The years blurred—days bleeding into nights. Time marched without mercy. The forest, for all its danger and mystery, remained unchanged—its shadowed canopy and jagged roots a constant, unyielding reminder.
But we didn't. We were pushed beyond our limits daily, growing stronger—individually and as a team. The grind carved us anew. Every scar, every blistered callus, proof we'd earned our strength the hard way. The pain lingered, but in its echo was proof that we were no longer who we once were.
Alythiel's daggers had runes etched into the blades, faint sigils that shimmered in torchlight. I asked her once what they meant. She just smiled, moonstone eyes glinting, and said, "A bit more power."
Whatever that meant—alchemy, enchantment, or mystery, I never found out. Not then. But the way she fought now... graceful, lethal, deliberate. If the Shadow Hand had seen her, they'd have tried to recruit her. She'd carve them into legacy.
Laboritus could nail an insect at fifty yards. His arrows cut the air like they had something to prove. And in sparring, he was no longer just keeping up—he was pushing even Alythiel and me to our limits. The hesitation he once carried was gone—replaced by command. Quiet. Steady. Absolute.
Torglel was already a battlefield in motion the day we showed up. Now? He was a siege weapon wrapped in dwarf skin. His impacts split the earth like Tharnak's hammer at the forge—raw, divine, and final. His flames didn't just burn—they obeyed. Each blaze was chosen. Precise. A dancer in firelight with murder in mind.
As for me...
My power was a storm. Restless. Growing. Lightning under my skin, waiting to be unleashed. And the more I leaned into it, the louder that voice became.
"One day," it whispered, "you'll give in."
I was tired of fighting it. But I hadn't lost. Not yet.
What we'd become in these seven years—that was family. Not just comrades. Not just fighters. We bled together. Broke together. Healed together. And now... the final test waited.
Petrus stood on the field, his presence like still water with danger lurking beneath. As we approached, his eyes scanned us—every scar, every stride, every silent readiness.
"You've all gone farther than you thought possible," he said, voice low and calm but sharp enough to cut. "You've bled, sweat, and endured beyond what most mortals ever face in their life."
He paced the dry grass, each step deliberate. "But there's always more to your limits. Always further beyond."
He stopped, facing us. "Today, you face yourselves. Not the versions you want to be—the ones you fear becoming. You will not win alone. You cannot win alone."
Then he stepped back. Seluvia stepped forward. Her hands lifted.
"Caligo, eos rapias."
The chant rang out—sharp and ancient. Fog crept in fast, swallowing the field, damp against my skin.
As the fog thinned and vanished the world changed. We stood in a scorched arena. Towering stone walls, cracked and ancient. The ground burned and broken beneath our boots.
Across from us: Mirror versions of ourselves.
Alythiel's mirror stood silent, draped in black leather armor that hugged her like a second skin. Her eyes were dead, her face unreadable—a cold-blooded killer stripped of warmth.
Laboritus's mirror looked less alive and more machine—no emotion, only precision, his bow held with mechanical stillness.
Torglel's mirror was clad in blood-red armor, his hammer black as night, hanging heavy in his hands. His eyes gleamed wild and unhinged, flames rolling off his body like a caged beast clawing to break free.
And my mirror—
He was everything I feared. Not wild. Not bloodthirsty. Calm. Controlled. Precise.
Eyes like black ice. Movements deliberate. Every step weighted with intention. He didn't grin or taunt. He analyzed.
This wasn't madness. This was what we could become—should we ever stop fighting and let the primal instinct take over.
The whisper crawled back into my skull: "That's what you could be—if you stopped pretending you weren't already broken."
I paid it no mind as we rushed forward. Each of us collided with our mirror like a storm breaking loose.
Laboritus met himself in brutal silence—bow met staff, arrows parried mid-air by the crack of enchanted wood. Every strike was matched, every move countered, the two of them locked in a duel of strength versus precision.
Alythiel's double was a ghost—silent and swift. Her daggers clashed with Alythiel's in a dance too fast to follow. Blades singing in harmony and dissonance. Grace met ruthlessness, a mirror of fluid death.
Torglel's clash was fire and fury incarnate—his mirror roaring with unbound flame, the air warping between them. Sparks flew. The arena cracked beneath them, fury of flesh and flame.
And me—I fought the storm I kept buried.
He moved like I did. Thought like I did. Every dodge, every strike—predicted. Faster. Sharper. Crueler. My twin of lightning and rage.
Time to switch up the plan. We were at a stalemate.
I ran back and leapt onto a pillar, breathing hard. Heat in my chest. Ringing in my ears.
I hesitated for half a heartbeat. But I had no choice.
"VEL'ZARAK KOR'THUL!"
Lightning poured from the sky—crimson and ashen gray, slamming into the arena in violent bursts. My veins burned from the inside out, power surging too fast, too raw. Runes appeared on my arms blazing molten-hot. My breath came ragged.
I couldn't stop shaking. I was losing control.
Alythiel looked my way and knew. She moved through the chaos like a wisp of moonlight, dodging between blasts, her form fluid and fearless. She climbed the pillar, calm and sure, and when she reached me, she didn't speak.
She just placed her hands on my face—cool, steady.
"Breathe," she whispered.
Her magic slipped into me like a thread of light, wrapping around my core and anchoring me. The storm inside quieted. My heartbeat steadied.
Her eyes met mine. Clear. Unwavering. The calm in the tempest.
I wasn't alone. Not now. Not ever. I finally believed it.
That's when I understood what Petrus meant by not winning alone. We weren't meant to beat our mirrors indivually, but as a team. In hindsight I should've know that from the start.
Lightning burst from my hands, snaking its way foward, chaining Torglel's mirror in place.
His hammer came down like a divine verdict, cracking the earth beneath it. The mirror detonated in a burst of fire and molten shards.
Alythiel had already made her way to Laboritus, blades out again. He moved in sync with her like they'd trained for this their whole lives. She danced in close, forcing the mirror to pivot—
Laboritus lined up a shot and released. The arrow passed through his mirror with surgical calm. One clean shot. No blood. No sound. It disassembled like a broken contraption—glass lines fading in perfect pieces.
Only two left.
Alythiel's mirror struck fast, blades flashing in a blur of silver. But Torglel met her head-on, hammer swinging with brutal certainty. He drove her back step by step, each blow forcing her to pivot, retreat, or parry. Sparks flew as steel met steel, Alythiel's precision clashing with Torglel's raw strength—she wasn't giving up ground easily.
Alythiel vaulted over him in a smooth, acrobatic flip—landing squarely on her mirror. Her daggers plunged deep, the runes flaring like stars. Not a kill. A sentence. A message written in steel.
The mirror exhaled—not a scream. Just one last breath. Then she shattered, her body breaking into pale glass petals that drifted like falling moonlight.
Just mine left.
He flickered through the arena—sharp, sudden, impossible to track. But now we moved as one.
With every strike, Laboritus and Alythiel boxed him in, steering him straight into my reach. Torglel's flames blocked his last hope of slipping free.
When the moment came, I struck.
Lightning surged from my hands, lashing out in crackling arcs. The chains wrapped around my mirror—tight, furious, alive with power.
He didn't fight it. Never cried out. Just stared at me—eyes full of certainty. As if he already knew I hadn't won.
I lifted my hand, fingers spread wide—summoning everything that burned inside me. I closed my hand and the lightning answered. It took him piece by piece, unraveling in silence. His body split down the center, red fractures glowing like molten veins, the storm's power leaving nothing whole.
And just before he disappeared completely—
He smiled. Not mockery. Not rage. Certainty.
Then he was gone.
Or worse—waiting.
I stood there. The chains still crackling around empty air. My pulse loud. My breath quiet.
Then... Torglel cheered like a man possessed. And Laboritus—Thuumar tactician, Mr. never-shows-emotion—grabbed Torglel and spun him in a hug.
Torglel roared with laughter, flailing in the air. "Well, if this isn't a fine turn! Put me down before you break me in half, lad!"
Alythiel's laughter rang out—unguarded and real. Her face bright and free. I'll never forget that sound. Never.
I looked down. The red runes on my arms had faded into nothing. But the warmth lingered.
The voice whispered again: "It begins."
And I forced it back. Not today. Maybe not ever.
The arena dissolved—walls fading, dust curling away like smoke. We stood once again on the training field.
The scent of moss and steel heavy in the air.
Seluvia and Petrus stood exactly as we left them.
Unchanged. Unmoving. Watching.
But their eyes were different.
As if the spell had shown them too much, and now they were only waiting for the worst to come.
Maybe it did.