Page 43 of Mirror of Vanity

Strange how I knew that. Maybe some memories were intact. Only my ability to fight and use weapons were gone.

My footsteps echoed in the cavernous silence of the Archives of Shadows. Towering shelves loomed around me, their ancient tomes and scrolls holding secrets I couldn’t begin to fathom. Somewhere in this labyrinth of knowledge was the answer I sought, the reason I had sacrificed my memories of hunting. Yet without those memories, without the skills I had honed over a lifetime, I felt as lost as the whispers of forgotten souls lingering in the dusty air.

I closed my eyes, trying to calm the rapid thud of my heart, and focused on the remaining fragments of memory. A face swam into view, chiseled features and stormy gray eyes that held a tempest within their depths. “Brody O’Hara,” I murmured, the name both strange and familiar on my tongue. He had sent me here, given me a mission that danced out of reach.

I trailed my fingers along book spines, their ancient leather cool and slightly brittle beneath my touch. I inhaled deeply, and the scent of aged parchment and the faint tang of magic filled my lungs. Somewhere in these stacks was the key to unraveling the mystery that had brought me here.

I delved deeper into my mind, chasing wisps of memory that flitted away like shadows in the candlelight. Demons…a mirror…the fragments swirled, refusing to coalesce into a clear picture. I felt the shape of it, the edges of a truth. But, like trying to cup water in my bare hands, the details seemed to slip away the harder I tried to hold onto them.

Frustration rose in my throat, hot and bitter. The Archives seemed to mock me, their secrets locked away behind the barrier of my stolen memories. I was a hunter without her skills, a seeker without a map to guide her. In the face of all the unknown dangers in the shadows of this place, I felt as vulnerable as a newborn fawn.

Yet I refused to let the fear consume me. I had come too far, sacrificed too much, to let the Grimoire’s cruel machinations defeat me now. If the answers I sought were hidden in these archives, I would tear through every book, every scroll, until I found them. I would rebuild myself from the ashes, forge a new path through the darkness.

I straightened my shoulders. The hunt was on, even if the prey was now knowledge rather than demons. I would not rest until I had reclaimed what was mine and unraveled the mystery that brought me to this place of shadows and secrets.

The Archive of Shadows was not only a library. It was a sanctuary of forgotten lore. Maybe I could find tomes on hunting and how to kill supernatural beings since all that had disappeared from my files in my brain. I rubbed my temples, trying to pull out what kind of demons I was hunting.

Suddenly, soft footsteps echoed through the space, each step a whisper of hope or impending danger. If Justice and Garrick remembered me, we could work as a team again. Justice would remember that I loved him.

I held my breath and whirled, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. It was time to see if I encountered a friend or a foe.

At the end of the row of shelves, a male figure emerged from the shadows, his form cloaked in an aura of menace that sent a chill down my spine.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” His voice was silk and venom, the amusement in his tone laced with a sinister edge that made my blood run cold. “A hunter trespassing in my kingdom?”

As he stepped into the flickering light of the ancient lamps, I felt the breath leave my lungs in a rush of recognition and horror. It was Garrick, but not the Garrick I knew. Gone was the warmth in his eyes, the gentle curve of his smile. In their place was a cold, calculating gaze that stripped me bare, exposing every vulnerability, every weakness.

With a fluid, casual motion, he unsheathed his sword. The blade gleamed with a wicked light. The rasp of metal against the scabbard was a promise of violence, a threat given form.

I stepped back, my mind reeling as I tried to reconcile the man before me with the Garrick I had known. Who had fought by my side, who had loved Maggie in defiance of the boundaries of life and death. There was no recognition in his eyes, no flicker of the bond we had forged.

He didn’t remember me. The Unseelie King had forgotten his alliances, making me his enemy.

As if in response to the dark energy radiating from Garrick, the rose tattoo on my arm flared to life, the inked petals burning against my skin like a brand. I gasped, clutching at my arm as the pain seared through me.

Deep within me, a small, insistent voice whispered a single command: Run.

Every instinct screamed at me to flee, to put as much distance between myself and this twisted version of Garrick as possible. Yet I was frozen, caught between the desire to reach out to him, to try to break the Grimoire’s hold, and the primal urge to survive.

Garrick advanced, his steps measured and predatory, the sword gleaming in his hand. “You have no place here, hunter,” he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. “No place in this world.”

I backed away, my mind racing as I tried to formulate a plan. But without my memories of hunting, without the skills and knowledge I had sacrificed, I felt as helpless as a lamb before the wolf.

The Archives of Shadows seemed to close in around me, the towering shelves becoming a labyrinth with no escape. Garrick’s dark laughter echoed through the stacks, and the sound chilled me to the marrow of my bones.

I had only moments before he struck, before the blade in his hand tasted my blood. At that moment, I realized the true depth of the Grimoire’s cruelty. It hadn’t only stolen my memories, my skills. It had stolen my allies, my friends, turning them into enemies I might not have the strength to face.

Yet, as despair threatened to engulf me, I clung to a single shard of hope. If the Grimoire’s magic could be undone, if the mirror in my fractured visions held the key, perhaps Garrick could be saved. Perhaps the man I knew, the friend I had fought beside, was not lost forever.

It was a fragile hope, a flickering candle in the darkness of the Archives, but it was all I had. As Garrick lunged, his sword cutting through the air with deadly intent, I made a silent vow. I would find a way to restore what had been taken from him.

Or I would die trying.

Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed books off the shelf. The leather-bound tomes felt heavy and awkward in my hands as I hurled them at Garrick with all the strength I could muster. They flew like clumsy birds, their pages fluttering in a macabre dance. Garrick dodged them with a fluid, almost contemptuous grace. A sneer curled his lip as he watched my futile efforts.

With each step he took, the sound of his boots echoing on the stone floor like a death knell and the icy grip of fear tightened around my heart. His sword gleamed with a hungry light, its point aimed unerringly at my chest. I knew with sickening certainty that he wouldn’t hesitate. He would drive that blade through my heart without a flicker of remorse.

As Garrick advanced, a memory flashed through my mind, unbidden. Angarth Stronghold, the warmth of the fire, the soft murmur of voices in the night. Garrick’s face etched with grief and longing as he spoke of Maggie, of his dream to make her his queen. The way he had trusted me with his deepest hopes and fears, shielded me from the suspicion of his own guards.

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