“You really think she’s this way?” I whisper.
The fox glances back as if to say,You already know she is.
The path ahead glows faintly with reflected silver light, forming ripples that stretch into infinity. The deeper we go, the louder the hum becomes—steady, guiding, insistent.
I don’t know how long we walk. Time doesn’t work here.
But eventually, the darkness shifts.
Mirrors appear in the distance. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe.
What is going on?
Freestanding, cracked, floating slightly above the black surface like they’re suspended in water. All sizes, all shapes, all reflecting nothing but more darkness.
The fox leads me to one in particular.
Tall, but not floor-to-ceiling. Black iron frame with scrollwork that twists into sharp points like horns.
I stop dead.
There’s something wrong about it. The frame looks hungry—like it’s drinking the darkness around it instead of reflecting it.
“No.”
The word comes out rough, barely audible.
The fox sits and stares. The snake hums harder against my wrist. The raven circles above, crying out.
The mirror surface ripples faintly, and I can see through it.
Not Ethos’s chamber. Not where she’s trapped.
A different chamber. Larger. Ancient. Filled with mirrors lining curved walls.
Empty. Waiting.
My throat closes.
Still I find myself reaching out instinctively, fingers brushing the cold metal frame.
The mirror responds. Silver ripples spread outward from where my hand touches the surface, and the hum in my chest flares so bright it hurts.
It’s not showing me where she is.
It’s showing me a way out.
“No,” I say again, backing away. “I’m not leaving her. You hear me? I won’t.”
The fox growls softly, pushing against my leg.
The raven lands on my shoulder, pecking once—not to hurt, but to insist.
The snake tightens around my wrist, the hum vibrating painfully now.
“She’s still there,” I grit out. “If I leave—if I go through—what if I can’t get back to her?”
The fox’s eyes flare bright silver. The air trembles.
