Page 69 of The Shattered Rite
A great arena.
But not for sport.
This was a maze.
A vast, fractured warren of mirrored halls and angled traps, pulsing faintly with twisted magic. Somewhere far off, a scream tore through the silence—sharp, then abruptly cut short.
Then: stillness. Oppressive. Smothering.
Her pulse quickened.
Vaeronth’s voice was thinner now, like sound buffered by a thick wall.These illusions feed on fear. You mustn’t let them.
A low bell tolled. Once.
Twice.
It was official now; the other trial chosen must also be here somewhere.
She moved.
The floor sloped downward into a narrow corridor lined with mirrors. Her reflection blinked from every angle—some delayed, some too fast. One version of her stood still while she moved. Another turned left when she turned right.
Illusions.
An impossible breeze brushed her cheek, and she felt a pressure on her shoulder. A child’s laughter echoed and faded.
She kept moving, keeping her breath even.
Around the first corner: blood. Streaked across the wall. Still drying. No body. Just a single boot, and the stale tang of pain in the air.
She didn’t linger.
The second corridor bent strangely—an impossible angle, like the hallway had folded inward. Her stomach lurched as she stepped through.
A shape moved up ahead.
She froze.
Someone was there.
No—something.
A flicker of motion in the mirrors. Sharp. Fast. Inhumanley fast.
She drew still, sword steady in her hand, listening to the silence like it was a language she had once known.
Behind her, a reflection moved.
Not hers.
Her grip tightened on the hilt. “I’m getting very tired of ghosts,” she muttered, scanning the mirrored corridors.
The reflection stilled when she turned. Watching. Waiting.
“Come on then,” she said aloud. “Let’s find out who’s real.”
Nothing answered.
