The air shivered.
It was not the wind. It was something deeper, something ancient. Alaric felt it crawling beneath his skin, as if unseen hands were peeling away his flesh, layer by layer, to expose what lay beneath.
The fall had ended.
But the nightmare had only begun.
The Chamber of Reflection
Alaric stood in darkness, but it was not mere absence of light. This was a living void, pressing against him, whispering in tongues he did not understand but somehow recognised.
The last thing he remembered was the touch of the Guardian—a searing, soul-altering imprint upon his chest. It had burnt through him, and when the pain subsided, he had fallen.
Now, he was here.
A chamber of obsidian, its walls smooth yet impossibly vast. The air was thick with the scent of forgotten memories, a metallic tang of blood and time.
At the far end of the chamber, a single object waited.
A mirror.
But not just any mirror.
The Mirror of Truth.
It stood taller than a man, its surface rippling like liquid silver, though no hand disturbed it. The frame was carved with twisting symbols, their edges glistening as if they had been etched with fire.
It called to him.
Not with words.
Not with sound.
But with something deeper.
Something that knew him.
The Reflection That Should Not Be
Alaric approached, each step dragging through unseen resistance, as if the air itself sought to halt him.
His breath came slow. His heart thundered.
Then, he looked.
And the world split in two.
The reflection in the mirror was not his own.
It had his shape.
It had his eyes.
But it was not him.
The Alaric in the mirror stood stronger, his shoulders unburdened by suffering. His skin was untouched by scars, his stance unbowed by hardship. His eyes held no torment, no ghosts of battles lost.
"This is who you were meant to be," a voice whispered.
Alaric recoiled. The whisper did not come from the mirror. It came from inside him.
"The life you could have had."
"The man you should have been."
The mirror—Alaric smirked.
Then he spoke.
"You look surprised."
Alaric's breath caught. His own voice—but different. Smoother. Confident. Laced with something cruel.
"Who... what are you?" Alaric was forced out.
The reflection tilted its head, considering.
"I am you," it said. "The version of you that never failed. The Alaric who never lost, never suffered, never bled."
Its eyes gleamed.
"And the one who deserves to exist."
The Battle of the Self
The mirror shattered outward, exploding into a thousand shards.
Each fragment did not fall—they hovered, twisting in the air, reshaping, becoming.
Alaric's double stepped forward, the broken mirror melting into armour around him—a mockery of steel, forged from illusion but sharp as reality. A blade formed in his grip, its surface reflecting Alaric's own hesitation.
"You are the weakness," the mirror-Alaric said.
"I am the strength."
He lunged.
Alaric barely dodged, twisting aside as the blade sang through the air, slicing close enough to steal heat from his skin. He stumbled back, drawing his own weapon—only to find his hands empty.
"Of course," the double sneered. "You have no weapons. Because you are nothing."
The blade came again—this time, finding flesh.
Pain ignited in Alaric's side. He gasped, staggering, as blood blossomed from the wound.
It was real.
This was not a vision.
This was a fight for existence itself.
And he was losing.
The Truth Beneath the Lies
Alaric gritted his teeth, forcing his feet to hold steady. The wound burnt, but he had endured worse.
His double circled him, blade glinting.
"You know it, don't you?" the reflection whispered. "You are a mistake. A failure. Every hardship you faced, every suffering you endured—it was because you were never meant to survive."
The words struck deeper than the blade.
Because they carried truth.
Hadn't he wondered? Hadn't he questioned why his path had been carved from suffering, while others walked with ease?
Why had he been forced to crawl through fire, to watch everything he loved crumble, while others soared unscathed?
"You should not exist," the reflection hissed.
Alaric closed his eyes.
And then, he understood.
The mirror had never shown him what he could have been.
It had shown him what he feared he wasn't.
The perfect Alaric was an illusion.
A fabrication.
A lie.
Because perfection is a story told by the weak to justify their failure.
He opened his eyes.
And he smiled.
"I was never meant to be perfect," Alaric whispered. "I was meant to endure."
The reflection froze.
A flicker of doubt passed through its eyes.
And that was all Alaric needed.
He moved, not with hesitation, but with purpose. He did not need a weapon—because he was the weapon. His hands shot forward, grasping the double's throat.
The reflection gasped, its form trembling, cracking like glass.
"You were never real," Alaric whispered. "And I am done being afraid of you."
With a final, crushing grip—
He shattered himself.
The false Alaric exploded into dust, the shards of the mirror vanishing into nothing.
The chamber trembled.
And then, silence.
The Mark of Truth
Alaric stood alone.
His breathing was ragged, his body wounded, but he felt something he had not felt in a long time.
Whole.
A faint glow caught his eye.
On the floor where the mirror had stood, a single shard remained. Unlike the others, it did not flicker with illusion—it pulsed with something deeper, something real.
Alaric reached for it.
The moment his fingers closed around the glass—
The world changed.
A mark burnt into his palm, searing deep into his skin. It was not pain—it was recognition.
"You have faced yourself," a voice whispered.
"And you have chosen truth."
The chamber vanished.
Alaric stood beneath a sky of swirlin
g stars, his path stretching ahead. He was changed. He was marked.
And he was ready.
For whatever came next.