Chapter 8:1 Shadows in the Cracked Mirror
Victory felt like a wet cloth wrapped around bone—broken, damp, and offering no warmth. The journey back to the hideout felt three times longer than the journey there. Not because the path was harder, but because the burden we carried was no longer the tension of an unknown threat, but the memory of a threat that had been experienced. Memories that seeped inward, touching hidden parts that should have remained untouched.
Max no longer spoke much. He walked ahead of me, his shoulders slightly hunched, as if bearing an invisible weight. His aura, usually so bright and changeable, now seemed dense and dim—a mix of dark blue sorrow, dull green fatigue, and a tinge of purple from the lingering remnants of the Geistfang's illusion. He occasionally shivered, though the forest air wasn't too cold.
I myself felt… eroded. Using cynicism as a weapon to shatter the illusion of that perfect family left a bitter taste in the depths of my soul. I had chosen the bitter reality, and it was the right choice. But that truth didn't make it any easier to swallow. I could still smell the aroma of that illusory herbal tea, still feel the ghost of warmth from a fireplace that never existed. It was a trick, but a perfect trick for the most fragile part of me. And I had killed it with my own hands.
The Master greeted us at the mouth of the secret tunnel. He did not smile. There was no praise. His face, wrinkled like tree bark, merely examined us with a sharp, analytical gaze.
"You're alive," he said, that was all. But his eyes, like those flint stones, glowed as they traced our auras, reading the story recorded within them. He gave a slow, single nod. "Inside. Bathe. Eat. We will talk after you no longer smell of the sweat of fear and dying dreams."
His orders were brutal, but that was precisely what we needed. Something mundane, procedural. We obeyed.
The cold water from the underground spring in the small washroom washed away the journey's dust, but did not touch the filth within. As I stared at the water running over my hands, for a moment I thought its color shifted to a bluish purple. I blinked, and it was gone. Exhaustion. Or residual psychic poison. Perhaps both.
The food—a thick stew of mushrooms and smoked meat—which always tasted like clay in my mouth. Max only pushed his food around with his fork, his eyes empty as they stared at the bowl.
"She called them 'my little brothers'," he mumbled suddenly, his voice faint. "In the illusion. They called her name. They laughed just like they used to." He swallowed. "I knew it wasn't them. But… their voices. They felt so real. More real than my own memories."
I did not answer. What was I supposed to say? 'It's normal'? That was a betrayal. 'Forget it'? That was impossible.
After eating, the Master summoned us to the main training chamber. He sat on a stone bench, we stood before him like two soldiers returned from the battlefield, now mentally frayed.
"Tell me," he commanded. "Details. Not a report, but the experience. What you saw, felt, and did. Start from the moment you arrived at Harrow's End."
We told him, taking turns. Max, in a hoarse voice, described the numb village, the sweet, toxic longing, and then the meadow paradise that turned into a nightmare. He described how it felt to hear his siblings' voices, the exploding joy that quickly twisted into terror as the illusion showed its fangs. He mentioned the 'touch' of my rough concern in his mind, which helped him distinguish reality from fantasy.
"I… I vomited all those emotions out," he said, staring at his own hands. "Like a reflex. I didn't know I could do that. It felt like… motion sickness of the soul."
The Master listened, then turned to me. "And you?"
I described the village with its bluish-purple mist, the rift in the forest, and the perfect family room. I told of the temptation to stay, and how my cynicism, triggered by Max's uninvited pity, became an anchor. I explained the process of projecting my own bitter reality to suffocate the illusion, and then creating a collective 'boredom' to disgust the Geistfang.
"You used your rejection of reality as a shield," commented the Master, "and then used your acceptance of grim reality as a sword. An interesting paradox." He paused. "The Geistfang is a rare creature. It is not evil in the usual sense. It's more like an insectivorous plant, but its prey is psychic emotion—dreams, longing, nostalgia. It grows in places where regret or unfulfilled desire is concentrated. Harrow's End… must have a sorrowful, forgotten history."
"What happens to people trapped for longer?" asked Max, his voice trembling.
"Their souls are slowly consumed," the Master answered without ceremony. "Their bodies remain alive, like empty shells that smile, until they finally starve to death or are eaten by animals. You two didn't just save the last ones, you also freed the village from that curse. For now."
"For now?" I pounced.
"A Geistfang that small rarely appears alone. It could be an omen, or… a spark from a larger fire. As I said before. Something bigger is waking." The Master sighed, a rare sign of fatigue from him. "You two functioned well as a unit. That flawed symphony found its tune, albeit dissonant. But you also opened yourselves up, made yourselves vulnerable. Max, you allowed yourself to sink into the illusion before fighting back. That is dangerous. And you," his gaze pierced me, "you used the very core of your personal wound as a weapon. That's like stabbing an enemy with a sword that is also stuck in your own gut. Effective, but damaging."
I did not deny it. My chest still felt tight, like the aftermath of that stab wound.
"Therefore, the next lesson," the Master continued, his voice returning to the hard tone of an instructor. "You must learn not only to defend, but also to heal. Not healing others—that is not our goal. But healing yourselves from the psychic wounds received in battle. Otherwise, every conflict will leave deeper scars, until you are eventually destroyed from within."
He stood. "Rest today. Tomorrow, we begin new training. Sealing exercises."
...
That night, nightmares came.
I did not dream of the Geistfang or the illusory parents. I dreamed of mirrors. A long corridor lined with mirrors on both sides, from floor to ceiling. In every mirror, a different reflection of myself. There was myself as a child, frightened and alone. There was my teenage self, full of anger and hatred towards the Timol Order. There was my current self, cynical and closed off. And there was… another version. An older me, face cold and empty as marble, eyes utterly devoid of light. A me that had completely swallowed my bitter reality until nothing was left inside.
In the dream, all those versions of me stared at me from behind the glass. Then, they began to knock. Softly at first, then harder. Tap. Tap. Tap. The mirrors shook. Fine cracks appeared on their surfaces. And from every crack, a bluish-purple mist seeped out.
I woke up gasping, cold sweat soaking my clothes. My room was dark and silent. But in the distance, from the direction of Max's room, I heard the sound of suppressed sobs.
Without really thinking about it, I got up and walked along the cold stone corridor. I stood before the curtain covering his doorway.
"Max?" I called, my voice hoarse.
His sobbing stopped. "W-what?"
"Nightmare for you too?"
A pause. "Yes."
I sighed, feeling foolish. "Geistfang?"
"No. I… I dreamed I was saving my little brothers. But when I took their hands to lead them out of the forest, their hands… came loose. Turned to dust. And they smiled at me, as if it was okay." His voice choked.
We were silent in the darkness shared only by a curtain.
"I dreamed of cracked mirrors," I said finally, my voice lower than I intended. "And myself in them."
"That… sounds on-brand for you," whispered Max, and there was a faint pale yellow returning in the aura of his voice—weak, but there. Broken humor.
I snorted. "Go to sleep. Tomorrow the Master will torture us with new drills."
"You.. Eh I mean, I'm confused what to call you, hehe...?" he called out, as I turned to leave, irritating me.
"What do you want—?"
"Thank you. For… checking on me." he cut in.
'I was just making sure you weren't screaming and waking up the entire hideout,' I thought. But what I said was, "Just shut up and sleep."
I returned to my bed, but sleep did not come. I stared at the stone ceiling, thinking of those mirrors, those cracks, and the purple mist seeping from within. Until my own worry for thinking of the dream became excessive... and made me tired, without realizing it, I had sunk back into the sea and deceptions of dreams.