Chapter 8:2 Shadows in the Cracked Mirror
The "sealing" exercises turned out to be just as exhausting as the previous training, but with a different focus. It was no longer about projecting or sensing, but about closing off.
"Every experience, every strong emotion, leaves a trace in your psyche," the Master explained. "Like a wound on the skin. Some heal on their own, leaving scars. Some become infected, fester, and poison you from within. This training is about cleaning and stitching those wounds before they cause damage."
For Max, this meant learning to separate foreign emotions from his own. The Master gave him a set of memory crystals charged with strong emotions—not the traumatic ones like the anger stone, but more intense ones like: the joy of a great discovery, the grief of losing a lover, the burning anger of betrayal. Max had to 'feel' the emotion, then actively 'expel it', restoring his own neutral state. I watched him struggle, sweat, sometimes cry when the foreign emotion blended with his own memories of his siblings. But slowly, he learned to build a psychic 'membrane', a filter that allowed him to feel without drowning.
For me, the training was more abstract and deeper. The Master had me meditate, but his meditation was a journey into my own memories—not to immerse myself in them, but to 'observe only' from a distance, like a scientist observing a specimen under a magnifying glass.
"The greatest illusionist is one who can distinguish between self and reflection," the Master said. "You too often disguise yourself with cynicism, until you yourself believe it is your true face. Now, we will see what lies behind that mask. And we will ensure the cracks in it do not widen."
He guided me through the memory of my parents' death. Not with sentimentality, but with clinical detachment. I was asked to describe the scene without judgment, without emotion. Just facts: sounds, colors, sequence of events. At first, it was like touching a burn. But with repeated forcing, the pain turned to numbness. I did not forget it. But I learned to separate the reality of the event from the pain it caused.
Then, we moved on to the Geistfang incident. I was made to reconstruct the illusion of the family room again, but this time, as an observer. I saw myself in that illusion, saw my longing being exploited. And then, I saw myself using cynicism as a weapon. The Master made me repeat that moment over and over, until my response no longer came from a fresh wound, but from a deliberate choice.
"You did not kill your longing," the Master said in one session. "You merely acknowledged that it is a part of you that can be exploited by the enemy. By accepting it, you stripped it of its power. Now, seal it. Bind that acknowledgment, store it in a safe place. Not to be forgotten, but to be protected."
The process was mentally exhausting. Sometimes, after training, I felt empty, like a cave just swept by wind. But slowly, the nightmares about the mirror diminished. The purple mist in the cracks stopped seeping.
Max also showed progress. His aura was still not as bright as before, but now it was more stable. Its colors no longer easily became contaminated by surrounding emotions. He learned to 'channel' foreign emotions out, like water flowing over smooth stone, without absorbing them.
During this period, the dynamic between us changed again. We were no longer just training partners or reluctant allies. We became… witnesses. Witnesses to each other's healing process. It created a strange, uncomfortable intimacy. Max would sometimes stare at me with his overly understanding eyes, and I could feel him reading the aura of my fatigue or residual tension. I, on the other hand, began to be able to predict when he would become overwhelmed, and would deliberately project 'sameness' of an emotion. Not indifference, but a flat calmness—to give him an anchor.
The Master observed all this with sharp eyes. One afternoon, after a particularly intense training session, he stopped us.
"You have passed the first small milestone," he said. "And you are beginning to understand the cost. But the outside world will not give you time to neatly seal every wound. The next threat may come before you are ready. Therefore, we will introduce a new element."
He led us to a part of the hideout we had never explored—a circular room with a floor of smooth black stone slabs. In the center of the room stood a large mirror with a frame of tarnished silver. The mirror reflected nothing—its surface was like slowly swirling grey mist.
"This is the Oneiros Mirror," the Master explained. "The Mirror of Dreams. It does not reflect the face, but reflects psychic potential, buried fears, and… possible futures based on your current train of thought. Within it, you will face your own shadow selves—not an external illusion like the Geistfang, but a projection from within."
Max and I looked at each other. This sounded far more dangerous.
"The goal is not to fight to win," the Master continued. "But to recognize. To confront the parts of yourself that may become enemies later. And to learn to 'dialogue' with them. Or, if necessary, to confine them. This is advanced sealing training."
He pointed to Max. "You first."
Max approached the mirror hesitantly. As he stood before it, the grey mist on its surface began to swirl faster, then gained color. An image began to form.
We saw a reflection of Max, but not the current Max. This was an older Max, maybe ten years into the future. His face was thinner, sharper. His eyes, usually wide and friendly, were now narrowed and full of wariness. His aura (which was even reflected in the mirror) was a dark blue, almost black, with streaks of cold, isolated silver. He wore a simple robe, and in his hand he held a crystal pulsing with a light that was painful to look at.
"This is you," the Master said to Max, "if you let your sensitivity turn into paranoia. And more... if you lock yourself away to protect yourself from pain, until you can no longer feel anything—except through a tool, through that crystal. An Empath who has severed his own strings, becoming a cold, untouchable observer."
Max looked shaken. "I… I wouldn't become like that."
"It is a possibility," the Master replied. "Now, face him. Feel what he feels. Without being swept away."
Max stared at his cold shadow self. He closed his eyes, trying to feel. I saw Max's blue aura vibrate, trying to sync with the dark blue in the mirror. Suddenly, Max let out a small scream and stepped back, his face pale.
"Cold," he whispered. "So cold and… quiet. Like being trapped inside ice. He misses feeling, but is afraid to feel."
The shadow in the mirror smiled, a smile without warmth. Then, its image faded back into mist.
"Good," said the Master. "You recognized it. You felt the temptation of that path, and you rejected it. That is the first step in sealing that possibility." The Master turned to me. "Now your turn."
I approached the mirror with a bad feeling. I had already dreamed about mirrors. This really felt like a dream come true.
The grey mist swirled, darkening. The image that appeared… was me. An older version too. But different from the one in my dream. My face looked smooth, almost expressionless. My eyes. My Vars eyes—seemed permanently active, emitting a cold, pale purple light. In my hands, not a weapon or tool. But a cord made of shadow and starlight, loosely wrapped around my fingers. Behind me stood several vague figures of people with blank faces, stiff smiles, like puppets moved by invisible strings. And among them, I saw the silhouette of Max, his face flat, his eyes empty, following my every movement like a servant.
"The Perfect Illusionist," the Master whispered, his voice trembling slightly—with fear? or admiration? "One who has blurred the line between reality and illusion so thoroughly that he prefers to weave his own reality. In that world, people are no longer individuals, but tools in your grand narrative. Even a friend becomes merely a character you can control to maintain the illusion of order and control."
I stared at the shadow. I did not feel disgust. I felt… drawn. Drawn to the power radiating from it. Drawn to the idea of never being disappointed by reality again, because I would define reality itself.
Suddenly, the shadow spoke. Its voice was mine, but smooth as silk and cold as ice frozen in darkness. "Why struggle? Why accept this chaos? We could build something better. Ordered. Predictable. Beautiful." Its golden-lit eyes stared directly at me. "You have already begun. With the cynicism you made into a weapon. That was just the first step towards total separation. Let us complete it."
A pull. Not physical, but psychic. Like a magnet attracting the rusted iron within me. I felt a desire to step forward, to touch the mirror, to merge with that version of myself that was so powerful and controlled.
Then, from the side, I felt a surge of another emotion—a panicked concern, sincere fear, and… a reminder. A memory not my own: myself, with an irritated expression, saying, "Don't be an idiot," to Max during the Geistfang nightmare. But in that memory projected by Max, there was another layer: not just a scolding, but an acknowledgment. An acknowledgment that he existed. That he was real. And that turning him into a puppet would destroy something… valuable? Annoying, but valuable.
It was Max's touch. He felt the pull I was experiencing, and he sent an antidote: a memory of our flawed but real connection.
The pull from the mirror weakened. I took a deep breath, focusing on the sealing exercises. I observed the shadow, acknowledged its desire, acknowledged that potential existed within me. Then, deliberately, I built a wall around it in my mind. Not to kill it, but to confine it. A cell for tidy tyranny.
"I prefer honest chaos," I said to my shadow, my voice loud in the quiet room. "And I prefer an annoying friend to an obedient puppet."
My shadow's face contorted in anger, then shattered into pieces, absorbed back into the grey mist.
I stepped back, my knees feeling weak. I looked at Max, whose face was pale but whose eyes were full of a deep understanding. He gave a slow nod.
The Master approached, looking at us both. "Good," he said, and this time, there was a note of genuine satisfaction in his voice. "Very good. You didn't just see your shadows. You used your bond with each other as an anchor against them. That… that exceeds my expectations."
He looked at the mirror, then back at us. "You have passed the second milestone. Deeper, more dangerous. And you survived. But remember, those shadows never truly leave. They only sleep, waiting for when you are weak. Sealing is an ongoing process."
That night, as we prepared for bed, Max approached me in the corridor.
"Thank you," he said. "For not… becoming like that." He pointed in the direction of the mirror room.
"You too," I replied. "For sending that annoying memory."
He smiled, a real one this time. "We're a good team, right? Flawed symphony."
"Don't make me vomit," I grumbled, but without heat.
As I lay in bed, staring into the darkness, I thought about the shadow in the mirror. I thought about its pull. And I realized something: my greatest fear was no longer the Timol Order or monsters like the Geistfang. My greatest fear was myself. Of my desire to control, to avoid pain by creating my own reality.
But I also had an unexpected ally in the battle against myself: an overly sensitive and annoying Empath, whose real and imperfect existence was the best antidote to my illusion of perfection.
This chapter might end here, with uncomfortable acknowledgments and preparations for the greater threat still lurking outside. But the journey into our own darkness had only just begun. And somehow, we had to learn to walk the edge of that abyss, without falling in, while remaining vigilant against the enemies waiting in the outer darkness.