The stillness of the chamber swallowed the world whole, leaving only the oppressive weight of Raen's thoughts. The air crackled with the echo of the mirrors that lined every wall, their reflective surfaces holding not just the shapes of those within the room, but the sins and reflections of their souls. Every movement, every shift of the eye seemed amplified—magnified in the endless sea of reflections.
Raen's eyes remained fixed on the child sitting upon the throne of mirrors, the figure so impossibly small and yet so undeniably important. The crown of mirrors sat atop the child's head, its jagged edges glimmering with an otherworldly light.
It was him. Or, at least, it was a part of him—a version of himself from a past that should have been erased. That much, Raen was certain. The child in the reflection was no mere illusion. His silver eyes glowed faintly, the same shade as Raen's own, though now tinged with a knowing malevolence that only seemed to grow sharper with each passing second.
The figure on the throne, though, did not move. He simply stared, unblinking, his lips curled in a silent, mocking smile.
Raen felt his heart beat in time with the soft, unrelenting hum of the mirrors around him. Something about the room felt alive—alive in a way that his own existence had become hollow.
"You've finally come," a voice, softer than the rustling of fabric, whispered through the shadows.
Raen's grip tightened around the hilt of his weapon, instinctively drawing on the Shatterborn power that had become his second skin. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice low but steady.
The child did not speak, but his smile deepened as if the question itself was a game. His tiny fingers clenched the armrests of the throne, and the mirrors trembled, sending ripples across the walls, distorting Raen's reflection into grotesque shapes.
The space seemed to warp in response to the child's silent command.
"Have you forgotten?" the child's voice whispered again, but this time it was not a question—it was a demand. "It was never about power, Raen. Not really."
Raen's breath hitched, but he did not falter. The memories—the ones that had been sealed away for so long, locked behind the chambers of his mind—began to surface, slipping through the cracks like smoke through a shattered window.
Elira.
The name haunted him. Her face—her twisted, beautiful face—had been a constant ache in the back of his mind. She had been his only anchor in a world where everything and everyone had been expendable. Her love was a shackle that he had tried to break free from, only to find himself caught in her web once again.
"Shut up," Raen muttered, his voice cracking under the strain of the memories. The last thing he wanted was to face the truth that had been hiding in the recesses of his mind. But the child—this reflection—was an undeniable link to that past.
The child tilted his head slightly, as if amused by Raen's discomfort. "You've grown strong, Raen. Stronger than I ever was. But strength alone won't save you."
Raen's heart raced as his mind flickered back to his first encounter with the gods. The things he had done—the souls he had consumed, the paths he had crossed—had changed him in ways he had never anticipated.
He was no longer the man he had once been.
The mirrors around him flickered again, this time more violently. They shattered, splintering into a thousand pieces that hung in the air like dangerous shards, reflecting twisted fragments of Raen's life—his battles, his betrayals, his deepest regrets.
"You are nothing but a shadow, Raen."
The voice that whispered through the shards was unfamiliar, yet it carried an unmistakable weight of recognition. Raen's eyes darted around the chamber, his senses on high alert. The voice was low, a vibration that felt like it came from the very marrow of his bones.
A figure materialized from the reflections, stepping out from the broken mirrors like a nightmare given form.
It was Lyra.
But not the Lyra he knew. Her hair was longer—darker—and her eyes... her eyes were empty, void of the spark they had once held. She wore a crown, but it was not the crown of devotion that Raen had seen her wear. It was a twisted mockery of the crown he had once seen on Elira's head, jagged and full of broken promises.
Her expression was serene, too serene, as if she had crossed into a realm where time no longer mattered.
Raen's pulse quickened, but he held his ground. His sword was ready, his power thrumming at the edge of his senses. "Lyra…?" he began, but the words caught in his throat.
Lyra didn't answer. Instead, she extended her hand toward him, her fingers twisting unnaturally as the air around them began to grow colder, heavier.
The mirrors that surrounded them shimmered and shifted, and Raen's vision blurred as the world around him began to fragment. He saw glimpses of her—Lyra—but with each flicker, the image distorted more.
The twisted reflection of Lyra spoke again, but this time, her voice was a haunting blend of laughter and sorrow.
"You think you can run from your fate, Raen?" she asked. "You think you can escape it, escape me? You were never meant to be anything more than a tool, a puppet, bound by the strings of the gods."
Raen's hand clenched around his sword. The power of the Shatterborn surged through him, the familiar sensation of the echoes resonating within him. But this time, there was something different—something more oppressive—pressing against him from all sides.
The mirrors distorted, the shattered pieces floating in the air like shards of glass, reflecting countless possibilities.
"Don't listen to her, Raen." A voice echoed from behind, familiar and filled with urgency.
Raen whipped around, his heart stopping for a moment as he saw the figure standing at the threshold of the chamber.
Caelia.
But she was not alone.
Another figure stood beside her—tall, imposing, with a crown of flames surrounding his head. His eyes were filled with an eerie calmness, a coldness that mirrored Raen's own.
"This is where it all ends, Raen." The voice belonged to the figure beside Caelia. The fire that wrapped around him pulsed in rhythm with the heartbeat of the mirrors. "The mirrors do not lie."
Raen's breath caught in his throat.
The mirrors began to shake, rippling like the surface of a disturbed lake, reflecting multiple versions of himself—each with different expressions, each with a different fate.
And then, as the very air seemed to bend and warp, the world itself shattered.
[End of chapter 35]