Rwaine finally opened his eyes.
At once, the world swam into focus — walls of towering glass stretching in every direction, the endless reflections of himself bending and twisting in impossible shapes. It was the House of Mirrors. The very place he had hoped never to see again.
The mirrors stood taller than men, some cracked, some warped, others polished so smooth that every detail of his face was thrown back at him a hundred times over. Every turn of his head only multiplied him — angry faces, broken faces, faces with golden eyes gleaming like curses in the dim light. His chest clenched.
He had been here before. He remembered too well how the mirrors once tore into his soul, peeling away the false layers until only his true self stared back at him. His body remembered the weight of that pain, the hollow ache of being exposed. It was the place that almost broke him.
And just when he thought he was imagining it — a familiar voice curled out of the darkness.
"You came again," the old, creepy woman Latisha said, her voice scraping like dry leaves.
It finally dawned on Rwaine. He sat up, confusion and anger mixing in his chest. "It's you again," he said, voice rough. He blinked and looked straight at her.
"Oh, my boy. We meet again. It is never coincidence. It is fate," she croaked, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.
Rwaine hissed. "Fate?" he repeated, bitter. His eyes dropped to the mirrors that filled the room. Each reflection seemed to sneer back at him, accusing. He stared at the warped glass and dug his nails into his palm until his skin split. He hated what the glass showed.
"Oh, Rwaine," Latisha said, stepping closer so that her shadow lay over him. "You can never change this about yourself. This is you."
"That's enough. I want out of here." He pushed to his feet, muscles tense, his whole body shuddering like a bowstring, and began to walk away.
"Not so fast," she said, as if reading him. "Or have you forgotten how you got here? Lazarus is still out there. You will need my help."
"Your help?" Rwaine scoffed. "After forcing me into a deal with you?"
"And after tricking me and using my words against me. I think that makes us even, son." Her voice was a dry chuckle.
"Yeah. Maybe. But I'm leaving." He took another step.
The woman's smile vanished. Before he could cross the room she spoke one soft word and a heavy force seized him. It slammed into his back like iron. He staggered, crashed into a pane of glass. The glass exploded, shards showered down, one cutting deep into his forearm. He felt no pain — only blood that slid warm and bright between his fingers.
"You never listen," she said, walking around him with slow, patient steps. Her voice sounded close now, breathing on his ear. "You can't leave until I say so." Her smile was hollow and wrong.
"What do you want?" he demanded, using his hand to pry glass from his arm. He forced himself to stand tall despite the blood.
"I want to help you." She cocked her head, and there was something almost honest in her tone.
"Help me?" Rwaine spat. "So you can take my heart this time?"
She watched him with unblinking eyes. "Rwiane, I only want to help you. Your friends are in danger — especially Fanaza—"
At the name, Rwaine's chest tightened like a rope pulling taut. His anger wavered. The woman saw it and leaned into that weakness like a predator.
"You look worried," she said softly. "I know you care about her. If you don't act now, she will be trapped inside Lazarus's memories. So will the Crown Prince."
Rwaine's hand curled into a fist. His throat burned with unspoken words. "What do I have to do?"
"You cannot defeat Lazarus by force. There is something that holds him — something that feeds his rage. And that's his child."
"He has a child?" Rwaine's voice cracked, disbelief rushing through him. He thought of Lazarus only as a monster.
"Yes. A child that history tried to bury. The child is your only chance — a way to undo some of what was done, and to make Lazarus retreat."
"How do we find the child?" Rwaine asked, his voice calm though his pulse thundered.
"You must enter his soul memory," she said. "There will be something there that links him to the child — a pendant, a toy, an artifact. If you take it, you might make Lazarus lose that anchor."
"How am I supposed to believe this?" Rwaine snapped, rubbing his arm where blood stained his sleeve.
"You have no choice." Her stare pinned him. "Fanaza is in danger. So is the kingdom."
Rwaine's lips parted, but no words came. The silence stretched, heavy with guilt and fear. Finally, he drew a long breath. "How do I do it?"
"You cannot do it alone." She turned and moved to a worn table. "I will summon your friends' souls here. Lazarus has trapped them, but I can pull fragments without him noticing. Together, you perform a soul-memory ritual. You enter. You find the child. You take the object."
"You want something in return, don't you?" Rwaine asked, suspicion sharp as a blade.
"Yes," she admitted, but her voice was calm. "Not now. When the time comes, I will tell you my price."
Rwaine hated her, and he hated that he believed her. But he had no other choice. His jaw clenched. "Do it."
Latisha's knotted hands moved in the air. She pressed her palms to the floor. The boards split with a single, low crack. From the crack, a cold dark seeped up — not smoke, but a bruise-colored mist that crawled like living ink. It pooled and twined around the mirror frames, making the glass shiver. The mirrors hummed. Some rattled and fractured.
She spoke, slow and sure. "Animas revoco ad limen memoriae."
The sound of the words dragged through the room like a key turning. Her eyes flashed a fierce red for a heartbeat. Silver light braided with the dark mist. The mirrors thinned into openings. Shadows reached through and then withdrew, carrying with them a hush.
Fanaza and Percival appeared looking pale and unsteady. Rwaine lunged forward instinctively and took Fanaza's hand. She was limp, her breathing shallow, like someone sleeping too hard.
"Fanaza!" he breathed. His voice trembled, breaking at the edges. He wanted to shake her awake, but she did not respond.
"She cannot hear you," Latisha said, still chanting under her breath. "They are not conscious in this place. But you need them. One person cannot perform the soul memory ritual alone."
Rwaine's thumb brushed Fanaza's cheek, his fingers trembling. Her skin was smooth, achingly real. He swallowed hard and met Percival's blank eyes. "Let's do it," he said, determined.
The woman hauled three ancient chairs into the mirror room and bound them together with thick cords. Rwaine sat in the center, Fanaza on his right, Percival on his left. The ropes bit into their wrists. The woman's fingers left ash on their skin, the marks burning faintly like brands.
"Rwaine," she warned, leaning close, "what I am doing is dangerous. You will break the laws to go back, and the Lawkeepers will come for you."
"I don't care." Rwaine's voice was steady. "Just do it."
She closed her eyes and spoke another set of words, softer now but urgent. "Memoriam transfero, animam introduco, vincula dissolvo."
A surge of power rolled through the air, sharp as breaking glass. The mirrors trembled and bent inward, their frames creaking like tortured wood. Rwaine felt his body hollow, as though his very soul were being drawn out by invisible hands. The ropes burned hot against his skin.
The world slipped away.
When he opened his eyes again, he was somewhere ancient — a mansion of stone and torchlight. High ceilings arched above him. Columns burned with fat candles that dripped slow wax. Tapestries fluttered though no wind moved. The smell of iron and smoke choked the air.
Soldiers ran like a flood through the corridors, shouting and slipping on wet stone.
Rwaine flattened himself against a shadowed alcove and watched. A soldier barreled past two boys whispering by the stair. Another slammed open a door and dragged a hand across his face.
"Sir! We are under attack!" one soldier panted to a man in heavy armor.
"Where is Lazarus?" another asked.
"He's with his son," the soldier replied, voice tight.
Rwaine moved on silent feet, pressed along the wall. At the corner of the stairwell he saw a man carrying a child in his arms — a small figure bundled in a rough cloak. Rwaine's breath hitched. The boy's fingers clutched something that glowed faintly in the candlelight: a small artifact, round and carved.
"That must be it," he muttered.
He followed them, keeping low and quiet. The man — Lazarus — went into a private room and Rwaine slipped behind, unseen.
The child looked up. His eyes were exactly like Rwaine's. Golden, the same strange glow Rwaine had seen in his own reflection. A cold crawled down his spine, so he wasn't the only one with those strange eyes.
"Papa, I don't want to leave you. Where is Mama?" the boy sobbed, and black blood trickled from the corner of his eyes. Lazarus wiped the boy's tears with a shaking hand.
"My poor son," Lazarus whispered, each word splintered with guilt. "I am so sorry. I made you this way."
Rwaine froze. The words pierced him deeper than any blade. What did he mean by that?
He watched as Lazarus crouched and pressed the child to his chest.
"You have to go, Yakub," Lazarus said, his voice breaking.
"Father, I don't want to leave you!" the boy cried, his sobs raw.
Footsteps thundered in the hall. Armor clanged. A voice boomed, hard as a blade: "Find that bastard and bring his head. Kill everyone!"
Lazarus slammed a section of the floorboard. A hidden space yawned below like a mouth. He forced the child inside and shoved a cloak over him.
"Go, Yakub. Never stop running!" Lazarus pushed, and the boy slipped into the secret passage. Yakub kissed his father quick and shoved through. Lazarus began to close the board — and then, as if sensing someone, he froze.
He turned sharply toward the shadows where Rwaine had stood to watch them.
"Who are you?" Lazarus demanded, voice suddenly loud and clear.
Rwaine's heart thudded so hard it drowned the world around him.
"Wait — he can see me." he muttered.