The chamber was silent except for the faint crackle of ice melting across the floor. We sat where we’d fallen, too drained to speak. Every breath thick with the memory of fire. Had it not been for Lira’s Deviant spell, none of us would have survived.

  Merric and Elaria rested near the wall, half-asleep beside what was left of our lantern. Its glow flickered weakly across the frost, scattering light like shards of glass. Lira sat apart from us, knees drawn close, the faint blue light of her ice reflecting off her face.

  For a while, I only watched the mist rise from her shoulders as she breathed. The others looked spent, but she seemed carved from the same ice she’d conjured—motionless, unreadable, as if afraid that moving might break her.

  After a moment, I rose and walked toward her. The ground creaked beneath my boots. She didn’t look up when I sat beside her. Her fingers traced a thin fracture running through the frozen floor, her expression distant.

  “Ice is strange,” I said quietly. “Resilient, but brittle all the same.”

  She blinked, surprised, then nodded.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “Resilient… but fragile when you stop respecting it.” She paused, eyes still on the crack. “Sometimes I think it reflects me more than water ever could.”

  The ice popped under her fingertips, a sound sharp in the silence. She didn’t move her hand. I wasn’t used to her speaking this softly, or this honestly.

  “I think everyone feels that way at times,” I said. “I still catch my reflection sometimes and don’t recognize who’s staring back. It’s strange—seeing so much and still feeling blind.”

  Her eyes flicked toward me, thoughtful, before turning back to the ice.

  “When I was younger, I thought sight was everything. Power, clarity, control—that’s what every noble was raised to believe. But power doesn’t always listen when you call it.”

  She drew a slow circle on the frost, the motion delicate, reverent.

  “My Deviant nature appeared when I was nine.” She hesitated. “I’d gone out to practice weaving with a stream near our estate. One moment, the water was calm. The next, everything froze solid—the river, the air, even my hands. My father found me standing there, surrounded by ice. He made me swear no one would ever know.”

  Her voice faltered.

  “Ever since that day, I’ve been hiding pieces of myself. It’s easier than being hunted for what I am.”

  I nodded slowly, understanding settling heavy between us.

  “I know that feeling. I spent years trying to hide my lack of sight—pretending it didn’t matter. But the world never let me forget. Eventually, I stopped pretending. I learned there are things I can sense that others can’t. I may not see threads, but I can feel them. That’s my gift.”

  She finally looked at me, the faint shimmer of frostlight catching her eyes.

  “And it made things easier?”

  “No,” I said, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “But it made things honest.”

  Lira’s gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, then drifted back to the ice.

  “Maybe you’re right. But honesty like that gets people killed where I’m from. The Church doesn’t forgive what it can’t control.”

  She rose, brushing frost from her gloves, her tone turning brisk again.

  “Wake the others. We shouldn’t stay here too long.”

  After waking Elaria and Merric, we headed for the second floor. The frozen chamber groaned behind us, ice cracking under our boots as we made our way through the tunnel. The metallic smell of fresh blood still clung to the air, heavy enough that I could almost taste it.

  “I wonder what was down the other pathway,” Merric said.

  “Knowing our luck,” I said, “we probably picked the harder side. The other one probably had glowtails or something harmless.”

  Merric let out a short laugh.

  “Yeah, maybe a few mosscats too. Would’ve made for a nicer welcome.”

  “Anything would’ve been better than what we just went through,” I muttered, adjusting my pack.

  “Things could’ve been worse,” Elaria added. “We might not have made it out at all. We should be a little more grateful.”

  “Grateful to who exactly?” Merric said, glancing over his shoulder. “If you meant Lira, I’m in full agreement.”

  “I only did what anyone would’ve if they could,” Lira said without slowing.

  Merric raised a brow.

  “Maybe. But none of us could’ve done what you did.”

  No one said anything after that. Our footsteps filled the silence, the sound dull against the frost. The lantern light stretched ahead in a thin line, swallowing most of the dark but not nearly enough.

  It took maybe fifteen minutes before the corridor opened into a stairwell. The steps dropped into nothing, the lantern light dying before it reached the bottom.

  Lira held the lantern higher. The walls on either side were smooth, carved with faint engravings. Shapes of a figure standing over a crowd, thin streams of light spilling from their hands. The stone was worn smooth, whatever meaning it once held mostly gone.

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  “What do you think it is?” Elaria asked.

  “Probably some old faith carving,” Merric said. “Looks like the kind of thing the Church would make you pray to.”

  Lira shook her head.

  “No. Their iconography uses circles and halos. This—” she ran her fingers over the lines “—is older. Much older.”

  She didn’t say anything more. The frost at the stair’s edge began to melt, droplets hissing as they hit the stone below.

  We started down. The air grew colder the deeper we went, our breath turning white in front of us. The quiet wasn’t peaceful—it pressed in from all sides, like something waiting just out of sight.

  By the time the stairs leveled out, even Merric’s jokes had died off.

  The hall at the bottom didn’t match the rest of the ruin. The walls were clean, seamless, the stone smooth enough to catch the light. No cracks, no moss, no sign of age. Just silence.

  The hallway gave way to a long chamber littered with broken glass tubes and rusted instruments. The cold deepened with every step, the air sharp enough to sting the throat.

  We moved carefully over the glass, boots crunching softly as we studied the wreckage. A steel frame jutted from the wall, its surface warped and half-melted. More glass containers lined the sides of the room, some still holding liquid that shimmered in muted colors.

  Symbols marked the walls and floors—carvings of shapes and patterns, painted in faded pigments that had long lost their meaning.

  “What could all this be?” Elaria asked, picking up a cracked tube from the ground.

  “Maybe an old Guild research site,” Lira said, running her hand along the melted steel.

  “This might’ve been the Church’s,” I said. “I doubt they’d let the Guild experiment this far down without oversight.”

  Merric held up a small metal container, turning it in his hands.

  “What kind of equipment is this? You couldn’t fit a sip of water in it.”

  “I’m not sure,” Lira said. “But don’t get too caught up. We’re still in a dungeon.”

  We left the relics behind and followed her deeper in. The temperature dropped again, our breath fogging in the dim light.

  “Damn,” Merric muttered, rubbing his arms. “If I’d known it’d be this cold, I’d have brought a coat.”

  That’s when I heard it—a faint scuttling, soft at first, then closer.

  “Quiet,” I said, raising a hand. “Something’s moving.”

  The sound multiplied, bouncing off the walls. I turned toward it just as something dropped from the ceiling. It hit the ground hard, crouched low, then stood.

  At first, I thought it was a person. The outline was human enough—shoulders, head, arms—but it wavered in the lantern light, wrong in all the places that mattered. Then it stepped forward, and the illusion broke.

  Its skin looked half-formed, stretched too tight over muscle and bone that didn’t quite match. Every movement lagged, like it was watching us and trying to imitate what it saw. Light pulsed beneath its flesh—veins glowing faint gold, threading up its neck and vanishing into hollow eyes.

  The face was almost human, but the details didn’t belong together. The mouth was too wide. The eyes too still. When it tilted its head, I realized it was copying me—the same angle, the same hesitation.

  Then it lunged.

  Lira barely had time to react before Merric slid into its path, hammer raised. The impact rang through the room, sparks scattering across the frost. The creature’s fingers lengthened into claws of ice, tips dripping water. A wave of cold burst from its body, spilling across the floor.

  “That’s where the cold’s coming from,” I said. “It’s using Deviant sigils.”

  Merric grunted, locking his arms against the push.

  “Yeah, and it’s slimy as hell. It’s getting on my hammer!”

  He twisted his grip and threw the thing off, sending it skidding across the ground. I started forward to help, but the scuttling came again—from above.

  Another one dropped from the ceiling. Same gaunt frame. Same flicker of motion. It landed behind me and straightened, mimicking my stance.

  I pivoted, drawing my sword, and swung low for its legs. The blade cut air—too fast. The creature leapt back, hurling a sickle of ice that hissed through the dark. I deflected it, sparks and frost scattering as I retreated toward the group.

  Now there were two of them, both standing perfectly still, heads tilting in the same unnatural rhythm. Watching. Waiting.

  Lira didn’t hesitate. She formed two chakrams of water and sent them spinning. The mimics answered in unison, casting identical sigils. The spells collided midair and burst into a shower of mist.

  “Lira and I have the one on the right!” I called. “Merric, Elaria—take the left!”

  “Yeah, leave it to us!” Merric shouted, his voice echoing off the stone.

  I wove three disks of flame and hurled them forward. The first two were deflected by the creature’s claws, but the heat softened the ice; the third slipped through, severing its left arm cleanly.

  The creature shrieked and stumbled back, clutching the smoking wound. The golden veins along its body flickered wildly, light spilling from the cracks in its skin like molten thread.

  The creature staggered back, clutching its ruined arm. The light beneath its skin pulsed faster, threads of gold flickering like fire trying to break through ice. Then its body stilled. The veins dimmed.

  And a ring of flame formed in its palm.

  My ring. My sigil.

  It looked at me as it cast, tilting its head in that same broken mimicry. Three disks flared to life and shot forward, heat cutting through the cold. I met the first with my sword—the burst cracked against steel, showering sparks across the floor. Lira’s water sigil met the others midair, steam billowing around us in thick clouds.

  “It’s copying our weaves,” I said, voice tight.

  The others hesitated, just long enough for the thing to start forming another spell. I saw the motion of its hands—too practiced, too familiar—and snapped,

  “Stick to melee! If it can’t see us cast, it can’t copy!”

  Understanding flashed in Merric’s eyes before his body moved, instinct faster than thought. His hammer met the creature’s chest with a deep, wet crack that sent it sprawling. Elaria’s support threads wrapped him in light, strengthening his next swing.

  Turning back to my battle, I rushed in, blade drawn, as the mimic lurched up with a snarl. Its claws were longer now, edged with frost that steamed in the lantern glow.

  Steel met ice. The air filled with sparks and freezing mist. Each strike felt heavier, more desperate—the creature learning, adapting mid-fight. Lira joined the fray, her short sword slicing across its arm, forcing it back a step.

  She and I moved together in rhythm—strike, parry, shift—our pace tightening until the monster faltered.

  Then it slipped on the fractured ice, stumbled, and Lira drove her blade through its chest. The scream caught in its throat. Light burst from the wound and went out in an instant, leaving the body limp on the floor.

  For a moment, none of us spoke. The last echo of steel faded, replaced by the slow drip of melting ice.

  I turned toward Merric as he was pulling his hammer free from the other corpse, breath misting in the air.

  “Well,” he said, wiping his weapon on his sleeve, “that one wasn’t as bad as the first floor.”

  “These things were wrong,” I muttered, crouching beside the body. The glow had already faded, leaving veins of blackened residue where Essence once pulsed. “How could they copy our sigils?”

  Lira knelt beside me, studying the cracked flesh.

  “Maybe it’s from whatever research they did here. If it could read our Essence signature, it could mimic the thread pattern itself.”

  Elaria shivered, rubbing her arms.

  “Whatever it was, I’m just glad it’s gone. That thing looked at me like it knew me.”

  Lira glanced toward the stairwell at the far end of the chamber, the cold air spilling from it in waves.

  “We rest here,” she said quietly. “Then we head for the third floor.”

  We all nodded. The silence that followed felt different this time—heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

  Two floors down, one to go. If the first two were tests, I don’t want to know what the final one looks like.