly even reflect back some of their power."
"And possibly melt our faces off," Pipla muttered. "I hate prophecy. It never just says what it means."
They reached a ridge where the land curved inward, forming a basin of glass sculptures—towers, spires, even frozen animals—all caught mid-motion, as if some ancient calamity had flash-fossilized a city of illusions. The wind here whispered actual words.
"Turn back," it murmured in Mira 's voice.
"Nice trick," she muttered. "Not falling for it."
A new voice replied. Male. Gentle. Timeless.
"But you should."
Mira spun around.
A man stood just beyond the nearest glass archway. He wore the robe of a Fatebinder, but it was frayed at the edges, scorched in places. His face was half-hidden beneath a cracked silver mask, and his hair shimmered with the colour of moonlight through storm clouds.
Reeko gasped. "Is that… is that you?"
It was. Almost.
The resemblance was uncanny—like a mirror warped by time. The figure bore her same height, her same posture. Even the same Die pouch, though it pulsed with a different rhythm.
"Who—what—are you?" Mira asked.
The figure inclined his head.
"I am Callen," he said. "Fatebinder of the Twelfth Shard. I come from a thread not yet woven—a world parallel to yours, but far enough astray that its ending is already behind me."
Pipla narrowed her eyes. "He means he's from the future."
"Or a version of it," Reeko added. "That's confusing. I like it."
Mira blinked. "So… you're me?"
"No," Callen said. "But I walked a path like yours. And I broke things that should have remained whole. I've come to ensure your path does not end like mine."
From his sleeve, he produced his own silver Die. They were scarred, chipped, but still shimmered with latent possibility.
"I've come to warn you of Velcrath's deeper plan. He does not just seek to conquer this world—he seeks to rewrite the Die themselves. To make chance obey him. To unbind fate."
Mira felt her stomach drop.
"That's possible?"
Callen didn't answer immediately. He looked toward the basin of glass statues.
"In the heart of this garden lies a memory that will test you," he said. "A reflection of your worst doubt. It must be faced—not beaten, not solved. Endured. Or it will consume the part of you that still believes you're playing a game."
Reeko gave a nervous laugh. "I don't like tests unless they involve musical improv."
"Or stabbing," Pipla offered. "That's my kind of test."
But Mira didn't laugh. She stepped forward, slowly drawing her Die.
"If we're facing illusions and doubt, I'm going to need a roll."
The world paused. The air stilled. The wind seemed to hold its breath.
"Let's see it, then," she whispered. "Die, I request a roll. Show me what I'm made of."
The Die shimmered in her hand, then tumbled through the air—silver blurs in the broken light. They clattered on a chunk of obsidian glass at her feet.
17
Mira exhaled. A strong result—not perfect, but more than enough to keep the darkness from overwhelming her. Her will solidified. The Die glowed warmly and pulsed once.
Callen gave a nod of approval.
"Then let us descend together."
They moved into the basin, reflections bending around them—scenes from Mira 's own life flickering in the glass: her desk at the bank, her husband Eli cooking chili on a Tuesday, the Die glinting during that first strange roll at her kitchen table.
And then—a scene she didn't recognize.
Mira stood alone in a burned-out version of the Halfling village. Ash in the air. Pipla's warhammer shattered on the ground. Reeko's lute in splinters. Jory's dagger rusted.
At the center of it all stood a tall, skeletal figure cloaked in shadowfire. Velcrath.
He turned toward the real Mira watching the illusion. His smile was a crack in the world.
"I broke your fate before," he said, voice like shattered Die. "I'll do it again."
Mira clutched her staff tighter, teeth gritted.
Callen stepped beside her. "It is not yet real. But it is possible. Remember that."
And then the image faded.
Mira shivered.
They reached the center of the basin, where the shard of the Mirror Prophet waited—hovering above a dais of twisted glass. It pulsed with anticipation.
"This," said Callen, "is where your path branches again."
And with that, the shard began to glow.
Through the Mirror
The shard of the Mirror Prophet pulsed brighter with every step Mira took toward it. It wasn't made of glass, exactly, nor crystal, nor metal. It was made of reflection—as though someone had frozen a piece of possibility and sharpened it into a blade.
Callen held back, watching. "It will not let me touch it. My thread has passed. Only yours remains open."
"Great," Pipla muttered. "Magic mirror junk that bites back. Can't wait."
"Quiet reverence might be better," Reeko added, eyes wide. "Or at least quiet panic."
Mira ignored them both. The shard hovered in midair, rotating slowly like a slow-motion coin toss. It hummed—not with menace, but recognition.
She reached out.
The moment her fingers grazed it, the world dropped out from under her.
She stood in her kitchen.
Fluorescent light buzzed above her. A kettle whistled on the hob. Her bank lanyard lay on the counter. Everything was normal.
Except—her hand still held the Die.
"Mira ?" a voice said behind her.
She turned.
It was Eli.
He looked… exactly as she remembered. Same rumpled London Wednesday hoodie. Same tired smile. Same smudge of something on his cheek, probably pasta sauce.
"You okay?" he asked.
She blinked. "Eli?"
"Of course. Who else?"
He stepped forward and took her hand.
"You've been quiet lately. I thought you might want to skip D&D this week. I know it's been hard."
Mira stared at him.
D&D?
There were no Halflings. No Sunspike Tower. No Jory talking to daggers. Just… her house. Her husband. Her normal life.
"Is this real?" she whispered.
He squeezed her hand. "What kind of question is that?"
She stumbled back from him.
This wasn't real. It couldn't be.
But it felt real.
The kettle screamed louder. The floor trembled.
Mira reached into her pocket.
The Die were gone.
Panic gripped her chest.
"No, no, no—"
The walls of the kitchen cracked like paper. Light poured through the seams—silver light, flickering with scenes from her journey. Pipla laughing after smashing a mimic disguised as a barrel. Reeko composing a ballad about owlbears. Jory solemnly placing a stolen ring on a sleeping troll's nose.
And then—
Velcrath stepped through the kitchen wall like it was smoke.
"You can stay here," he said, his voice softer now. More human. "You don't have to suffer for a world that isn't yours. Let the game end."
Mira backed into the fridge. "This isn't a game."
He smiled. "Everything is."
Her kitchen shimmered, turning to glass, fracturing. The illusion collapsed—and Mira plummeted.
She landed hard on the floor of the Glasslands basin, breath knocked from her lungs. The shard still floated above her, now dim and humming faintly like a struck bell.
Callen knelt beside her. "You saw it, then?"
Mira nodded slowly. "He offered me my life back. My old life."
Reeko crouched down. "Did you want it?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then, softly: "For a second."
Pipla grunted. "You didn't take it. That's what matters."
Mira stood, her legs trembling slightly. "That wasn't just a test. That was him. In my head. He's getting bolder."
Callen nodded grimly. "Velcrath feeds on choices. The more you doubt, the stronger his grip becomes."
Mira turned toward the shard. Its surface now showed a single image: a tower of obsidian, far taller than Sunspike, surrounded by screaming skies. And atop it—a throne made from broken Die.
She felt her stomach twist.
"That's where we're going next, isn't it?"
Callen's voice was grave. "Yes. The Stormspire. It is where Velcrath keeps the first of his unbound Die. The longer it remains untouched, the more reality will bend to his will."
Jory reappeared from behind a sculpture, chewing on a twig. "Heard you scream. Figured you were dead. Glad you're not."
"Thanks," Mira said flatly.
He held out something. "Found a new Die pouch. It sings. Creepy. Want it?"
She stared at it. Then took it.
The pouch was made of stitched leather, but shimmered faintly—imbued, perhaps, with residual magic from the basin. She transferred her silver Die into it. The moment she did, they flashed once and went still.
Ready.
Callen stepped forward. "I will not walk with you beyond this point, Mira . But I will return when the final chord strikes. And I'll be at your side when the end comes."
"Thank you," she said. "For everything."
He nodded and began to fade—his body dissolving into threads of moonlight.
"You will face your darkest roll in the Stormspire. But remember this: fate can bend—but not break—if the heart behind the Die remains whole."
And then he was gone.
The group stood in silence.
Reeko was the first to speak.
"So… we go toward the nightmare tower of doom now?"
Mira nodded. "Looks like it."
Pipla cracked her knuckles. "Good. I've been itching to hit something existential."
Jory tilted his head. "Can I steal fate?"
"No," Mira said.
"…Maybe," he muttered.
And with that, they turned their eyes toward the horizon.
The Stormspire waited—its shadow already crawling across the land.