The Sea of Mirrors was no ordinary body of water.
It shimmered even under the moonless sky, reflecting not just the stars above—but things beneath. Cities long lost. Beasts older than memory. And sometimes, reflections of people who hadn't yet died.
Althar stood at the cliff's edge overlooking the sea, the wind pulling at his black cloak, his expression unreadable.
Rorek walked up beside him, shaking his head. "We're diving into a cursed ocean full of ghosts and illusions for a crown that might corrupt you. Again."
"Would you rather I let someone else take it?" Althar asked.
"No," Rorek muttered. "I'd just like to survive this one without being haunted for a week."
Seris knelt at the edge, whispering incantations. A silver rune spread across the surface of the water, calming the waves.
"There's a city beneath the surface," she said. "Submerged for thousands of years. The Watchers weren't wrong. Something's awake down there."
Ariya joined them, her face pale.
"I see… reflections," she murmured. "But they're not ours. They're of different versions of us. Lives we didn't live. Choices we didn't make."
Althar stepped forward, drawing the blade that had once served as the key to his first memory. Its fire didn't glow here. Instead, it flickered blue—a sign that the sea distorted not only vision, but truth.
"We go together," he said. "This time, no separation. We enter, retrieve the crown, and get out. No delays."
Rorek raised a brow. "And if the sea plays tricks on us?"
"Then remember this—" Althar looked at each of them. "If I turn on you… burn me."
They descended by spellbound bubbles of reinforced air, riding downward into the glowing abyss.
As they passed below the surface, the Sea of Mirrors lived up to its name. The water shimmered with impossible clarity. Whole landscapes sprawled beneath them: towers covered in coral, statues weeping golden tears, and roads paved in bioluminescent stones.
Then came the whispers.
At first, only faint murmurs.
Then, voices in their own tones.
Rorek heard his father's voice—one he hadn't heard since boyhood. Seris saw her old master, dead for decades, reciting incantations she'd never learned. Ariya saw herself, cloaked in shadows, holding a crown soaked in blood.
Althar heard no voices.
He only saw a throne.
A throne he didn't remember, yet knew. It sat at the heart of the drowned city, and on it rested a crown made of polished obsidian and singing crystal—the Crown of Illusion.
It pulsed as if alive.
And someone stood before it.
The bubble landed near the throne plaza, and they stepped out, weapons ready.
"Someone's here," Ariya whispered.
Althar nodded. "She got here first."
The water around the throne shimmered, and from the veil stepped a woman with silver eyes and flowing hair of moonlight. Her cloak was marked with the sigil of the Moonbreaker Order—Althar's long-lost royal guards from a former life.
"Kael," she said, voice calm, melodic, tinged with reverence and regret. "You look as broken as they said you'd be."
Althar narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
She smiled. "Your knight. The one you abandoned when you chose to fall."
Seris raised a hand, already forming a spell. "What do you want?"
"I want what he threw away," the woman replied, stepping toward the crown. "I want to complete what we started. I'll carry the seven crowns. I'll awaken the throne. And I'll become the sovereign you were too afraid to be."
Althar stepped between her and the crown.
"I won't let you."
"Then die with your guilt."
The sea erupted.
The woman's power surged like a blade through water. Illusions tore from her body—copies of herself, of Althar, even of Ariya and Rorek. The real clashed with the false in a dizzying spiral of blades and shadow.
Rorek fought his own double, snarling as steel met steel. Seris conjured barriers of light, tearing through illusions with cleansing flame. Ariya faced her shadow-self—faster, darker, merciless.
Althar faced the knight.
Their battle was a blur of sword and spell, fire and illusion, memory and magic. Each time he struck, she became someone he once trusted. Each time she struck, she forced him to remember who he used to be.
"You left us," she hissed. "You ran from your duty. You let the world suffer while you were reborn in comfort!"
"I didn't choose rebirth," he growled, blade burning. "I was broken. And now I rebuild."
Their swords clashed above the crown.
He disarmed her.
Then thrust forward—his blade stopping just short of her heart.
She laughed, bitter and soft. "You won't kill me. You can't. Because part of you still remembers."
"You're right," he said.
Then used the hilt to knock her unconscious.
The Crown of Illusion hovered from its pedestal, drawn to his flame.
Althar touched it.
The visions came.
A kingdom he never ruled. A woman he never loved. A child who never existed—but might have, had he chosen differently.
When he came to, the others stood around him, panting, bruised—but alive.
Ariya looked at him with worry. "What did you see?"
"Lies," he said quietly. "But beautiful ones."
He sealed the crown in the satchel.
Four pedestals filled.
Three more to go.
Far away, in a mountain temple forgotten by even the Watchers, a man in silver robes watched through a basin of shadows.
"He's nearly ready," he whispered.
Behind him, seven chained dragons stirred.
"Soon, the king will awaken the throne.And when he does… I will sit in his place."