“We need to get down there,” I say. “Help them understand.”
“We’ll clear the path,” Lord Castor says.
Together, we fight our way down from the balcony and through thepassages toward the maze’s heart. The mirror figures press us, but something has shifted in how my team fights.
Lord Castor’s hammer swings with purpose, its energy field flaring bright with each controlled strike. Not the wild aggression from the first trial. This is the measured strength I saw in his father, now channeled through him.
Lord Evander calls tactical adjustments, his mace finding weak points with precision. His voice carries the same unwavering clarity his father had when he refused to let history be rewritten.
Lady Nerida’s presence is like a cooling tide washing over us all, her humming never stopping. She moves through the chaos with the same calm resilience her mother showed even as the water rose. Unshaken. Unbowed.
The central chamber opens before us – a vast circular space dominated by a glass pedestal. Floating above it is the Sovereign’s Crown.
But that’s not what holds my attention.
Every reflection in every mirror bends inward, converging on that suspended crown. Light pulses from it in waves, and I can feel the rhythm beneath my skin … the same vibration I feel when healing, when someone’s life tilts between surrender and survival.
The maze hums. It’s waiting to be steadied, not conquered.
Blood darkens Zevran’s sleeve from a deep cut along his arm. Lady Tavia looks ready to collapse, Commander Kaelix’s energy gauntlets spark erratically, systems overloaded. Isolde’s breathing is heavy, her hair disheveled.
A mirror figure slashes at me with a blade made from a large fragment. The withdrawal symptoms make everything too bright, too loud, and I barely stumble away before it strikes again.
Zevran appears beside me, his sword’s energy field crackling as it cuts through the creature that was about to strike my back.
“Any ideas?” he asks, breathing hard.
“They’re mirroring our emotions,” I shout to the other team. “We have to use that to our advantage!”
I look around the chamber. The pulsing mirrors. The floating crown. The way the enemies emerge from the very walls, born from our collective fear and trauma.
“The crown,” I say to Zevran now. “It looks like the maze’s heart.”
“So, we destroy it?” Lord Castor suggests, smashing his hammer through another figure.
“No.” The certainty surprises even me. “I think we have to claim it … but not by force.”
I look around at both teams – battered, bleeding, exhausted. Zevran’s blade aligns with mine as we move back-to-back. Lady Nerida’s hum steadies the air between us. Lady Tavia shouts a warning as another creature forms. The unity isn’t perfect, but it’s real – forged in survival, not politics.
“The maze seems to be using our trauma and pain against us,” I say. “But what if we gave it something else?”
“Like what?” Lady Tavia asks, ducking under a sweeping blade.
“The opposite. Connection. Trust.”
The words hang between us, radical and terrifying.
“The crown is at the centre of the chamber,” I continue, pointing to the crystal pedestal surrounded by the worst concentration of mirror figures. “Someone has to reach it. But the maze will throw everything it has at them.”
“So we fight our way through,” Zevran says.
“No.” I take a shaky breath. “I go alone. And I go blind.”
The fighting around us seems to pause.
“That’s suicide,” Lord Castor states.
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s the only way to break the cycle.” I look at each of them. “The maze feeds on fear, on the trauma that makes us unable to trust each other. But if I close my eyes, if I make myself completely vulnerable?—”
