He pulled a flashlight from his jacket and clicked it on. The beam caught the ladder descending into shadow, wet metal rungs gleaming dully thirty feet down.
“Stay at the entrance,” he said. “If anything feels wrong?—”
“I know. Leave.” Delphine moved to the opening but didn’t look down. “But I’m staying close enough to verify you’re still physically present.”
He nodded and started down.
The ladder was slick. His boots found purchase on metal worn smooth by decades of use and moisture. Water dripped from somewhere above—or below, the acoustics made it impossible to tell. The temperature dropped with each rung he descended.
At the bottom, his boots struck water. Ankle-deep current moving toward the river, pulling at his legs with insistent pressure. He played the flashlight beam across his surroundings.
Nineteenth-century drainage infrastructure merged with twentieth-century repairs. Brick archways tall enough to stand in, groined vaults overhead. And everywhere—reflections. Water. Moisture condensing on walls. Even the bricks seemed to hold light longer than they should.
The wrongness was immediate.
He checked the nearest puddle. His flashlight beam appeared clearly. But where his own form should have been—distortion. Not absence, but warping. As if the water remembered how to reflect everything except him and was struggling to compensate for the gap.
Bastien moved deeper into the tunnels. The glass veins Charlotte had woven into the city’s foundations pulsed with faint light—gold and silver intertwined, responding to his presence. He followed them upstream, against the current, toward the convergence point.
The chamber opened where three passages met. Twentieth-century brick layered over Charlotte’s original limestone. Water pooled here instead of flowing, dark and still despite the current feeding into it.
The walls crawled with reflected light. Glass channels thick as his wrist threaded through brick and mortar, branching at intervals like crystalline veins carrying not blood but memory. Through all of them, light pulsed—gold and silver intertwined, steadier than when he’d been here during the storm.
The altar rose from the water’s center.
A stone platform bearing the Lacroix crest in tarnished silver. But here, the metal had healed. The cracks he’d seen during the collapse had sealed. The shard he’d embedded sat at the crest’s center, perfectly integrated. No seam showed where glass met metal. Charlotte’s design had accepted his addition and incorporated it as if it had always belonged.
But the mirrors lining the tunnel walls had changed.
Mirrors set into the walls at strategic points, each one connected by glass veins running through the mortar. Some had cracked over time. Others remained intact, their surfaces dark but unmarred. Charlotte’s network, buried beneath a century of urban development.
Except now each mirror’s surface moved. Not reflecting. Distorting. His flashlight beam hit the nearest mirror and bent sideways, redirected toward the altar instead of bouncing back. Another mirror swallowed light entirely. A third split his beam into fragments that scattered across the ceiling.
The vault recognized him. Knew he was part of its structure now. And it was trying to show him something through surfaces that could no longer reflect him properly.
Bastien moved closer to one of the embedded mirrors. Its surface rippled when he approached, glass behaving more like water than solid matter. He reached toward it slowly.
His hand passed through.
Not breaking the glass but passing through it as if the surface were membrane instead of barrier. Cold registered against his fingers, then nothing. Empty space where mirror should be.
He withdrew his hand. The surface sealed behind it, rippling back to stillness.
The vault had integrated him so completely that reflective boundaries no longer applied. He could move through mirrors the way he moved through air.
“Bastien?” Delphine’s voice echoed down from the access point. “You okay down there?”
“Fine.” His voice came out rougher than intended. “The vault’s responding to the integration.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He circled the altar, examining each embedded mirror in turn. The glass veins connecting them pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat—or maybe his heartbeat had synchronized with their frequency. All of them showed the same phenomenon—surfaces that moved and bent and allowed passage. But beyond each distorted surface, he caught glimpses of something else.
Letters. Words appearing and fading in glass that couldn’t hold static images anymore. He moved closer to one of the larger mirrors, trying to read what kept appearing and vanishing in its depths.
She built this to trap you.
