Chapter 10: A Song's Last Breath

  Into the Gloom

  The entrance to the Fane of Dreaded Reflections yawned before them, black and glistening. Whispers slithered around the cracked marble alcove, brushing the edges of comprehension—like forgotten songs hummed from lips not yet born.

  Shadows stirred in the corners of their vision, but when they turned, there was nothing there.

  Kaeric drew his bow, leading the way into the gloom. The stone corridor narrowed, the air thick and damp against their skin.

  From the far side of the next room, the sound of gnashing teeth and wet growls drifted through the cracked stone. His muscles tensed.

  Without hesitation, he spun, loosing an arrow in a single breath.

  The shaft flew straight and true—burying itself through the eye socket of a looming shadow beast. The creature crumpled mid-lunge, its heavy body thudding against the stone floor.

  Magnus clapped him hard on the back, his voice jarringly loud in the silence.

  "By the gods, what a shot, man!"

  Kaeric, adjusting his bowstring, muttered, "Was aiming for the chest."

  Magnus just grinned and shrugged. "Eh, nobody needs to know."

  Ashen and Sylvi drifted deeper into the second chamber, their steps careful and deliberate. Meanwhile, Magnus and Kaeric knelt by the corpse of the cultist the beast had been feasting on.

  The man’s death hadn't come from claws or teeth.

  Four small darts protruded neatly from his neck, their placement chillingly precise—perfect ninety-degree angles.

  Magnus ran a hand lightly over the floor, spotting the faint scratch marks—a pressure plate. A trap, already sprung.

  Ashen and Sylvi returned, Sylvi holding a slim, worn tome to her chest like a secret.

  "It's a list," she said quietly.

  She flipped it open. Name after name, each with a corresponding year. Not from this age. Older.

  At the top of the page, the title was clear. Ashen read it aloud.

  The Order of the Prince

  Brother Halric — Year of Anleas 41

  Sister Velna — Year of Anleas 36

  Brother Erynn — Year of Anleas 39

  Scribe Maren — Year of Anleas 32

  Master Callan — Year of Anleas 44

  Ashen ran a finger down the page, the list continuing on and on, his brow furrowed in thought.

  "Monks," he said. "Keepers of something ancient."

  They pressed onward into the tightening halls.

  The Watchful Stones

  The corridor ahead narrowed, forcing them almost shoulder-to-shoulder.

  Kaeric’s sharp eyes caught it first—the faint outline of another pressure plate. Berf’s heavy boot was mid-step. Kaeric lunged, slamming into him just as Berf’s foot touched the stone. A massive slab of rock thundered down a breath later, the impact rattling their teeth. Berf laughed sheepishly, adjusting his pack. "Guess I owe you one."

  Kaeric wiped his palms down his tunic with a grimace. "Yeh. Magnus and I noticed there were traps."

  Magnus whistled innocently, spinning a dagger between his fingers. "Some of us were just waiting for a dramatic rescue opportunity."

  More cautiously now, they continued on.

  They passed a small shrine carved into the wall, where a brazier of ancient ash still smoldered. A single shaft of sunlight cut through a precise slit in the ceiling, illuminating the ashes in a quiet reverence that felt almost sacred.

  Beyond that, they found another grim sign of the fane's defenses—a pit trap. At the bottom, a cultist's broken body lay in twisted repose. Magnus leaned over the edge, squinting. "Well. That's one way to find a short cut." Sylvi gave him a withering look, but he only grinned wider.

  The Living Quarters

  They descended a set of wide steps to a broader landing. Two choices now: A stairway leading deeper into the earth, blocked by a heavy stone door. Or a side passage into what seemed like living quarters.

  The group hesitated.

  Ashen studied the heavy stone door then the surrounding stone. It was closed from the cieling.

  "Let's search first. There might be something here that'll help open it—or at least explain what the Order was doing with the Mirror here." There was a tone of suspicion in his voice as he imagined what things these dark monks had done with an Artifact of Zarathrax. They nodded, and split up.

  Magnus, Berf, and Kaeric began to explore what looked like the living quarters. Bedrooms, small living spaces.

  The air shifted — warmer, faintly scented with woodsmoke and something green. Soft light glowed from unseen crystals, making the marble floors gleam. The rooms were simple, but undeniably beautiful.

  Polished stone floors, broken here and there by faded but soft woven rugs. Built-in beds, smoothed over centuries of use. Each chamber carried the faint, ghostly fingerprint of a life once lived—simple wood carvings on the walls, worn prayer beads left neatly coiled on tables, a faded painting tucked into a stone alcove of a woman smiling, cradling a child.

  "Maybe not just monks," Kaeric said, tilting his head at the portrait.

  "Maybe families," Magnus agreed softly. "Or... what they chose to call family."

  The walls themselves seemed to pulse with life. Roots had crept through the stone over generations, not as invaders but as companions. Golden-green leaves fluttered faintly where the walls met the floor, whispering.

  "This place," Magnus murmured, running a hand over the living vines, "it's not just a ruin. It's alive."

  They searched room after room, the same quiet beauty, the same weight of long-lost lives. Until at last, they came to a chamber unlike the others. Three ancient mirrors lined the far wall, their surfaces dark and fractured. Etched beneath each was a single word, gleaming faintly.

  Ashen rejoined them, slipping a slim leather-bound book into his pack before leaning in to examine the mirrors.

  He whispered, reading the words aloud: "Wood. Fire. Ash."

  "You can read that?" Magnus asked.

  "Uhh. Warlock powers," he replied.

  "Soul thing?"- "Soul thing"

  "This looks like a puzzle," Kaeric said immediately.

  Magnus cracked his knuckles dramatically. "Oh good. I needed my daily chance to die horribly."

  With cautious coordination, Kaeric stepped onto the Wood tile. Ashen stepped onto Fire. Magnus, with a theatrical flourish and a wink, "Here's to not dying", and he hopped onto the panel for Ash.

  As the third panel sank into the stone with a heavy click, a deep grinding groan echoed back from the stairwell behind them. The stone door perhaps.

  Berf tilted his head, frowning. "Where's Sylvi?"

  The question hung in the stale, whispering air.

  And suddenly, the silence felt a little too deep. A little too wrong.

  Drifting

  Sylvi wandered down a side hallway, drawn by a strange warmth that curled at the edges of the cool stone air. The deeper she walked, the more the tension slipped from her body — as though invisible fingers gently unwound every knot from her shoulders, her neck, her legs. She breathed in, and the air was thick, wet, rich with the scent of ancient earth and life.

  The passage opened into a serene chamber, a low mist swirling across the tiles. In its center, a broad, still pool gleamed beneath the faint glow of unseen light. Soft steam rose from the water, the heat clinging to her skin like a loving embrace.

  Sylvi didn't remember stepping forward. Didn't remember the moment the water kissed her skin. But now she was in it, floating—cradled by its perfect warmth. And it was... perfect. Inviting.

  The outside world blurred into a distant haze, unimportant, forgotten.

  Her reflection rippled across the surface, and with her eyes closed, her mind drifted easily—effortlessly—backward.

  She was racing down wooded paths with Vesper, the weight of candied nuts bouncing in her pockets. She could hear their laughter, high and bright, echoing through the feywild woods. Agni Meorgis shouting from the distant shop behind them, powerless to catch them. The sun dappled their faces through trees ancient and wise, the sweet wind carrying their victory as they collapsed into giggling heaps to feast on stolen treats.

  For a heartbeat—or maybe an hour—nothing else existed.

  No Eye. No Zarathrax. No terrible weight on her shoulders.

  Only the memory of being young and wild and utterly free.

  A whisper brushed the edges of her mind.

  There’s something...

  A faint alarm. A moth fluttering against a closed window.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Sylvi stirred, but sluggishly, like trying to wake from the heaviest sleep.The warmth was so complete, so perfect. The thought of leaving it was a distant ache, not a call to action. She pressed against the thought—but her muscles were leaden.

  The water thickened around her, like velvet, like the arms of someone she once trusted. She floated, boneless, thoughtless, wrapped in a dream.

  I have somewhere to be. Don't I? She questioned.

  The words rose like bubbles, slow and delicate.

  The water kissed her chin. Her lips.

  She tilted her head back without thinking, letting it rise over her face.

  The voice of instinct—the one that should have screamed, Swim! Breathe! Move!—whispered instead.

  Why? Why go back?

  Out there was weight. Fear. Blood.

  The endless, gnawing knowledge that the feywild would never again be her home.

  The bridge between her heart and its true soil had long since crumbled.

  What was left but duty? Burden? Another day pretending she was enough? The Eye of Zarathrax. The creeping terror of the artifacts. The endless fight against a darkness too large for her small hands to hold back. What is there to return to?

  The water slipped past her nose. She drifted fully under, hair blooming around her like dark blossoms. Seconds blurred into minutes.

  Minutes blurred into nothingness.

  The bottom of the pool stretched beneath her—a soft, inviting dark.

  Her lungs began to tremble, desperate for air.

  But even now, the will to move flickered weakly.

  Maybe it’s better this way.

  Maybe I can stay. Warm, weightless, perfect. Maybe I dion't have to fight anymore. No one would blame me.

  Always been here, the water sang.

  Always warm. Always floating. Always safe.

  Her heart was slow now. Slower.

  The thin shell of panic finally cracked, but the urgency felt so distant—like it belonged to someone else.

  Sylvi's body twitched once, feebly.

  Her arms floated at her sides.

  The final breath she’d held leaked from her lips in a string of bubbles.

  Water crept into her mouth, her nose.

  She tasted stone and salt and memory.

  Her brain, even as it dimmed, screamed at her: Fight. Swim. Live.

  The Mirror. The Eye. Zarathrax. Your friends. The world.

  But it's was so hard.

  Not even the act of moving—just the act of choosing to move.

  Choosing to leave this peace. Choosing to feel again. Choosing the pain.

  Tears mixed with the water.

  She couldn’t tell if they came from sorrow or acceptance.

  The darkness of the pool coiled around her like a lover's arms.

  The pull of oblivion was so soft. So gentle.

  Maybe I can let it take me.

  Maybe I deserve to rest.

  Maybe... maybe...

  A flicker.

  A spark.

  A face. Vesper’s laughter, wild and true. Berf’s proud grin. Magnus’ ridiculous wink. Ashen’s fierce scowl. Kaeric’s stubborn, silent loyalty. Ember’s small, desperate meow.

  But somewhere, deep, something snapped as her body, starved beyond endurance, gave in.

  Her throat opened involuntarily, and the water rushed in.

  A searing, alien burn filled her chest as the last scrap of precious air fled her body in a stream of frantic bubbles.

  Sylvi's limbs spasmed once, twice—then went still.

  She sank without resistance, the heavy, merciless pull of the pool cradling her down.

  Down, down, down to the bottom.

  The darkness folded around her.

  The light above grew faint, then faded altogether.

  For a long moment, there was only the warm silence of the deep. One note. One breath. Then silence.

  Hands gripped her, fierce and urgent, pulling her from the warm deep blanket.

  Her body — traitorous, desperate — sucked in air with a racking, broken gasp.

  Cold air slashed her throat raw. Stone bruised her back. A voice echoed far away as she blinked blindly at the ceiling, heart pounding, ribs seizing. She was alive. She gasped, coughing up water as she sprawled on the warm marble, Kaeric crouched over her, worry etched deep in his brow.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, voice low.

  She blinked rapidly, confusion giving way to clarity. She was fine. More than fine. She felt light—cleansed. Joyful.

  And completely naked.

  "Turn around!" she shrieked, scrambling for her clothes. Kaeric quickly looked away, ears reddening.

  As she pulled her cloak around her, the others rounded the corner—Magnus, Ashen, and Berf arriving just a moment too late.

  "Hey Sylvi," Magnus said cheerfully, "we figured out how to get downstairs. You find anything interesting?"

  "I’ll tell you later," Sylvi muttered, shooting Kaeric a glare.

  "Not. A. Word."

  Descent into Shadows

  The stone door had groaned and scraped against its frame when they solved the mirror puzzle, grinding upwards into the ceiling with the tortured sound of ancient stone against stone. Now, the stairwell yawned darkly before them, a cold draft breathing up from the depths.

  Ashen held up a hand, frowning.

  Along the lower edges of the frame, deep scars and pry marks marred the surface.

  “Someone forced their way through,” Ashen murmured, tracing a line of gouged stone with his fingers. “The cultists, probably. They weren’t exactly patient."

  Sylvi narrowed her eyes. “If they opened it… why are they still here?”

  Ashen produced the slim, worn book he had tucked away earlier. Its leather binding was cracked, the pages brittle with age. He thumbed through until he found a passage, then read aloud, voice low in the silent stairwell:

  Ashen flipped to a page marked by a simple thread. The ink was faded, but the hand was firm. He read aloud:

  We have set the Seal as commanded. Beneath stone and root, the Mirror lies.

  It stirs against its prison. It whispers, though none will claim to hear it. We deny it voice. We deny it name. This must be so.

  Four Wards bind its prison: Strength. Balance. Wisdom. Will. Each shall stand alone, yet all must fall together if the Seal is to break.

  None must falter. None must forget. We guard not for glory, but because it is needful.

  The burden is ours. And ours alone.

  May the world forget this place.

  The words carried no affection — only weary duty, heavy as the stones above them. Ashen let the page fall closed with a soft snap.

  Kaeric folded his arms. "Maybe that’s why they’re still here. The cultists couldn’t move the Mirror. They’re stuck."

  "Or already paying for trying," Magnus muttered under his breath.

  Ashen tucked the book back into his coat. His face was grim. "Either way," he said, "we’re going down."

  And he started down the grinding stair into the roots and gloom below. They moved cautiously down the worn steps. As they descended, the stone of the fane gave way entirely to living wood.

  Massive roots wove the walls into thick, sinuous corridors, veins of dark sap pulsing faintly beneath the surface. Soft golden orbs floated overhead like captured stars, shedding gentle light across the glistening paths.

  The air was thicker here, warmer — not like rot, but life unchecked and ancient.

  "This place..." Sylvi whispered, brushing her fingers against a thick root that vibrated faintly beneath her touch, "It's alive."

  The landing split into two hallways, each twisting deeper into the roots.

  Shadows on Patrol

  From one corridor came the steady scrape of heavy boots. The party pressed themselves against the wall, peering around the curve. An orcish shade — tall, armored in scraps of mist and shadow — stalked the hallway. His gait was methodical, making rounds. His heavy footfalls echoed eerily off the root-woven walls. He turned down a side passage, his back to them.

  "Now," Ashen mouthed.

  Sylvi and Ashen slipped forward like wraiths, blades flashing.

  Ashen’s sword sliced across the shade’s flank. Black mist-blood sprayed into the air, dissipating almost immediately. The gash he carved through the creature’s side stitched itself together moments later leaving only a dark scar as if this cursed shade existed outside of time.

  Sylvi's sickle struck true, guided by the burning, silent voice of Sylva'Vesh in her mind—Cleanse the taint.

  Her blade dug into the shade’s shoulder, and it let out a low, guttural groan.

  Magnus took the opening, darting behind the shade. His dagger flicked from his hand and buried itself deep into the creature’s back — but instead of reacting, the blade simply slid downward and out, leaving no wound behind.

  The shade snarled and lunged for Ashen, a massive hand wrapping around his sword wrist, jamming it against the wall.

  The icy cold seeped into Ashen’s bones, numbing his grip—but he held on, refusing to drop his blade.

  Sylvi slashed again, carving another smoking wound into the shade's side.

  The creature staggered — but instead of falling, it whirled with unnatural speed, its blackened sword already cutting down toward her exposed neck.

  For a heartbeat, Sylvi froze—

  The blade gleamed, a breath away—

  Ashen lunged upward with a shout, his broadsword driving deep into the shade’s ribs.

  The impact jolted the creature mid-swing. A soundless cry wrenched from its throat as the darkness of its body shuddered—then unraveled into smoke.

  Sylvi stumbled back, heart pounding in her ears, staring at the place where the blade had almost found her.

  Magnus stepped up behind her, clapping her lightly on the shoulder with a crooked grin.

  “Careful there, Sylvi. Hate to see you lose your head.”

  Sylvi shot him a withering glare, but said nothing—too busy willing her breathing back under control.

  Ashen wiped the edge of his blade clean, silent.

  The path ahead stretched onward, winding deeper into the fane’s living roots and cold secrets. A new chamber - the floor was dominated by a massive, seesaw-like platform, its fulcrum resting precariously in the center. Scattered around were heavy stone blocks of varying sizes.

  Ashen knelt, brushing dust from an inscription near the platform’s base. "Balance," he read.

  It wasn’t complicated once they pieced it together: they needed to arrange the blocks correctly to weigh the platform evenly.

  Working together, they shifted stones—Berf heaving the heaviest ones with Magnus’ encouragement. "Lift with your knees, you majestic bastard!"—until the seesaw balanced.The stone fell with a heavy clunk.

  A soft click echoed through the chamber and a wind answered from out of nowhere. Magnus clapped dust from his hands. "Honestly, how the hell haven't the cultists figured this out?"

  "They're not exactly sending their finest," Kaeric muttered.

  They continued through the winding halls, and Kaeric held out his hand. He signaled them to stop. “Shh… I hear something.” Raised voices from a side passage The central room, likely with the Mirror..

  The party froze, listening.

  An annoyed voice — harsh, commanding. Another, submissive, defensive. They caught scraps.

  "...what was that noise? And Where’s Maris? Damn shades"

  "I don’t…. Sure …. ...I sent Asir … check..."

  "...hold position until he returns."

  Ashen’s face hardened. He gestured silently, his motions immediately clear: Attack now. Surprise them.

  Sylvi nodded, gripping her sickle tighter.

  Magnus shook his head. "If we ambush them now, and that shade patrols back, we’re outnumbered. If we explore more, we might find something to tip the odds."

  Before the argument could deepen, Berf trotted back around the corner, beaming.

  "Hey guys! There's another me over there! It's real cool. It does everything I do!"

  Sylvi groaned quietly, pinching the bridge of her nose, already dreading the conversation she knew was coming. Ashen sighed. "...Is it a mirror, Berf?"

  Berf blinked, confused. "No! I wave my hands—and he waves his hands! I jumped, he jumped!"

  Kaeric tilted his head. "Sounds... like a mirror."

  Berf frowned, “Oh!” realization slowly dawning. "Oh..."

  The Reflection Room

  They ducked past the hallway, following Berf deeper into the ring-like corridor that seemed to wrap around the central space, leaving Magnus to serve as a lookout.

  Eventually, they found it—the room Berf had mentioned.

  The walls were smooth and seamless, each wall broken only by a vast mirror.Ashen crossed the room, waving a hand in front of the mirror.

  His reflection moved...and he raised his eyebrow with a smug grin. He turned to Berf. “See Berf? Just a mirror… but I imagine there’s probably another of these damned puzzles in here, so we might as well..”

  "...Uh, Ashen," Kaeric said slowly, pointing. When Ashen turned away to address Berf, his reflection didn’t mirror him. It stayed facing the glass, tilting its head in curiosity.

  Ashen turned back just in time to see his own reflection step forward—through the glass.

  A ripple of black mist unfurled from the mirror’s surface as more figures followed. Reflections of Sylvi, Kaeric, Berf—each emerging silently into the room.

  They spoke in eerie unison, their voices layered with a fifth, deeper voice that was not their own:

  "Who are you... Why are you here?"

  Ashen lifted his sword. "We've come for the Mirror."

  The reflections hissed together:

  "Thieves. Soulless one. We were warned."

  Agony slammed into Ashen’s skull—sharp and stabbing, like invisible nails being driven into his brain.He staggered, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  Kaeric stepped back and knocked an arrow, loosing it into the shoulder of his double. The reflection didn't flinch as he in turn clutched at his head, pure agony stinging deep into his brain..

  Ashen slashed with his sword, carving into his reflection—but it barely reacted, pressing forward inexorably.

  Ashen grunted and drove his weight forward, slamming his double against the mirror behind it. A spiderweb of cracks bloomed across the glass—and the reflection winced for a moment as a fresh surge of agony tore through Ashen's mind.

  Sylvi's heart raced—the brain! the mind!—she remembered the djinn’s torment and struck at her reflection with all the will she could summon.

  Her double screamed, blood pouring from its ears.”The test of Will! Somehow we have to-” Ashen threw his shoulder into the mirror again. This time, it shattered. His reflection disappeared with a shuddering sigh. Sylvi, still trembling from the backlash, tried to warn them. "Wait—wait—" But Berf, enthusiastic as ever, body-slammed another mirror, shattering it. Kaeric ran full tilt into his own reflection, sending the last mirror cracking into oblivion.

  They stood there, panting, the silence oppressive.

  Berf blinked at Sylvi. "What were you gonna say, Miss Sylvi?"

  She sighed, rubbing her temples. "Nothing." A click sounded in the room and a rush of wind…”I guess that worked.”

  A scream echoed from the main chamber.

  "Aris!!! Aris, get back here! Something's happening!"

  Magnus’s voice followed immediately, tight with panic:

  "GUYS?! Uh, I think you need to get back here right now!"

  They sprinted to the hall where Magnus crouched behind a broken pillar.

  At the far end, a figure emerged from inside the large central space. “Berf, try to get to another entrance, we’re pinned down here, ”Kaeric said.

  A tall, robed cultist with blackened skin like cracked charcoal and eyes like molten iron raised one withered hand.

  Two other cultists flanked him, snarling spells already forming at their fingertips.

  The leader’s voice rolled over them like smoke:

  "There you are... Now you will die."