The same garden, years later. Mother stands alone now, one hand pressed to her still-flat belly. Tears stream down her face, catching moonlight. The jasmine smells wrong this time: too sweet, cloying, like it’s trying to cover something rotten.
Another figure steps into view. Astrid’s mother, younger but recognizable. Her kind face – a spitting image of Astrid – is twisted with fear. She’s holding a baby in her arms, clutching the child tight to her chest like someone might rip it away.
“He loves me,” Mother protests, but her voice wavers.
Astrid’s mother’s grip on the baby tightens until her knuckles go white. “He’ll corrupt your child, twist it into becoming a monster just like him. His legacy.” She pauses. “Or he won’t want it at all. He’ll see it as a threat. Either way, if you stay, the child will die.”
“Asha, he’ll punish the Daughters … he could hurt you…” Mother’s tears flow faster now.
“I have seen the threads of fate, Liora.” Astrid’s mother gives a sad smile. “Hope survives when we choose to carry it.”
The scene fades as Mother places a protective hand over her belly. Over me. Her face is pale in the moonlight, jaw set with the kind of determination that comes from knowing you’re about to lose everything.
The mirror goes dark.
I stand there, shaking, trying to process what I just saw. My father’s transformation from grieving boy to addicted tyrant. The love between him and Mother. The moment she realized she had to run.
“This is what truth looks like,” I say quietly. My voice sounds hollow. “This is what I chose to see.”
Lord Castor’s hand lands on my shoulder. Not gentle, but grounding.
“The maze shows us what we asked for,” Lady Nerida says. “You asked for truth without illusion. This is the foundation of everything that came after.”
Lord Evander’s eyes are thoughtful. “Understanding the origin of corruption does not excuse it. But it does provide context.”
I nod slowly. My father wasn’t born a monster. He was made into one, choice by choice, trauma by trauma, dose by dose of addictive power.
Just like I could be.
Before I can process it further, before I can even begin to understand what this means for me, the mirrors shift again.
New images begin to form. Not my father’s story this time.
Someone else’s.
I realize with growing horror that the maze isn’t done showing me truths.
It’s only just begun.
The next mirror activates with a sound like cracking ice.
Lord Castor goes rigid beside me.
The image shows a grand hall on Jupiter. Soaring ceilings, columns of dark green marble, banners bearing Jupiter’s storm sigil hanging from the walls. It’s magnificent, built to intimidate and inspire in equal measure.
Two figures kneel before a throne. A man and woman with Lord Castor’s strong build, his sharp features. They’re older, dignified, wearing the deep greens and blacks of Jupiter’s royal house. The man has greying hair and scars across his face. The woman has Lord Castor’s hazel eyes, and holds herself with pride, even on her knees.
My father sits on the throne, a sun crown blazes on his head.
“Commander Orion and Lady Hera,” my father’s voice echoes through the hall. “You’ve been building alliances against me.”
“We serve Jupiter’s interests,” Commander Orion says, his voice steady despite his position. “Not yours. Authority must be earned, not taken, Solric.”
Golden cups are brought forward by servants in my father’s gold colours. The liquid inside them gleams red.
“Drink,” my father commands.
In the crowd, pressed between two guards, stands a younger Lord Castor. Maybe thirteen, fourteen at most. His face is carefully blank, but I can see the terror in his eyes, the way his fists clench at his sides.
