The frost clung to the windows of the forgotten chapel as if trying to keep the warmth from ever returning. Inside, Marcus knelt before a broken altar, his breath a visible ghost in the cold air. A single candle flickered beside him, its flame reflecting off the polished steel of the Covenant blade resting across his knees.
Behind him, Erin leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. "You've been silent for an hour."
"I'm listening," he said.
"To what? The wind?"
"To him."
She didn't ask who. She already knew.
In the days since the tomb, Marcus's connection to the shadow had deepened. Sometimes he heard it whisper his name like a lover. Other times, it screamed in rage. But it was always there—waiting, watching.
Erin finally walked forward. "We need to move. Lysaria sent word. A village north of the Shivering Pines was burned last night. No survivors."
Marcus stood. "Same red ash?"
She nodded. "And the villagers saw someone before it happened. A man in black armor, with your face."
Marcus sheathed the blade. "Then we ride."
---
By dusk, the road curved into the edge of the burned village. The air smelled of soot and char. Homes were reduced to blackened frames, and snow had begun to fall, cloaking the devastation in a cruel, silent beauty.
Marcus knelt beside a pile of ash that might once have been a hearth. He picked up a singed ribbon—a child's. He clenched it in his fist.
"He's not just killing," he said. "He's making it personal."
Erin walked ahead, her hand on her dagger. "There's something here."
A low wind picked up, and from the center of the square, shadows twisted like smoke—and coalesced.
A figure emerged.
Clad in blackened Valebourne armor trimmed in crimson. His hair was the same raven black. His eyes the same frostblue.
And his face... identical.
Marcus stared at the man—his reflection, but darker, more angular, eyes rimmed in shadow.
"Finally," the figure said, voice like velvet wrapped around steel. "I was starting to think you'd never catch up."
Erin stepped forward, but Marcus raised a hand. "No. I face him."
The Mirror King smiled. "How noble. Still playing the heir, I see."
Marcus drew his sword. "Who are you?"
"I'm what your blood tried to bury. I was born in the wake of your father's sins, raised in exile beyond the Veil. While you played prince in golden halls, I bled in a kingdom of bone."
"I didn't choose that life."
"No. But you benefited from it."
They circled each other slowly, weapons ready.
"I don't want to kill you," Marcus said.
The Mirror King laughed. "You think you can? You're fighting yourself."
"I'm fighting what I refuse to become."
He lunged.
Steel met steel, sparks flying. The blades clashed again and again—Marcus fighting with precision, the Mirror King with fury. Their movements mirrored one another unnervingly, each strike countered, each parry anticipated.
Erin watched, heart pounding. It was like watching a man battle his own soul.
"You're weak," the Mirror King hissed mid-strike. "You hesitate. You doubt."
Marcus gritted his teeth. "I feel. That's not weakness."
The Mirror King shoved him back, then drove his blade downward. Marcus dodged and rolled, coming up behind him.
"I saw the tomb," Marcus growled. "I know what you are."
"I'm the rightful heir!" the Mirror King snarled, swinging wildly. "You were born of comfort. I was forged in agony."
Marcus parried the next strike and locked blades, inches from the doppelgänger's face. "And you think that makes you stronger?"
"No. It makes me free."
With a brutal twist, the Mirror King disarmed Marcus and sent him tumbling back into the snow.
He stepped forward, blade raised. "Goodbye, brother."
Then came the thwip of a thrown dagger—Erin's.
It struck the Mirror King's shoulder, giving Marcus just enough time to recover his blade and slash across the doppelgänger's chest.
Black ichor poured out—not blood, but something darker.
The Mirror King hissed and staggered, shadows beginning to envelop him.
"We'll meet again," he said, voice warping. "Soon."
And with that, he vanished in a swirl of smoke.
---
Later, as they made camp under a dying sky, Marcus sat staring into the fire. Erin handed him a cup of mulled wine.
"You okay?"
He nodded slowly. "I fought myself. And I lost."
"You lived. That's what matters."
"No," he whispered. "He'll come again. Stronger. And next time…"
Erin sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "Next time, he won't just face you."
Marcus looked at her, truly looked. "You could've left. When this got dark."
She smiled softly. "You're an idiot if you think I'd walk away now."
And in that moment, with flames dancing between them and snow falling around, Marcus allowed himself to hope.
Even when facing his darkest reflection—
He wasn't alone.