Acorridor of mirrors stretches endlessly in both directions.
I adjust my grip on the short sword I grabbed from the weapon cache just inside the entrance. The energy cell in the crossguard warms against my palm, waiting. My weapons training barely prepared me for this – a few sessions with practice blades that didn’t use full power. Lord Castor’s war hammer rests easily on his shoulder, its force field dormant but ready. Lady Nerida carries her trident with the familiarity of someone born holding it. Lord Evander’s compact mace hangs at his belt, the glow around its head already activated. We’re armed now, at least. But armed against what, exactly … we can only guess.
The reflections show our group from all angles. Some make us look heroic, others monstrous.
I look in one mirror and see myself as I truly am: pale, shaking. In another, I appear as a golden queen with power radiating from every inch of me.
“Which direction?” Lady Nerida asks.
I’m about to answer when the withdrawal symptoms spike. My vision blurs, and for a moment I can’t tell which reflections are real and which are illusions born from my own damaged mind.
A strong hand steadies me. Lord Castor, of all people.
“Easy there, Princess,” he says, and there’s no mockery in his voice. “Are you okay?”
I could tell them now. Tell them about the addiction, the craving that never stops, the way healing has become as necessary as breathing.They deserve to know what kind of leader they’re following into this maze.
The words stick in my throat. We haven’t even started the real trial yet, and I’m already compromised. If I tell them now, will they still follow me? Will they demand someone else take command before we’ve gone ten steps?
“I’m fine,” I lie, and hate myself for it.
I point down the left corridor, choosing based on instinct, based on the same guiding pull I felt in the deprivation pool – almost as if I can sense an invisible thread.
As we walk deeper into the maze, the mirrors begin showing more than just distorted reflections.
They show memories.
The first one hits me before I can look away. I’m six years old, kneeling beside a neighbour’s boy in our cottage. He’s crying, clutching his arm where bone shows through torn skin. Mother guides my small hands to the wound. “Feel the magic, Cyra. Let it flow.”
I do.
The magic rises from my chest and floods through my palms into his broken arm. When the bone knits and skin closes, I don’t want to stop. My hands linger even after Mother pulls me back.
“Well done,” she says, but her voice carries concern.
My throat tightens. That was the first time … the moment the hunger started.
“The memories,” Lady Nerida says quietly. “Do you see them too?”
I glance at her, then at the others. Lord Castor mutters something under his breath, his mirror showing memories of his childhood too. Lord Evander has gone very still, staring at a mirror beside him with flashing images.
“Yes,” I breathe.
Another mirror flashes: me at sixteen, kneeling in the slums beside a man whose name I never learned. My hands are on his chest, and the euphoria on my face is unmistakable. Lips parted, eyes half-closed, skin flushed. The man is weeping with gratitude, but I’m not looking at him. I’m lost in the sensation.
My stomach twists. I want to look away, but I can’t. That’s what it looked like. That’s what I was doing while pretending it was altruism.
“Lady Cyra.” Lady Nerida’s voice cuts through. “The maze feeds on lingering. We must keep moving.”
I tear my gaze away, nausea rising in my throat.
The corridor opens into a wider chamber, and I stop.
Three paths branch ahead of us. Each one is lined with different mirrors, showing different scenes.
The left path glows with golden light. The mirrors reflect images of power and conquest: solar crowns blazing with fire, armies marching in perfect formation, cities bowing before a single throne. Victory. Dominance. The kind of strength that breaks everything in its path.
The centre path is softer, bathed in amber. The mirrors show images of healing and peace: hospitals filled with grateful patients, diplomatic treaties being signed, children playing in safe streets. But shadows lurk at the edges of every scene, distorting the images just enough to make them feel wrong.
