Chapter 28 – Beneath the Surface
The wind stirred ash from the ruins of the Glass Spire, and the twilight sky reflected shards of memory in every broken mirror. Chris stood in the rubble, her fingers brushing along the edge of a fractured pane. Her eyes searched for meaning, something to hold onto — but all she saw was her own reflection, splintered and haunted.
Behind her, Wale watched in silence.
Not with empathy.
Not with sorrow.
But with patience.
A calculated stillness lay behind his eyes, hidden beneath the same expression of regret he had practiced a thousand times in a thousand mirrors.
"They were hiding something," Chris muttered. "Every mirror in this tower was laced with sigils — someone didn't want truth escaping."
Wale stepped forward, just enough to seem invested, not too much to draw suspicion.
"Or they feared what truth would do," he said softly.
Chris glanced at him, unaware of the double edge in his words.
"They were guarding the Mirrorheart's signal. Someone corrupted it from within — redirected it to echo through the eastern plains. Like it was calling out to someone."
"I felt that too," Wale said. "Last night, in my dreams."
That part was true. The Mirrorheart did call. But not to him — not anymore.
It listened now.
It obeyed.
Later, as they made camp beneath the remnants of the Spire, Chris traced runes into the dirt with her staff. Wale sat across from her, seemingly tired, distracted — the same mask he wore since the beginning. The same mask he used to make her trust him.
Grey was still out on patrol. A perfect opportunity.
Chris looked up. "You've changed lately."
Wale tilted his head slightly. "Changed?"
"You don't flinch at the mirror pulses anymore. You speak to it... like it's familiar."
Wale smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm starting to understand it."
She hesitated. "Or maybe it's understanding you."
Wale let the silence stretch.
If she suspected — even slightly — he'd have to move soon. But not yet. The pieces weren't all in place.
"Chris," he said gently, "You've always been the heart of this group. The one who sees light even in the shadows. I need you to trust that I haven't lost my way."
She held his gaze. Then nodded.
It worked. Again.
But cracks were forming.
That night, Wale slipped from camp under the guise of patrol. The moon hung low, and the land beyond the ruins shimmered faintly with residual mirror energy.
He walked alone until he reached the crater — the origin of the Mirrorheart pulse.
There, beneath a sky swirling with false stars, stood the reflection.
It had no name. No identity. It only existed to echo.
But now, it had purpose.
Wale approached. "It's time."
The reflection opened its hands, revealing the crystal core — the stolen filament of the Mirrorheart. Energy pulsed through it, refracting images of places long forgotten: the City of Masks, the Hidden Vault of Caelum, and the obsidian gate buried beneath the seas.
"You gave them hope," the reflection whispered in a dozen voices, "and in return, they gave you fear."
"They gave me chains," Wale corrected. "And called it salvation."
The reflection nodded. "Do you doubt?"
Wale stepped closer, taking the filament in his palm. It didn't resist. It recognized him.
Not as a host.
Not as a hero.
As its creator.
"I don't doubt," Wale said. "They needed a monster to blame. I gave them one. But they never asked who made the monster."
Back at camp, Chris stirred from a restless sleep. Something felt wrong.
The wind had shifted.
Grey hadn't returned.
And Wale was gone.
She stood, heart thudding, and began tracking. The sigils she had marked around camp to detect mirror interference were glowing faintly — but only near Wale's bedroll.
A warning.
Her staff crackled with latent energy as she moved toward the eastern ridge.
Wale returned before dawn, dusting ash from his cloak. Chris met him at the camp's edge, eyes narrowed.
"Where were you?" she asked.
"Clearing interference," he replied smoothly. "The Mirrorheart's pulse is distorting again. If we don't act—"
"Don't lie."
That gave him pause. A small, amused smirk formed, but he buried it quickly.
Chris stepped closer. "You're not fighting the corruption anymore. You're guiding it."
He didn't answer immediately.
Then:
"I never fought it," he admitted. "I am it."
The words hung between them like a blade.
Chris raised her staff. "You manipulated us. You used us to access the Mirrorheart."
"To restore it," Wale said calmly. "Not for destruction. For rebirth."
"You call it rebirth. I call it control."
He looked at her, something deeper stirring in his gaze — not madness. Not anger. Conviction.
"Is control so evil, Chris? When everything else leads to ruin?"
Her staff flared.
But before she could strike — he vanished.
Not through teleportation.
Through reflection.
In a hidden chamber beneath the ruins, Wale reappeared before a mirror altar. The stolen filament pulsed in his hand as he fed it into the stone, fusing it with ancient scripts.
Voices rang out — not ghosts, but echoes of every being who had touched the Mirrorheart before him. All of them had failed to wield it.
He would not.
He would become what they feared most — not a god, not a king.
A truth they could never control.
A villain they could never defeat.