Dion's POV
The door slammed shut behind him.
Not with force. Not even sound. But finality. Like a grave being sealed.
Dion stood at the center of a round chamber. Stone walls rose around him, curved like the inside of a tower, but there were no visible torches—only a cold, silvery glow emanating from the floor itself. The silence was suffocating.
No monsters. No fire. No illusions yet.
Just… a mirror.
It stood at the far end of the room. Ornate and tall, nearly reaching the domed ceiling. Framed in blackened silver, etched with a language he instinctively recognized as ancient Nyxian—the tongue of the underworld.
He took a slow step forward.
And the mirror responded.
Not with light, nor motion. But with memory.
The surface shimmered, then solidified again—and staring back at him was not his current self, hardened and grim and determined—but the boy he had once been. His hair longer, unkempt. A softer jaw. Laughter in his eyes.
And behind that version of himself stood her.
Therrin.
Not as she was now. But from that first week—when she'd fallen asleep beside him, curled against his side like she already belonged there. When she didn't know yet how much darkness awaited. When her smile had still been unguarded.
The boy in the mirror turned toward her and said something Dion couldn't hear.
Therrin laughed.
The mirror shimmered again—and the scene changed.
Now it was the Dion from weeks ago. Broken, soaked in blood, kneeling beside Therrin's unconscious body after the soul-battle. Screaming her name. Shaking her as if that might wake her up.
His heart twisted at the image.
Another shimmer.
Now he was walking away. The bond between them shattered. Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn't stop him.
And he hadn't turned around.
Until now.
Dion clenched his fists. "What is this?"
The mirror didn't answer.
But it didn't have to.
He knew.
This was the Trial of Regret. And it wasn't just here to show him his past—it was here to demand payment for it.
"You can't break me with old wounds," he said aloud. "I've paid for them. I've bled for them."
The mirror pulsed once.
And now it showed something else.
Ari. Standing alone in a clearing. Calling for him. Her voice desperate. "Dion, please—why aren't you here?"
She turned and saw something—her eyes widening in fear.
A shadowcreature emerged from the darkness behind her.
And Dion did nothing. He watched.
Because this was a memory, not a moment he could reach into.
He remembered this night.
He hadn't come fast enough.
By the time he'd arrived, Ari had already fought them off herself—but she hadn't spoken to him for days after. Not because she was angry. But because she was scared of what it meant. That even he couldn't be everywhere. That even he might fail them both.
His jaw locked.
The mirror's whispers began now. Soft. Like the rustling of dead leaves.
"You left them both behind."
"You broke the bond."
"You are not their protector. You are their mistake."
The voices grew louder. A chorus now.
"You wanted them to suffer. Because they made you weak."
"You will fail again."
"You are not worthy of love that comes in twos."
He reached for the mirror with one hand—and light flared around it.
Suddenly, the glass rippled.
And he saw himself again—this time standing at the center of a battlefield. Therrin and Ari behind him. Grimm wounded at his feet. Ciaran striding forward, fury in his eyes, power flaring around him.
Dion didn't move.
He couldn't.
His body was frozen—paralyzed by doubt, by fear, by regret.
And in the dream, he failed.
Everyone fell.
He cried out and stumbled back.
The mirror cracked.
Not shattered—but split down the center.
A fracture.
Like the one he'd caused in his bond with Therrin.
"No," he whispered.
And then louder, with more certainty: "No. I won't let this define me."
He stepped forward, into the mirror.
The glass didn't resist him.
Instead, it swallowed him whole.
Inside the Mirror
Somewhere between memory and trial…
He landed hard on his knees. The ground was ash. The sky—a mirror image of his guilt.
And there—at the far end—was her.
Therrin again.
But she was standing with her back to him, cloaked in black, her hair drifting like smoke. The Mistress at her side. And Ciaran.
All of them laughing.
The Mistress turned and met his eyes. "Oh, Dion," she purred. "You were always so noble. So boring. Did you really think love was something you could win with sacrifice?"
He rose slowly.
"This isn't real," he told her.
"It doesn't matter," she replied. "It's what you believe."
Ciaran drew Therrin close, his hand cupping her jaw.
Therrin tilted her head—cold, unrecognizing.
She didn't know Dion at all in this vision.
She had forgotten him.
That was the final blow.
Dion fell to one knee again.
And the sky cracked.
Reality
The mirror exploded outward—shards of silver flying like knives.
Dion stood in the center, unharmed.
His breath heaved.
His palms bled—from where they'd clenched so hard his nails pierced skin.
But he was still standing.
And the voices had gone silent.
The trial was over.
He hadn't broken.
Not this time.