Chapter 29
Acorridor of mirrors stretches endlessly in both directions.
I adjust my grip on the short sword I grabbed from the weapon cache just inside the entrance.
The energy cell in the crossguard warms against my palm, waiting.
My weapons training barely prepared me for this – a few sessions with practice blades that didn’t use full power.
Lord Castor’s war hammer rests easily on his shoulder, its force field dormant but ready.
Lady Nerida carries her trident with the familiarity of someone born holding it.
Lord Evander’s compact mace hangs at his belt, the glow around its head already activated.
We’re armed now, at least. But armed against what, exactly … we can only guess.
The reflections show our group from all angles. Some make us look heroic, others monstrous.
I look in one mirror and see myself as I truly am: pale, shaking. In another, I appear as a golden queen with power radiating from every inch of me.
“Which direction?” Lady Nerida asks.
I’m about to answer when the withdrawal symptoms spike. My vision blurs, and for a moment I can’t tell which reflections are real and which are illusions born from my own damaged mind.
A strong hand steadies me. Lord Castor, of all people.
“Easy there, Princess,” he says, and there’s no mockery in his voice. “Are you okay?”
I could tell them now. Tell them about the addiction, the craving that never stops, the way healing has become as necessary as breathing. They deserve to know what kind of leader they’re following into this maze.
The words stick in my throat. We haven’t even started the real trial yet, and I’m already compromised. If I tell them now, will they still follow me? Will they demand someone else take command before we’ve gone ten steps?
“I’m fine,” I lie, and hate myself for it.
I point down the left corridor, choosing based on instinct, based on the same guiding pull I felt in the deprivation pool – almost as if I can sense an invisible thread.
As we walk deeper into the maze, the mirrors begin showing more than just distorted reflections.
They show memories.
The first one hits me before I can look away. I’m six years old, kneeling beside a neighbour’s boy in our cottage. He’s crying, clutching his arm where bone shows through torn skin. Mother guides my small hands to the wound. “Feel the magic, Cyra. Let it flow.”
I do.
The magic rises from my chest and floods through my palms into his broken arm. When the bone knits and skin closes, I don’t want to stop. My hands linger even after Mother pulls me back.
“Well done,” she says, but her voice carries concern.
My throat tightens. That was the first time … the moment the hunger started.
“The memories,” Lady Nerida says quietly. “Do you see them too?”
I glance at her, then at the others. Lord Castor mutters something under his breath, his mirror showing memories of his childhood too. Lord Evander has gone very still, staring at a mirror beside him with flashing images.
“Yes,” I breathe.
Another mirror flashes: me at sixteen, kneeling in the slums beside a man whose name I never learned.
My hands are on his chest, and the euphoria on my face is unmistakable.
Lips parted, eyes half-closed, skin flushed.
The man is weeping with gratitude, but I’m not looking at him. I’m lost in the sensation.
My stomach twists. I want to look away, but I can’t. That’s what it looked like. That’s what I was doing while pretending it was altruism.
“Lady Cyra.” Lady Nerida’s voice cuts through. “The maze feeds on lingering. We must keep moving.”
I tear my gaze away, nausea rising in my throat.
The corridor opens into a wider chamber, and I stop.
Three paths branch ahead of us. Each one is lined with different mirrors, showing different scenes.
The left path glows with golden light. The mirrors reflect images of power and conquest: solar crowns blazing with fire, armies marching in perfect formation, cities bowing before a single throne. Victory. Dominance. The kind of strength that breaks everything in its path.
The centre path is softer, bathed in amber.
The mirrors show images of healing and peace: hospitals filled with grateful patients, diplomatic treaties being signed, children playing in safe streets.
But shadows lurk at the edges of every scene, distorting the images just enough to make them feel wrong.
The right path is dark. The mirrors show scenes of loss and abandonment: empty rooms, broken promises, people turning away in disgust. Bodies in the street. Grief carved into faces I almost recognize.
“Three paths,” Lord Evander observes. “Each representing a different approach to leadership.”
“The left glorifies power,” I say slowly, studying the golden reflections. “It would show us strength without consequence. Make conquest look noble.”
“The centre offers balance,” Lady Nerida adds. “But balance built on lies. See how the shadows corrupt every scene?”
Lord Castor eyes the right path with obvious distaste. “And that one shows us the ugly truth. Loss. Failure. Everything we’d rather not see.”
They all look at me for the decision.
This isn’t just about finding the right path through a maze, I realize. It’s about what kind of leader I want to be.
Someone who chases power and ignores the cost? Someone who seeks comfortable balance while pretending the darkness doesn’t exist? Or someone who confronts loss and truth, even when it’s brutal?
I think about the one-on-one meetings. About Lord Evander saying I need to be flexible while maintaining direction. About Lord Castor demanding I move fast and decisively. About Lady Nerida warning that fear is just a tide.
I think about Astrid’s words before we entered: You’re the structure. The glue.
Structure requires foundation. I want a foundation built on transparency and truth.
“Right path,” I decide, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “If we’re going to lead, we need to face reality. No illusions. No sanitized versions. We confront what’s real, even when it hurts.”
Lord Evander nods slowly. “That seems like the logical choice.”
“Logical?” Lord Castor shakes his head. “It’s the hardest choice.”
“Which is why it’s the right one,” I say. “My father ruled through power and lies. I won’t make the same mistakes. If I’m going to lead anyone, I need to see clearly and honestly. That means facing uncomfortable truths.”
Lady Nerida’s eyes focus on me with unusual clarity. “You chose truth. Truth is what you’ll receive.”
The words sound like both promise and warning.
We step onto the right path.
The moment we cross the threshold, the mirrors change. The casual reflections and scattered memories disappear.
The maze heard my choice.
Now it’s going to show me exactly what truth looks like.
The first mirror that activates shows a young man with golden hair that catches the light like a crown already sits on his head.
It falls in waves to his shoulders, the colour of sunlight on wheat fields, radiant and alive.
His eyes are true gold, warm and bright, the kind of eyes that seem to hold their own inner fire.
It’s the same gold that flickers in my eyes.
His face is almost painfully beautiful. High cheekbones, straight nose, strong jaw softened by youth. His skin glows with health, olive-toned and unmarked by violence. He’s smiling at something beyond the mirror’s frame, and the expression transforms him into a man worthy of worship.
My father, but decades younger than any portrait I’ve ever seen. He can’t be more than sixteen.
Before the wars. Before the torture chambers. Before he learned that power could be wielded through pain.
This is Solric before he became the Sun King, when he was just a boy who didn’t yet know what kind of monster he would become.
The worst part is how human he looks. How normal. There’s nothing in his face that hints at the cruelty to come, no shadow of the tyrant lurking beneath that gentle smile. He could be anyone’s son, anyone’s friend.
He could be me.
I hear Lord Castor’s sharp intake of breath. “Is that—”
“My father,” I finish quietly.
The vision pulls me closer. I watch as the scene begins to distort, twisting in on itself, blurring at the edges. The smile fades from young Solric’s face. Everything changes.
Smoke fills the mirror. The acrid stench of burnt flesh somehow reaches me even through the glass. Bodies appear scattered across what was once a great golden city, their faces frozen in terror. Buildings reduced to rubble, blood pooling in the cracks between marble tiles.
My father kneels in the centre of it all, cradling an older woman’s lifeless form. Her robes are torn, soaked with blood that’s already going dark. Her hazel eyes stare at nothing.
His hands shake as he smooths her blonde hair back from her face. When he speaks, his voice breaks.
“They killed everyone, Mother.” The words are choked, wet. “The entire council, all the advisors. They left me nothing but ashes to rule.”
I watch grief carve itself into his features, the way his shoulders hunch inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller. He’s just a boy.
“This is what broke him,” Lady Nerida says softly beside me.
The scene shifts, blurring like I’m moving through time. Now he’s older, maybe mid-twenties, standing in a throne room before a crowd of silent courtiers. A man kneels at his feet, bound and trembling. The prisoner looks guilty of nothing more than fear.
“You questioned my judgment,” my father says, his voice carrying across the chamber with terrible calm. “You spoke of the old ways, of mercy, of restraint.”
He reaches down and places his hand on the man’s shoulder.
The prisoner’s scream is immediate, inhuman. His body convulses, muscles seizing as invisible fire pours through his veins. The crowd flinches back, but no one moves to help. No one dares.