When Valthrix steps before it, her reflection smiles a split second too late.
“Round two, my little heirs. A game of wit… and of honesty.
The Mirror shows what you long for, and what you loathe.
Resist the reflection, and you win.
Give in — even for a heartbeat — and the House takes what it’s due.”
She gestures, and the mirror blossoms open like liquid glass.
The hall falls away, replaced by a circular chamber of shimmering obsidian — endless reflections spinning in the dark.
The mirror pulls her in first.
For a moment, she stands alone on a black marble balcony overlooking a city of gold and fire — Dis, the Second Hell.
Music fills the air; servants bow.
Her reflection approaches — elegant, radiant, content.
“You could have had all this. The throne, the applause, the life your parents promised.”
Vex (quietly): “And never had Laz.”
The reflection laughs — cruel, seductive.
“He’s part of the deal. Everything can be—perfect again.”
She hesitates, just once.
The illusion cracks.
Gold turns to ash. Her reflection screams in fury as Vex smirks.
“Perfection’s boring anyway.”
The shard of her mirror shatters — one victory.
He steps in next, grin still plastered across his face.
He finds himself standing in a gambling hall just like this one, only it’s filled with laughter instead of screams.
He’s winning — effortlessly. Every roll goes his way, every coin lands in his palm.
A voice from behind him — his own reflection, smooth and smug.
“This is who you were meant to be.
Not a hero. A legend. No one remembers saints, only winners.”
Laz leans forward on the table, his expression faltering.
“Yeah, but legends don’t drink with friends who’d die for them.”
The cards burn.
The false Laz melts into shadow, hissing, “Then die with them.”
He laughs back, “Already planning on it.”
She enters, her robes glowing faintly.
The mirror world forms into a chapel — bright, holy, serene.
In the pews sit the faces of all those she’s failed to save.
Every sermon ends with their deaths.
At the altar stands a perfect version of herself, radiant and calm.
“You could be this — the flawless cleric, the one who never falters.”
Arden trembles.
“Perfection isn’t divine. It’s pride.”
The reflection bows its head, smiling faintly — and fades.
One of the souls in the pews whispers, “Well done, child.”
The mirror breathes his name before he steps through.
He finds himself in the ruins of Grayhollow, the village of his guilt.
Ash falls like snow.
And standing amid it — his daughter, alive, whole, smiling.
“You did it, Father. You can stop now.”
He drops to his knees.
“I can’t stop. Not until—”
“You’ve already succeeded. Stay here. With me.”
He reaches out, trembling. The mark on his hand burns.
And then, softly —
he hears Sereth’s voice, faint but real: “You don’t get to stop living, Elaris.”
He stands, closing his eyes.
“I’ll see you again… but not like this.”
The illusion collapses, leaving behind the faint sound of a child’s laugh carried on the infernal wind.
She steps in before anyone can stop her.
The world ripples, forming a moonlit forest — their camp.
Elaris stands there, smiling, alive and unscarred, looking at her the way she always wanted.
He speaks softly.
“It doesn’t have to be complicated. Stay here with me, and forget the rest.”
Her reflection — a mirror of herself — laughs behind her.
“You really think he loves you? He pities you, little ranger.”
Sereth flinches. Then she looks at both — the fake Elaris, the false self — and breathes out a laugh.
“He’s complicated. I’m complicated. That’s the point.”
Both illusions dissolve.
Her hand goes to her chest; the infernal mark flares briefly in sympathy with Elaris’s.
Valthrix claps, eyes glittering with something almost like admiration.
“Well done, my darlings. You’ve all resisted the first lies. But let’s see how you handle the truth.”
The mirror darkens until the surface reflects all of them together.
And behind them — dozens of infernal figures watching from the glass.
“Each of you has already made a deal,” she purrs.
“Whether you know it or not. Shall we play for revelation?”
The mirror flares white.
She steps in before anyone can stop her.
The world ripples, forming a moonlit forest — their camp.
Elaris stands there, smiling, alive and unscarred, looking at her the way she always wanted.
He speaks softly.
“It doesn’t have to be complicated. Stay here with me, and forget the rest.”
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Her reflection — a mirror of herself — laughs behind her.
“You really think he loves you? He pities you, little ranger.”
Sereth flinches. Then she looks at both — the fake Elaris, the false self — and breathes out a laugh.
“He’s complicated. I’m complicated. That’s the point.”
Both illusions dissolve.
Her hand goes to her chest; the infernal mark flares briefly in sympathy with Elaris’s.
Valthrix claps, eyes glittering with something almost like admiration.
“Well done, my darlings. You’ve all resisted the first lies. But let’s see how you handle the truth.”
The mirror darkens until the surface reflects all of them together.
And behind them — dozens of infernal figures watching from the glass.
“Each of you has already made a deal,” she purrs.
“Whether you know it or not. Shall we play for revelation?”
The mirror flares white.
The party regroups before the mirror, breaths uneven, faces pale under crimson light.
The House has gone quiet again — no audience, no devils. Just the sound of heartbeats and crackling candlelight.
Garruk leans against a pillar, arms crossed.
“I hate magic mirrors. Never trust somethin’ that looks back when you’re not lookin’ at it.”
Borin grunts, rubbing his beard.
“You also hate stairs, birds, and onions.”
Garruk: “Exactly. They all hide somethin’.”
Laughter breaks the heaviness for a beat.
Vex, now visibly shaken, traces the mark on her palm.
“Every time she says truth, I feel my name burn a little hotter. Whatever this next round is… it’s not just about us.”
Laz nods, forcing a smile.
“Guess we’re not the only ones with secrets.”
Arden gives him a knowing look.
“Everyone here’s got one. Even you, trickster.”
Kaer is checking his sword quietly, the motion steady and deliberate.
“Secrets don’t matter. What we do after they come out — that’s what counts.”
Sereth sidles up next to Elaris, lowering her voice.
“You ready for this?”
Elaris: “No. But then, I wasn’t ready for any of this.”
Sereth (grins): “Good. Wouldn’t want you to start getting confident now.”
Her tone is teasing, but there’s tension beneath it — the faint, fearful glimmer of someone who’s seen too much truth already.
He glances toward the mirror again, watching the faint flicker of movement inside it.
Elaris (murmuring): “The House feeds on what we hide. It’ll twist what it finds — use it to turn us against each other.”
Arden: “Then we trust each other more than the mirror.”
Valthrix reappears — elegantly seated atop the very edge of the mirror frame, legs crossed, tail curling lazily.
“Oh, how sweet.
Little speeches about trust before truth breaks it.
Shall we begin?”
The glass ripples once more, showing faint glimpses of each adventurer’s reflection… but distorted — eyes darker, smiles wider, truths half-buried.
The mirror stretches tall enough to swallow the ceiling, its surface now a slow-turning spiral of glass and fire.
Valthrix leans from her perch and traces a claw along the frame.
“Truth,” she purrs, “isn’t about what you tell others.
It’s about what you can no longer hide from yourself.”
The floor beneath your feet turns translucent. The reflections looking up are not perfect copies any more; they’re darker, older, wearing expressions that each of you once buried.
The glass shows him years younger, standing amid the ruins of Grayhollow.
But this reflection smiles.
“You didn’t stay to save them,” it says softly. “You left to save yourself.
All this talk of knowledge and balance—just excuses for cowardice.”
The real Elaris stiffens.
“Maybe. But I learned, and I’m using it to protect people now.”
The reflection’s grin cracks; the mark on his hand pulses once, warding off the lie.
Her mirror self steps from the glass, bow already drawn.
“He’ll never love you like you love him. You’re a distraction—a warm body in the dark.”
Sereth’s jaw tightens.
“Maybe. But at least I’m alive in the dark.”
The arrow fades to smoke; the reflection bows out, smirking in reluctant respect.
She faces a cathedral of mirrors, each one filled with people she couldn’t save.
“Why pretend to be divine when you’re just afraid of being mortal?”
Her hands tremble, then steady.
“Because faith isn’t fear. It’s choice.”
The choir of accusing voices turns to gentle hums before vanishing.
The reflection looks down at him—towering, armored, perfect.
“You’ll die an old drunk, not a legend.”
“Aye,” Borin mutters, “but I’ll die laughin’.”
The perfect version snorts and dissolves into ale foam.
His reflection bleeds battlefields.
“You think you fight for friends, but you fight to forget.”
He grins.
“Both. And it works.”
The echo of war fades to a single heartbeat.
He meets his own eyes in the mirror—eyes that never stopped seeing the war.
“You’ll lose them, too.”
“Then I’ll stand the watch anyway.”
The reflection salutes and shatters cleanly.
Their reflections appear together—glamorous, royal, infernal.
“You were meant to rule, not to crawl with mortals.”
Vex glances at Laz, smirks.
“Ruling’s boring. Mortals are unpredictable.”
Laz flips a coin.
“Besides, the House of Crimson Dice has better drinks.”
The twin reflections bow and vanish in twin bursts of embers.
Slow applause.
“Impressive. Honesty without despair—rare currency down here.”
She slides from the frame; the mirror steadies, now showing only the party.
“You’ve earned your freedom from the House, little heirs… but not from me.
A contract’s ink never dries.”
The mark on Vex’s hand flares once more—then cools to a faint scar.
“We’ll play again, when fortune turns.”
Her smile could slice glass.
The hall collapses into crimson light.
The group wakes back in the Ember Tankard’s cellar, dice scattered across the floor, the smell of smoke and brimstone fading.
Each of them carries a faint shimmer—part of the House’s glamour—proof it was real.
Laz: “So… whose round is it?”
Borin: “Not yours, demon-spawn.”
Laughter bursts out; tension finally breaks.
The mirror? Gone.
Only a single playing card remains on the table: the Queen of Hearts, burned at the edges.
Morning light spills through the Ember Tankard’s dusty windows, cutting across overturned chairs, half-finished ales, and the faint smell of brimstone that refuses to leave.
The group has barely slept since the Mirror Hall, but the fire’s warmth and the scent of bread and ale are grounding again.
At the center table, Elaris turns the Queen of Hearts card between his fingers. The edges shimmer faintly, the burnt paper humming with residual infernal magic.
Arden: “It’s not still… alive, is it?”
Elaris: “Depends on your definition of alive.”
He flips the card; the painted queen’s eyes are closed. When he turns it again — they’re open. And winking.
A faint perfume fills the air — honey and smoke.
The card speaks, not in words but in song, a whisper that only Elaris and the twins hear clearly:
“Three roads converge.
The hand unseen plays the fool, the queen, the knave.
Follow the heart, or break it.”
The voice fades. The card curls into a neat spiral of ash, leaving only a single ruby playing chip marked with the sigil of the Crimson Legion.
Borin: “Well, that’s unsettling.”
Garruk: “Aye, and no breakfast yet either. Bad omens always come before bacon.”
Kaer plucks the chip from the ashes, holding it to the light.
“Legion seal. Maybe our next lead.”
Then, with mock formality, he turns to the twins and bows — perfectly deadpan.
“Your Majesties, shall we ride to war?”
Laz groans, rubbing his temples.
“Kaer, you start calling me ‘Your Majesty’ again, I’m going to knight you with a chair.”
Vex smirks, trying to hide her blush.
“He just likes saying it because he gets the titles right for once.”
Kaer: “Hardly. I still don’t know which of you is the Most Infernal Radiance of the Seventh Sapphire Court or the Sublime Princess of Chance and Vice.”
He recites them flawlessly.
Both twins freeze.
Borin: “Wait—those are your actual titles?”
Vex & Laz (together): “NO!”
Garruk wheezes laughing so hard he spills his ale.
The day drifts slowly into lazy golden light.
Garruk and Borin are already halfway through a drinking contest that no one agreed to; Kaer quietly carves runes into his blade; Arden is blessing the tavern cat, who immediately falls asleep again.
At the far end of the bar, Elaris spreads his notes — the codex open, the ruby chip resting beside it. The pattern carved into the chip is unmistakable: a heart wrapped in thorns.
The same insignia burned into the Crimson Legion’s banners.
Elaris (quietly): “It seems fate’s hand is moving faster than we are.”
Sereth sets her bow — Heartstring, as she’s now named it — against the wall beside him and sits.
“Then let’s not keep it waiting.”
Her bowstring hums once — the mark on Elaris’s hand faintly answering.