Arctha blinked as Cassian disappeared through the doorway, like the final punctuation in a sentence that no one bothered to finish. Her hand dropped, the half-wave left hanging, awkward and unfinished.
"…Well, that was something," she muttered, glancing at Lucian and Grunt. "All that emotional baggage from the same guy who once compared swordplay to dating."
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "He's conflicted."
"Wow, brilliant diagnosis. Do you moonlight as a therapist?"
"No. Just observant."
Grunt didn't say a word. He might've blinked, or it could've just been tectonic shifts happening under his brow.
Arctha rubbed her temples, exhaling in frustration. "I didn't expect a grand romantic gesture, but vanishing like the lead in a tragic opera from a knockoff dimension? A little much, don't you think?"
"Maybe he saw something," Lucian suggested, eyes flicking to the mirror—its surface now dull and quiet.
"Yeah, probably a soul-sucking metaphor disguised as an ex. Trials. So fun."
Silence settled between them—like dust, fine and sneaky.
She glanced at the exit again, chewing on her lip.
Don't go after him. Let him stew in his brooding arc.
Still, a part of her itched to grab him by the collar and yell, You don't get to ghost me just because your reflection turned psycho on you.
Instead, she shifted her attention back to Lucian. "So, do you ever get tired of lugging around your backstory like emotional baggage?"
Lucian shot her a look, as though she'd just asked him to decipher feelings.
"No," he said flatly. "There's no backstory. My mother made sure I was fine."
"Oh?" Arctha smirked. "She sounds like quite the woman. Hope I get to meet her someday. Honestly, I wouldn't mind having her as a mother-in-law." She chuckled, waving it off. "Anyway—"
"Cool. I carry mine in a glowing gauntlet that may or may not be cursed by narrative symbolism."
There was a beat.
Lucian blinked. "You're very strange."
"Thanks. It's a gift."
Grunt exhaled—maybe a laugh. Or maybe it was just gas.
Behind them, the mirror shimmered again, faint but unmistakable.
Lucian turned, narrowing his eyes. "It's not done."
I wonder who's next, he thought.
Arctha followed his gaze, her gauntlet pulsing once, then again—like a heartbeat responding to something just beyond reach.
A voice rang out from behind them. "Lucian!"
He didn't answer.
His eyes were locked on the warped mirror, now flickering like it had a thought of its own.
Without a word, Lucian stepped forward—silent, determined, and already gone.
Lucian moved through the mirror.
For a heartbeat, everything stopped—no ground, no air, no sound. Just hollow silence filling the space inside his chest.
Then it opened.
A cold, grayscale chamber unfolded before him, the walls buzzing with static. Everything shimmered, like rain trying to remember how to fall.
At the center stood his reflection. Older? Younger? It didn't matter. The figure turned, its eyes empty, saying nothing—its silence louder than words.
Lucian stared.
"Say something," he whispered.
The reflection's mouth moved.
"I would," it said, "but you've locked every door behind your feelings."
The air thickened. Behind the reflection, scenes began to bleed through—half-formed memories: a childhood never spoken of, warmth he'd kept at arm's length, friends buried under layers of silence and strategy.
"Your mother didn't fix you," the voice said, soft but cutting. "She took what mattered most."
The mirror version smirked, too sharp to be kind.
"She didn't heal you. She made you numb."
It took a step closer, its eyes gleaming with cruel understanding.
"They did it from day one. You never had a chance. Pain? Weakness. Joy? Silenced. And numbness… that wasn't your armor. It was the cage she built. You just got really good at decorating the inside."
Lucian's fists clenched.
"You don't hurt anymore," the reflection continued. "You don't love. You don't grieve. You just keep moving. Efficient. Controlled. Empty."
The reflection leaned in, voice low.
"Tell me, soldier—when was the last time you cried?"
The chamber seemed to tilt. The air warped.
Lucian tried to speak, but the words never came—frozen, half-formed.
His chest burned, but not with fire. It was frost. A chill so deep it masqueraded as calm.
The mirror didn't break.
It turned black.
In the dark, Lucian heard a voice—his own, stripped bare:
"You've survived everything… except yourself."
He stood still, breathing, grounded.
Then, with resolve, he turned toward the exit.
"Yeah," Lucian said, voice steady as he stepped through, "she did that to me—so people like you wouldn't win."
"She made sure I chose logic over chaos. That I don't let emotion sink me, like it did her."
"She didn't break me. She cleared the wreckage."
"She made me better."
And with that, Lucian stepped out of the mirror—unshaken, unreadable, and wholly his mother's son.
The echo of the mirror's voice still lingered in his head as he emerged—quiet, coiled, refusing to fade.
"You survived the mirror," it had whispered. "But you didn't walk out whole."
Arctha saw him step out and instinctively moved toward him—then froze.
Lucian's face showed no emotion. Not cold, not distant. Just… settled. Like someone who had made peace with a battlefield, not conquered it.
He didn't speak, didn't even look at anyone. He just exhaled—soft, measured—like releasing a weight that only he knew he carried.
Grunt watched, silent, brow twitching—a version of concern.
Arctha tilted her head. "So… fun time in mirrorland?"
Lucian didn't answer. He walked past her, his steps controlled and precise—not weary, but disciplined.
But inside, the echo lingered.
You didn't walk out whole.
Then, Lucian stopped. Mid-step. His eyes narrowed.
He turned, just slightly, toward the mirror, as if sensing something behind him.
"Whole?" he scoffed inwardly. "No. Just enough to win."
The mirror cracked—hairline fractures racing across its surface like lightning.
From within, laughter poured out. Not one voice, but many. Twisted, overlapping. None of them quite human.
"Then let's see what 'enough' looks like—
—when every part you buried claws its way back to claim you."
The room dimmed—not with shadow, but with the weight of something Lucian remembered.
He stared at the mirror, tense. Arctha glanced at him, confused—because to her, it looked just like any other mirror.
Maybe there was something she wasn't seeing.
Then Variel's voice cut through the tension, sharp and steady:
"Grunt. It's your turn."