Chapter 28
Iwake to nausea so sharp it drives me upright before I’m fully conscious.
The room tilts. I make it three steps toward the washroom before my legs give out and I’m on my knees, ribs heaving. The basin arrives just in time for my stomach to empty what little it holds. Water. Bile. Nothing substantial.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I grip the cold stone edge and spit, eyes watering. The tremor spreads up my wrists, through my forearms, into my shoulders like something living under my skin.
The withdrawal isn’t just worse than yesterday. It’s mutating.
I splash cold water on my face and catch my reflection in the polished metal. Hollow cheeks. Dark crescents beneath my eyes. Skin the colour of old parchment. I look like the addicts I used to see in the slums, the ones who’d sell anything for one more moment of ecstasy.
I brace against the sink and try to breathe through it.
The trial starts in less than an hour. I need to function. Need to lead. Need to hold myself together long enough to get my team through that maze.
A knock at the door.
“Cyra.” Ren’s voice carries no patience. “The Cardinals are summoning contenders for trial preparation. You have ten minutes.”
I push away from the sink and stumble toward the wardrobe where my clothes hang waiting. My fingers fumble with the clasps on my nightclothes. The fabric slips through my grip twice before I manage to get it undone.
The latch on the bedroom door clicks.
I freeze, half-undressed, one arm still caught in my sleeve.
Ren steps inside and closes the door behind her with quiet finality. Her eyes sweep over me once, clinical and assessing, then her expression falters into concern.
“How bad is it?” she asks.
I try to straighten, to pull the nightclothes back into place. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t.” She crosses the space between us. “I know, Lady Cyra. The way you gravitate toward anyone injured. The way your hands steady after healing sessions.”
Her words feel like a punch to the gut. I want to deny it. To deflect.
Instead, I nod.
“It’s worse than it’s ever been.” My voice cracks. “It’s accelerating.”
She reaches out and helps extract my arm from the tangled nightclothes, her touch professional. I look at her, really look. No disgust. No pity. Just the same steady calm she brings to everything.
“I thought you might judge me if you found out.” I whisper weakly.
“I’m not one to judge anything, Lady Cyra. I don’t think this makes you a bad person … not even close.” She moves to the wardrobe and retrieves my clothes. “We deal with this after the Conclave. Properly. Right now, you hold it together. You lead your team. You survive.”
She helps me into a light shirt, thin pants, and gold robes, her hands steadying me when I sway. The professional efficiency doesn’t quite mask the way her fingers linger at my shoulders, the way her breath catches slightly when our faces are close.
I watch her expression as she cinches the belt at my waist. “You didn’t tell them.”
Her hands still. She knows exactly what I mean.
“About Lord Lucien,” I continue. “You didn’t tell the Cardinals what you saw during the assassination attempt.”
Ren’s jaw shifts, barely perceptible. She finishes with the belt and steps back.
“The Cardinals spun their narrative,” she says. “Ignored everything that didn’t fit.” Her voice drops. “They care more about appearances than truth. More about maintaining power than protecting anyone.”
There it is. The crack in her loyalty I’ve been sensing for days.
“You protected me,” I say. “You could have told them what you saw … used it as leverage, or given them ammunition. Instead, you kept it to yourself.”
“I kept it to myself because I don’t trust their judgment anymore.” She meets my eyes. “Not after watching them lie to an entire assembly without flinching.”
The admission – saying it aloud – seems to shake something deep within her. I can see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she won’t quite let herself relax even here, alone with me.
“After the trial,” Ren says. “When this is over. We talk about what I saw that night. About Lord Lucien. About why he was there and what it means.” She pauses. “And we deal with your withdrawal.”
It’s not a question. Not a request.
“All right,” I say.
She nods once, then opens the door and resumes her professional mask. I follow her into the corridor, hyperaware of every place her hands touched me, every moment her composure cracked.
The withdrawal still claws at my insides. My hands still shake.
But I shove it down. Lock it away.
Right now, I don’t have the luxury of falling apart.
Right now, I have a team to lead.
The preparation chamber crackles with tension when we arrive. All the contenders are here, clustered in their House sections. Zevran near Mars, Isolde by Venus, Lord Castor prowling by Jupiter. The space feels charged, electric with anticipation.
Ren positions herself behind me. When my hands start to shake, I clasp them together.
Cardinal Benedict occupies the centre of the room, white and silver robes immaculate.
“The second trial begins in one hour. Teams will have thirty minutes to strategize before entering the Fractured Mirror. The first team to reach the central chamber and claim the Sovereign’s Crown will be declared victorious. ”
He gestures to two separate side chambers. “Team One, to the left. Team Two, to the right. Use your time wisely.”
As we move toward our chamber, Astrid appears from the crowd of advisors. She pulls me into a quick, fierce hug.
“Remember what Lord Evander said,” she whispers against my ear. “You’re the structure. The glue. Let them be what they are.”
She pulls back, squeezes my hands once, then steps away before I can respond.
The strategy chamber room is rectangular, with a table in the centre and tactical displays on the walls showing schematics of the Fractured Mirror.
My team arranges themselves around the table. Lord Castor sprawls in his chair but his attention is focused. Lord Evander sits with perfect posture, already studying the displays. Lady Nerida stands, her ocean eyes distant.
I take my seat and force my voice steady. “We have thirty minutes to establish a strategy. The maze responds to emotional states, which means staying calm and focused will be essential.”
“The mirror shows not what is false, but what we fear is true,” Lady Nerida adds.
Lord Evander nods. “Which is why we need protocols – ways to identify if what we are seeing is real or illusion.”
I lean forward, feeling more grounded than I have in days. “Then we need to be honest with each other about our fears. Not now, necessarily, but if someone starts getting lost in what the mirrors show, the others need to be able to call them back.”
“Formation,” Lord Castor says. “We never split the group. If the maze tries to separate us, we resist.”
“Good,” I say. “Lord Evander, you map the structure. Lord Castor, you keep us together and moving at the right pace. Lady Nerida, you watch for any manipulations the mirror might throw at us.”
They nod, falling into their roles without resistance.
We spend the next twenty minutes establishing ways to verify identities if the maze creates duplicates, protocols for when the manipulation becomes overwhelming.
Lord Evander maps out the maze’s known variables, identifying historical patterns.
Lord Castor suggests tactical formations for different corridor widths and blockages.
Lady Nerida contributes observations about how fear and emotions flows, where mind tricks could be used.
I hold them together. Not by dominating, but by listening, integrating, adjusting. Being flexible while maintaining direction. This is what Lord Evander meant. I don’t need all the answers. I just need to keep the system aligned.
And for the first time, I feel like I can.
A chime sounds. Time’s up.
We file out. Team Two emerges from their chamber looking confident, energized. Zevran glances in my direction, concern flashing across his face before he masks it.
Ren’s hand settles briefly on my shoulder. “Focus. They’re not your concern right now.”
She’s right. I straighten my spine and turn toward our entrance.
The Fractured Mirror rises before us like something out of a nightmare.
Walls of dark metal and crystalline glass stretch impossibly high. The surface is fractured into thousands of pieces, each one reflecting different angles, different versions of reality. Some reflections move independently of their sources.
The entrance yawns open before us, dark and foreboding – a door made entirely of cracked mirror shards and jagged edges.
Cardinal Benedict’s voice rings out. “The Fractured Mirror will test not just your courage, but your willingness to confront truths you may prefer to keep hidden. Trust your team. Trust yourselves.”
A horn sounds, deep and resonant.
“Let the second trial begin.”
Lord Castor moves to my left, Lord Evander to my right. Lady Nerida takes position behind us. We form a diamond, close enough to maintain contact.
Ren stays behind at the entrance, watching. I can feel her gaze on my back.
As we cross the threshold, the light changes. The walls pulse with faint luminescence.
Behind us, the entrance seals.
The trial has begun.