Without hesitation, I thrust my arm down toward the narrowing space between gate and floor. The shell-bell catches just as the massive stone would have sealed completely, its small form somehow strong enough to halt the descent of tons of ancient masonry. The sacred object pulses with warm light, its surface inscribed with protective runes that glow brighter as the gate's weight presses against it.
The shell cracks under the pressure—hairline fractures spreading across its pearlescent surface like a spider's web of light. But it holds, leaving just enough space for us to squeeze through if we flatten ourselves against the passage floor. Theron's massive shoulders barely fit through the gap, his golden mane streaming behind him as he pulls us both to safety.
"My brave girl," he rumbles as we emerge on the other side, his voice thick with pride and something deeper—the kind of love that makes heroes out of ordinary people and turns simplegifts into talismans of power. "Quick thinking. Always so clever, my heart."
The shell-bell finally surrenders to the pressure as we swim clear, its broken pieces tinkling down through the water like falling stars. But its sacrifice has bought us passage, and I can already see the difference in the water ahead—lighter, warmer, touched with the faint phosphorescence of living things rather than the cold glow of eternal decay.
We swim through a gallery lined with mirrors that reflect not our images but our memories—fragments of the festival we shared just hours ago, though it feels like a lifetime has passed since we danced beneath Milthar's lanterns. I see myself weaving the evergreen wreath for Theron's horns, my fingers gentle as I tucked each sprig into place. I see him lifting the delicate crown of silver ribbons and winter berries to place on my hair, his massive hands surprisingly tender.
"Look," I whisper, pointing to one mirror that shows us as we were in those perfect moments before the shadow-spirits rose from the waves. "We were so happy. So innocent of what was coming."
"We'll be happy again," Theron promises, his voice carrying the absolute certainty that first drew me to him. "This isn't our ending, Eurydice. This is just the dark middle of our story, the place where heroes are tested and love proves its strength."
The mirrors begin to crack as we pass, unable to contain the weight of memories too powerful for their ancient magic. Glass fragments drift around us like snow, each shard reflecting a different moment from our courtship—quiet mornings wrapped in each other's warmth, laughter shared over simple meals, promises whispered in the darkness when we thought no one else could hear.
Ahead, I can hear a sound that makes my heart pound with desperate hope: the sound of living water, real waves drivenby wind and moon rather than the artificial currents of the necropolis. But more than that, I hear voices—familiar voices calling our names across the water. The people of Milthar haven't given up on us. They're still waiting, still hoping, still keeping vigil through the longest night.
"Theron!" The cry echoes down from somewhere far above, distorted by water and distance but unmistakably the voice of young Niklos. "Captain, can you hear us? We're still here! The beacons are still burning!"
Tears mix with the salt water on my cheeks as I realize what this means. Hours have passed in the necropolis—it feels like days or weeks—but on the surface, they've maintained their watch. The Tidemother's prayers, the blacksmiths' anchors, the entire community holding fast to faith that love could bridge the gap between living and dead.
A new sound reaches us: the tolling of bells, but not the hollow hunger of the necropolis's bronze voices. These are Milthar's bells, sweet and strong and alive, ringing out the passage of the long night and the promise of dawn's approach. The winter solstice is now ending, the tide of darkness beginning to turn toward light.
"Almost there," I breathe, feeling hope flutter in my chest like a bird testing its wings. "We're almost home, my golden bull. Just a little farther."
But even as we swim toward that distant light, I can feel the necropolis making one last attempt to claim us. The water grows thick and sluggish around us, trying to drag us back down into its embrace. Whispers follow in our wake—the voices of shades who chose despair over the hope we offered, who prefer their familiar sorrow to the unknown territory of healing.
"Come back," they murmur. "Stay with us in the deep. Why struggle toward a world that will only bring you pain when you could rest here in eternal peace?"
I press my face against Theron's shoulder and begin to hum the lullaby that bound us together in the chapel, the melody that taught the dead to remember warmth. My voice wavers at first, weakened by exhaustion and the lingering cold of the depths, but it grows stronger as Theron's bass joins the harmony. Together we sing our way toward the surface, our love made audible, our hope given voice.
The whispers fall away behind us, unable to follow where our music leads. And far above, growing closer with each stroke of Theron's powerful arms, the bells of Milthar welcome us home.
25
THERON
The Mirror Hall stretches before us like a corridor carved from nightmares and polished to perfection, its walls lined with surfaces that gleam like black water beneath a moonless sky. Each mirror stands taller than a man, framed in tarnished silver that bears the patina of centuries spent reflecting horrors better left unseen. The glass itself seems to move with subtle currents, as if the reflections it shows exist in some fluid realm between truth and lie.
I step into the hall with Eurydice's hand warm in mine, but the moment we cross the threshold, the mirrors begin their terrible work. In the first glass I glimpse, I see myself as I am—golden mane streaming behind me, evergreen wreath crowning my horns, the solid bulk of a minotaur who has walked through hell and emerged stronger. But beside me, where Eurydice should be reflected, stands only a shade—translucent and hollow-eyed, her face bearing the cold beauty of the drowned.
In the next mirror, the vision is worse. I appear as nothing but bone—a skeleton draped in the tattered remnants of my sea-captain's coat, my skull grinning with the mindless joy of the properly dead. Eurydice beside me looks alive, vibrant, butreaching toward my bony hand with desperate longing, as if trying to touch something that can never again offer warmth.
The mirrors continue their assault as we move deeper into the hall, each surface showing us different versions of our fate. In one, I am ancient and alone, sitting by a cold hearth while snow piles against windows that will never again welcome her laughter. In another, she dances at a wedding feast while I stand outside the circle of light, a monster too terrible to be acknowledged by decent folk.
"Turn, look, be sure she's real," the voices whisper from the glass itself, each word sliding through the air like silk drawn across naked steel. "How do you know the woman you hold is truly flesh and blood? How do you know you haven't been deceived by shadows and wishful thinking?"
The temptation is overwhelming, a physical pressure that makes my neck muscles tense with the need to glance sideways, to verify with my own eyes that the hand in mine belongs to a living woman rather than some phantasm conjured by my desperate heart. The mirrors show me doubt made visible, fear given form, every nightmare that has ever haunted my dreams of loss.
I look forward and focus on the warmth of her palm against mine and the steady rhythm of her breathing beside me. Instead of surrendering to the mirrors' lies, I sing a fisherman's counting song—something simple and honest that my grandfather taught me during my first voyage, when the horizon seemed endless and the stars were the only map a sailor needed.
"One net cast in morning light,
Two hands steady, grip held tight,
Three leagues out from harbor's shore,
Four winds blessing, nothing more."
