Boras’s blade was a glint of mockery against the stark white of the snow. The Witch-Borer began to stir, its segmented body slowly coiling as if gathering strength. Zivena turned, not toward the enemy below, but toward the colossal, shadowed form beside her. The wind tore at her tunic, bitter with sleet. “How could you let this happen?” she demanded, her voice raw, barely audible over the wind’s shriek. “This fortress… it’s crumbling. You let it rot!” Vorlag’s stone plates shifted, a grinding sound like granite splitting. “Rot?” His voice, though still tinged with the horror of the Witch-Borer, sharpened with accusation. “You think I chose this? You think I stand here, a prison of rock and shadow, by choice?” “You are the master of Grieze Spire,” Zivena countered, jabbing her finger toward the blasted parapet. “And it’s dying. Just like you’re letting it die. If your pride wasn't so vast, maybe you’d have noticed the decay before it invited every petty warlord with a siege engine to your gates!” He recoiled as if struck, though his stony hide remained impassive. “My pride?” Vorlag rumbled, stepping closer until his shadow enveloped her. The air grew cold, a bitter chill that seeped into her bones. “You speak of pride? You, who sees every kindness as a weapon, every glance as a challenge? Your honor is a cage of your own making, Blade-Dancer. You are as much a prisoner of your own perfect, unblemished skill as I am of this cursed flesh!” His words bit, sharp and true. Zivena felt a flush of indignant fury rise within her. Her hand tightened on her sword hilt. He was right, in a way that stung more than any physical blow. Every defeat was a brand, every offer of help a veiled insult. But he was also wrong. He had brought this on himself. “And you,” she spat back, eyes blazing, “are a monster hiding behind a curse!” He flinched, a subtle tremor running through his massive frame. For a moment, the primal fury in his eyes seemed to dim, replaced by something like desolation. But then it hardened, the stony plates around his gaze seeming to furrow deeper. “Go,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Before I decide which of us is the greater threat to this damned Spire.” Zivena didn’t need to be told twice. With a final, contemptuous look, she spun on her heel and stalked away from the parapet, away from the looming threat of the Witch-Borer, and away from the beast whose words had struck bone. She descended deeper into the fortress, her steps echoing in the hollow silence. The Grand Scriptoria felt too exposed, too full of his accusing presence. She needed a place where the air was still, where her thoughts could unfurl without the constant presence of a monstrous ward or a decaying library. She found herself in a neglected corridor, its walls lined with moth-eaten banners depicting long-forgotten victories. A faint light pulsed from a half-open door at its end. Mistress Eliska stood within, her back to Zivena, her ancient fingers tracing the rim of a tall, oval looking glass set into an alcove. Its silvered surface was cloudy, like a still pool beneath an overcast sky. The room was cold, dryer than the rest of the Spire, smelling faintly of dry resin. “Trouble on the ramparts, little dove?” Eliska’s voice was soft, knowing, as she turned to face Zivena. Her eyes, usually so warm, held an unreadable depth. Zivena shrugged, unwilling to give voice to her frustration. “Boras has a new toy. A ‘Witch-Borer’. Vorlag says it eats ley-lines.” “Indeed,” Eliska murmured, her gaze returning to the bronze frame. “A most troublesome contraption. But not one that concerns us directly, not yet. Our work, Blade-Dancer, lies here.” She gestured toward the glass. “This is the Speculum of Unveiling. It shows the truth beneath the veil.” Zivena approached cautiously. The pane was tall, framed in tarnished bronze that depicted intertwining serpents biting their own tails. It held no image, only a milky, swirling mist. “What truth?” “The truth of what is hidden,” Eliska said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “The curse of Vorlag hides him, yes. But it is only a veil. This glass can part it, if you look with an open mind.” An open mind. Zivena scoffed inwardly. She had an open mind for tactics, for blades, not for magic tricks and sentimentality. Yet, a flicker of curiosity, a desire to understand her rival, pushed her forward. If she could see him, truly see him, perhaps she could find a weakness. Perhaps she could prove she was right about him. She stepped before the glass, her own face still absent from the mercury. The milky mist swirled, growing thicker, then slowly began to part like heavy velvet curtains. At first, it showed only distorted flickers, like a fire seen through rippling water. Then, the image solidified. Not the hulking beast, but a man. A man with sharp, aristocratic features, a strong jaw, and dark hair that fell just so over his brow. It was Stellan. Her rival. The undefeated champion, the man she had hated and respected in equal measure, the one whose moves she had recognized even through the monstrous form. But this Stellan was not the confident, arrogant duelist she remembered. His eyes, though fierce, held a profound, aching despair. Lines of exhaustion were etched around them, and his lips were pressed into a thin, weary line, as if crushed beneath an invisible load. He looked haunted, vulnerable, utterly alone. It was a face ravaged by suffering, far beyond the physical toll of a curse. A shock ran through Zivena like a parried foil vibrating into her wrist. This was not the arrogant beast she had fought, not the creature who had slammed his hand beside her head. This was a man broken, raw, exposed. The hatred she had cultivated, the certainty of his monstrousness, fractured. She had always seen him as a wall to overcome, a final test of her skill. Now, she saw a ghost in the silver, a man drowning in a pain she suddenly, shockingly, understood. Then came the second jolt, colder and sharper. Behind her, now faintly visible at the edge of the bronze rim, Eliska’s visage shimmered. The kind, gentle smile was gone. In its place, her face was a mask of intense concentration, her eyes narrowed, not with warmth, but with a fierce, predatory calculation. It was a look of someone making a gamble, holding her breath for the outcome, a look utterly devoid of the usual serene wisdom she projected. Zivena felt a sudden, sickening chill. Eliska was watching her, studying her reaction, willing something to happen. The old woman wasn’t merely guiding her; she was manipulating her, pushing her toward an outcome, an outcome she desperately needed. The glass wasn’t just showing the truth of Vorlag; it was revealing a deeper, more unsettling truth about Eliska herself. Before Zivena could process the implications, a shadow fell across the chamber entrance. A deep voice, rough as grinding stone, echoed from the doorway, making the very air vibrate. “What did you see?”

The Ghost in the Mirror