Sunny remained knelt in the absolute, lightless silence of the underground chamber, his gaze fixed on the single set of human footprints pressed into the ancient dust.
The air within the pocket manifested by the Quintessence Pearl was still, yet he felt a cold draft of unease that had nothing to do with the vacuum outside.
He studied the tracks with the clinical precision of a master scout.
They were not his own.
The tread was longer and narrower than his, suggesting a tall, slender frame, yet the weight of the step indicated a lighter, more ethereal gait than his own purposeful stride.
More importantly, the dust had settled ever so slightly within the grooves of the prints, indicating they had been made hours ago — likely shortly after the King and his Saints were pulled into the Loom.
His mind raced through the tactical reality of his surroundings.
He had spent hours scouting True Bastion from the shadows, bypassing a defensive array so complex that even a Saint would have struggled to unravel it without a key. The path to this sanctum was hidden behind a sensory void that even his enhanced shadow sense had nearly missed. There were no guard rotations here, no obsidian sigils left behind, and no signs that the Knights of Valor had ever patrolled these lightless depths.
Not even Anvil knows this place exists, Sunny realized, his eyes narrowing.
The absence of Valor's influence was deafening.
If Anvil or his primary enchanters had discovered this daemon wrought vault, it would have been crawling with Masters and etched with royal runes.
Instead, it was a pristine grave of secrets.
The conclusion was unavoidable.
He was not the only ghost haunting Bastion tonight. Someone else had bypassed the Sovereigns' security with a specific goal in mind.
Sunny stood up, his fingers flexing as he prepared to manifest a blade from the surrounding darkness.
He grabbed the handle, turned it, and pushed the door open. Or, at least, he tried to.
The door didn't budge.
Scowling slightly, Sunny put more strength into it. He had a lot of strength as a Transcendent Terror and yet, the door didn't move.
"Is it locked? But there is no lock. Have the hinges rusted through? No, wait..."
Sunny coughed awkwardly, then pulled instead of pushing.
The door opened easily and the hinges produced no noise.
He stepped over the threshold and immediately froze, his breath hitching in the thin air.
The corridor beyond was a geometric nightmare.
Turquoise gemstones embedded in the high ceiling cast a sickly, pale radiance over a path that stretched into infinity. The walls were not stone, but perfectly smooth, glossy mirrors that reflected the light, and Sunny, into a myriad of identical corridors.
The moment he stepped onto the polished floor, a legion of his own reflections appeared. Because the mirrors faced each other with mathematical perfection, his image was repeated a thousand times over, a silent army of shadows marching in eerie, perfect synchronization with his every movement.
The sight sent a jolt of recognition through his mind. Mirrors. Reflections. Infinite depth.
Mordret, Sunny thought, the name tasting like poison.
Through his split awareness, he shifted his focus to Happy currently hidden within Rain's shadow.
In the Loom, the flickering golden runes were still broadcasting the records of the Forgotten Shore.
He saw the "real" Mordret — the Prince of Nothing — standing upon the illusory coral reefs of the Forgotten Shore, his mirror-bright eyes fixed on the horizon as he watched the memory of a storm descending with unnatural speed.
The sky had turned pitch black while the wind howled like a dying god, and the waters of the Dark Sea were already beginning to rise, threatening to drown the world beneath them in minutes.
Amidst the terminal shriek of the gale, the past version of himself was sprinting through the mud and rising floodwaters, desperately leading his companions toward the high cliffs before the black ocean swallowed the world below them.
How can he be here and there? Sunny asked himself, his brow furrowing.
Then, the answer surfaced with the clarity of a blade: A Reflection!
His mind flickered back to a memory from only a few weeks prior — a visit to the desolate, bone-white peaks of Godgrave.
He remembered standing as the Lord of Shadows, his presence absolute within his dark domain, when a tall and slender, mirror-eyed figure had stepped uninvited from the gloom. It was one of Mordret's Reflections, sent on behalf of the Song Domain to recruit him for the coming war.
The memory of that encounter ended with a surge of cold violence.
He remembered the satisfying weight of his shadows as he ruthlessly crushed the life out of that hollow shell, leaving nothing but glass dust in the wind.
A wicked, predatory smile spread across Sunny's face at the memory of that victory. But as he looked into the mirror to his left, his heart skipped a beat.
Most of the infinite Sunnies were smiling back with the same dark satisfaction, but one — the version of himself ten steps down the line — wasn't just smiling.
It was flashing a wide, impossibly creepy grin that stretched far beyond the natural limits of his face, its eyes devoid of the cautious irritation Sunny currently felt.
Chills ran down his spine, a visceral reaction that bypassed his Transcendent composure.
Is Mordret playing with me? Sunny wondered, his fingers coiling into a fist.
Has he turned this labyrinth of mirrors into a trap?
In this place of shifting light and endless depth, the Prince of Mirrors held a terrifying advantage — one that made even a Saint feel like a fly caught in an unholy web.
The eerie silence of the corridor was suddenly shattered by a sound that made the hair on the back of Sunny's neck stand up — a quiet, unmistakable crack, like glass yielding to immense pressure.
It wasn't a physical mirror breaking. It was the sound of a reflection trying to force its way into reality.
"To hell with this," Sunny muttered.
He didn't wait to see if the glass would hold. He stepped back through the threshold and slammed the dark wooden door shut, cutting off the sickly turquoise glow and the legion of rogue images.
Alone in the small, artificial chamber, he leaned against the wall, his breath coming in measured draws.
Was this Mordret's doing?
He remembered the description of the Cruel Sight memory — the tale of a noble knight who made a deal with a Dreamspawn, only for his son to be taken and later return to a throne of fear and suspicion.
Sunny knew that the son in that tragic tale was Mordret. When the Prince of Nothing had finally returned to Bastion as a young Awakened, he must have felt the vast, cold mass of mirrors beneath the mountain. He likely knew the secrets of this place better than anyone.
Perhaps Mordret had laid a trap, or maybe his very presence here had agitated the maze.
However, as Sunny thought it through, another possibility surfaced.
This was the seat of the Demon of Imagination.
The mirrors might simply be an extension of that Daemon's ancient, alien power. The things in the glass — the Others — might not be Mordret's puppets at all, but a natural, predatory hazard of a place where thought and reflection blurred.
But why was Mordret's Reflection here now?
Sunny was here for Weaver's Forbidden Lineage, a secret he was certain he alone possessed. Mordret couldn't be after the same thing — he likely didn't even know Weaver's blood was hidden here.
Then what is he looking for? Sunny wondered, a knot of frustration tightening in his chest.
What else is buried in this place that would draw the Prince of Nothing away from the Loom?
"Reflections need light," Sunny whispered, his eyes cold.
He reached into his soul and summoned a small lantern carved of black stone.
It did not cast light. It devoured it.
Sunny opened the gate, and a torrent of ancient, tyrannical shadows surged forth, flooding the corridor as he pulled the door open once more.
The darkness from the lantern submerged the mirrors in a total, lightless void. The turquoise gemstones were snuffed out, their pale light swallowed without a trace, rendering the Others blind and powerless.
Sunny stepped into the lightless maze, the silence now absolute. Even with the shadows on his side, the labyrinth was a geometric nightmare. He moved with an urgency that bordered on desperation.
I'm wasting time, he thought, his boots clicking softly on the smooth stone.
If Mordret is already here, every second I spend wandering is a second he spends claiming the heart of this place.
He tried to navigate by logic, turning right at the first three intersections, but the maze mocked him.
He could feel the walls shifting, the space itself warping in the dark. "Come on," he muttered, his hand brushing against the cold, smooth glass of the wall.
"I don't have all night for this joke."
Despite his speed, he rounded a corner only to find himself standing in front of the dark wooden door of the stone chamber once again.
"Damnation! Again?"
He punched the stone wall beside the door, the impact echoing dully. The maze wasn't just spatial. It was as if the mirrors were swallowing his progress, looping him back to the start through sheer conceptual malice.
He forced himself to slow down.
He sent his shadows crawling along the floor, feeling for the slight incline Naughty had detected earlier. He followed the "scent" of the void, ignoring the turns that felt right and choosing the ones that felt impossible.
After what felt like hours of grueling, blind navigation, the narrow corridor finally opened into a vast hall.
The mirror walls that had been pressing down on them expanded, disappearing into the distance. The floor of the underground chamber was sloping downward like a bowl, and the ceiling was out of sight.
The spherical hall was so vast that Sunny could not see the other end of it. In fact, he couldn't see anything, as if something was obscuring his vision. His shadow sense was similarly suppressed.
All he could feel was that the hall was enormous, ancient... and dangerous.
Sunny's instincts were screaming that he needed to retreat. This sense of dire danger reminded him of the worst horrors he had experienced in his life....Then, there was a sound in the darkness.
Chilled to the bone, Sunny looked down and felt something that did not make any sense, and yet filled him with a sense of terror.
A wave of cold water rolled over the floor and licked his boots, pieces of ice drifting in the foam, then receded... as if he was standing on the shore of a freezing ocean.
Then, there was another sound.
The rustle of countless leaves and the creaking of enormous branches.
Wisps of mist drifted in the darkness, brushing against his skin like cold tendrils.
The ghastly smell of the outskirts assaulted his nose.
Before anything happened, Sunny stepped back into the narrow corridor. Then feeling it was not enough, he stepped through the shadows and reappeared inside the stone chamber.
He leaned against the wooden door, his chest heaving as his vision returned.
He was deathly pale and trembling.
"W—what the hell was that?"
He forced himself to calm down, a stifled, nervous laugh escaping his lips. "The Demon of Imagination... damn".
The realization hit him like a physical blow. This castle was her creation, and this hall was a relic of her power. The mirrors had been the first clue, but this was the truth. It wasn't that the Hall was making his fears real.
It was something far more dangerous.
"It's not what I fear," he whispered to the silence of the vault, his eyes wide.
"It's what I imagine."
Mordret's Reflection had already entered. In a place where one's own thoughts could manifest into reality, the Prince of Nothing was likely having a field day, or he was trapped in a nightmare of his own making.
Sunny looked at the door with a mix of dread and resolve.
To reach Weaver's lineage, he would have to conquer the one thing he couldn't hide from: his own mind.
As Sunny leaned against the cold wood of the door, his mind was pulled elsewhere. The mental strain of discovering the Hall's nature was compounded by his split awareness, which felt like a tightening noose. Through Happy, still nestled in Rain's shadow, he watched as the Loom's golden runes continued their relentless broadcast of the past.
The memory had shifted to the summit of the Ashen Barrow, a place that should have been a paradise but was instead a magnificent grave.
Dominated by the Soul Devouring Tree, the projection was so vivid that even the audience seemed to fall under its cloying, syrupy hex. Sunny watched as the records showed his past self, Nephis and Cassie sitting beneath the onyx branches, their eyes vacant and their lips stained with the ruby juice of the Soul Fruits.
From his vantage point within Rain's shadow, he could see his sister standing near Nephis. She was caught in the illusory mist, her expression reflecting a hollow hunger he knew all too well. The records then slowed as his past self began to move through the onyx branches, driven by a drugged, feverish compulsion to find a "gift" for Nephis — the perfect fruit to keep her from her growing melancholy.
Watching his past self tenderly search for something to ease her pain, a bittersweet realization pierced the Lord of Shadows.
'Was it this early?' he thought to himself, a pang of irony striking his heart. Even then, drugged by a mind hex and hollowing out, his first instinct had been to care for her.
He had fallen for her long before he ever realized it, binding himself to her with a devotion that predated even his own memories of it.
As the scrawny youth began to climb higher, his hands gripping the rough, obsidian bark as he ascended into the suffocating canopy, Sunny's gaze hardened.
He watched himself struggle against the tree's oppressive weight, a small, fragile mote of light lost in a sea of ancient, predatory shadows. Seeing his past self so vulnerable, so thoroughly enthralled by the insidious fiend, caused a different emotion to bleed through his melancholy.
It was a cold, simmering hatred for the creature that had preyed on them when they had nothing.
It was that same hatred that had eventually fueled his return.
A spark of vengeful glee flickered within him as he remembered his twenty-fourth birthday — the day he had finally gone back to that colossal crater as a Transcendent Terror to fulfill a promise. He remembered the ghostly torch in his hand, the way the ancient fiend had rustled its leaves in panic and terror. He remembered the revolting sound of its thralls being torn apart by his shadows and the breathtaking sight of setting the magnificent tree aflame, watching for days as the magnificent tree turned into a scorched, hollow husk.
"Happy birthday to me," he had whispered then, sitting in the darkness with a pot of coffee as the tree screamed.
But that glee died in his throat as the memory in the Loom accelerated. His past self was no longer just wandering. He was climbing toward the highest reaches of the canopy, toward a massive, bowl-like nest woven from twisted black wood.
The trajectory was clear.
His past self was minutes away from reaching the nest of the Vile Thieving Bird's Spawn. Minutes away from shattering the egg and receiving the [Drop of Ichor]. One of his deepest, most forbidden secrets — the fact that he carried the blood of the Daemon of Fate — was about to be broadcast to the Sovereigns, the Great Clans, and the Cohort.
The strings of fate were tightening.
****
Back in the stone chamber of True Bastion, Sunny pushed himself away from the door, his face deathly pale.
He couldn't enter that hall as himself. He had seen too much, suffered too much, and remembered far too many horrors.
If he stepped into the hall with his own mind, he could summon an illusion of an Unholy Titan into reality, turning True Bastion and Bastion into a slaughterhouse.
I need to become something else, he thought, his eyes narrowing. I need to be formless.
He looked at Naughty, who was currently tracing the patterns in the dust with a mischievous tilt of its head.
A fleeting thought crossed his mind: Why not just send the shadow in alone?
He quickly dismissed it.
The Hall of Imagination was an unknown quantity, a place where the logic of the world was replaced by the whims of the mind.
If he sent Naughty alone, he would be risking one of his precious shadows in a void he couldn't see. If Naughty encountered something fatal, something conjured by the remnants of the intruder's imagination — Sunny wouldn't be there to intervene. He couldn't leave Naughty to face a potential Unholy nightmare while he stood safely in a corridor.
No, he had to enter in the flesh. But to do so, he had to stop being Sunless.
"Naughty," he whispered.
The fifth shadow slithered forward. At first glance, it appeared naive and good-natured, resembling the Happy shadow almost too closely. But its amicable disposition was a mere facade. Beneath its innocent exterior lay a sharp hint of deviousness. It was a creature full of mischief, its very essence vibrating with the desire to cause a bit of trouble.
Sunny considered his options.
Sunny walked to the boundary where the corridor opened into the vast, sloping void of the Hall. He positioned himself in the middle of the entrance to the Hall of Imagination, then concentrated and summoned Saint — having at least one Shadow covering for them was probably a wise move, and she was the best choice for this particular trial.
The taciturn knight emerged from the darkness, her red eyes glowing with their usual indifference as she took her position to his left.
"Saint," he murmured, "cover us."
He then focused on the Fourth Step of Shadow Dance.
He began the grueling process of breaking the rigid constraints of his mind, body, and soul, striving to become infinitely malleable.
It was a terrifyingly dangerous task, now more than ever.
Since he had lost his True Name, he no longer had a solid anchor to his own existence. Without "Lost from Light" to define the boundaries of his existence, entering the formless state of the Fourth Step was like stepping into a void without a tether. If he lost himself in the essence of another, there might be nothing left to guide him back to being 'Sunny'.
However, Naughty was a part of him — an extension of his own existence and identity. By shadowing the mind of his own shadow helper, he was anchoring himself to a piece of his own being.
Sunny suspected that the Hall of Imagination was not designed to make the fantasies of shadows come true. Even if it were, Naughty's mind was transparent and predictable. Its imagination rarely extended beyond its next meal, a shiny bauble, or a bit of harmless trouble for Saint.
It was a gamble, but it was the only way to bypass the Hall's sensory trap.
Slowly, Sunny's cold, calculated caution was replaced by an airy, devious mischief.
His harrowing memories were pushed into the deep, formless recesses of his soul, hidden beneath a surface of playful, shallow thoughts.
To the Hall of Imagination, he was no longer a weary Saint burdened by the fate of the world. He was a creature of simple, transparent whims.
With Saint covering for him and Naughty's mind acting as his conceptual shield, Sunny stepped forward into the absolute darkness of the Hall.
Sunny did not remember quite what happened next.
Next thing he knew, he was someplace else... He was someone else.
****
Far away, within the jagged, bone white peaks of Godgrave, the Lord of Shadows sat motionless upon a throne of obsidian. The air within the fragment of the Shadow Realm was heavy and still, smelling of ancient stone and suppressed power.
His pale, youthful face was exposed, his onyx eyes reflecting nothing as he navigated the sea of information provided by his split awareness.
Through Happy, still nestled in Rain's shadow atop the onyx branches of the Soul Devouring Tree, he could see the flickering golden light of the Loom — a celestial tapestry of golden runes broadcasting the records of the Forgotten Shore to the most dangerous beings in the world.
Maintaining a global presence was a delicate act of scales.
To fuel his various incarnations, Sunny had turned this sanctuary into a perpetual essence generator. By keeping the Lord of Shadows manifested permanently within this fragment of the Shadow Realm, he was able to drink from the environment's rich essence, replenishing his reserves faster than he could expend them in a state of rest.
However, this required a strict rule: at least one incarnation — the Lord of Shadows himself — had to remain within the Fragment at all times to act as the conduit for this nourishment.
It was a fragile balance. To avoid straining his essence reserves further, he had already decided to leave the Great Citadel of the House of Night alone for the time being.
He was already stretched thin, his consciousness a vast web tethered to different facets of his soul.
To maintain his terrifying presence here, he was currently using two of his shadows, Haughty and Crazy, to incarnate the physical form of the Lord of Shadows.
Meanwhile, the strategic map of his maneuvers was shifting. Gloomy, who had been his constant companion during his peaceful life inside Bastion, was now racing toward the city of Ravenheart. He was destined to meet up with Creepy, who was already en route to the Song Domain's capital.
But suddenly, the Lord of Shadows stiffened, his fingers digging into the stone armrests of his throne.
A sharp, dissonant vibration rippled through his soul core, followed by a sickening lurch of vertigo. It was a sensation of drowning — not in water, but in a conceptual void. He could still feel the physical existence of his other self in Bastion, but the mental link was being smothered by a thick, amnesiac fog.
Having entered the Hall of Imagination with Saint and Naughty, his physical body in Bastion had been pulled into a deep, layered illusion.
Despite using the Fourth Step of Shadow Dance to adopt Naughty's simple mischief as a shield, the Hall's ancient power had proven too invasive. Without a True Name to anchor him, the "formless" mind he had assumed had been swept away.
That version of himself was now wandering a dreamscape — a rainy, rotten place called Mirage City where he believed himself to be a detective named Sunless. His true identity was being washed away by a world that made the imaginary into a suffocating, absolute reality.
But he had no time to focus on a rescue mission.
Through the eyes of Happy, who remained hidden within Rain's shadow atop the onyx branches of the Soul Devouring Tree, the Lord of Shadows saw the Loom's projection reach its final, most dangerous crescendo.
The flickering golden runes were broadcasting the records of the Forgotten Shore to the most dangerous beings in the world.
His past self was no longer just climbing. He was standing before the massive, black wood nest of the Vile Thieving Bird's Spawn. The youth was reaching out, his fingers trembling as they neared the ancient, cloud-patterned egg.
The Lord of Shadows felt a cold, paralyzing dread.
The Sovereigns were watching. Nephis and the Cohort were watching.
In mere moments, his past self would shatter the egg, and the golden runes of the Spell would announce the acquisition of the [Drop of Ichor]. The secret of his forbidden bloodline — the proof that he was an heir of Weaver — was about to be laid bare before his greatest enemies.
A double catastrophe had arrived.
One version of him was lost in a memory stealing dream beneath the mountain of his enemy, while his past was about to betray his future in the most public way possible.
He was blind in the heart of Bastion and exposed in the heart of the Loom.
The Lord of Shadows gripped the arms of his throne, his eyes burning with a dark, frantic intensity.
Enough thinking.
Move, he thought, his mental voice a thunderous command that echoed through his shared soul. I have to find a way to stop this... I have to move now!
He reached into his soul, and a mask of black lacquered wood carved to resemble the face of a ferocious demon appeared in his hand.
Its teeth bared with four fangs protruding from its mouth. There were three twisted horns rising from it like a crown. Inside the black chasm of its eyes was nothing but pure darkness.
But as the golden vial began to manifest in the hands of the youth in the Loom, the shadows of Godgrave seemed to lengthen, as if the very world was holding its breath for the revelation that would change everything.
He didn't hesitate. He pulled Weaver's Mask over his face.