Chapter Forty-Two #2
She paused, letting her words settle as hushed whispers rolled through the space.
“Today, you will face the Labyrinth of Shadows. This is not a trial you can survive with brute strength; you must rely on your wit and will.” A portal shimmered into existence behind her.
“Once you step through this portal, you will be faced with a maze of mirrors and illusions, where only the academy knows what you will be shown. Some of you may see truths you wish to remain hidden; some of you may be confronted with your deepest fears. If you manage to overcome whatever it is you see, you will emerge stronger. Those of you who do not,” her lips curved, though there was nothing kind in their shape, “will find your minds broken beyond repair.”
A ripple of unease passed through the gathered students. My pulse pounded in my ears, but I kept my chin held high.
“When your name is called, you will enter alone. There is no aid, no escape but forward. Remember: fear can rule you, or you can rule it. The choice, as always, is yours,” Femirea said with one last glance across the crowd before stepping back for a professor to take her place.
One by one, students were called, swallowed by the portal.
Some returned mere moments later, ashen and shrinking, but alive.
I could only guess what the ones who didn’t were experiencing, though the trial sounded similar to the one Zypher told us he’d been through.
My stomach coiled tighter with each name called until mine finally rang out across the dwindling crowd.
“Bechora Knight.”
I forced myself onto unsteady feet, sparing a final look at my friends.
Gabriel’s gaze burned into me as I moved forward, the echo of Femirea’s warning chilling me more than the portal itself.
I hesitated at the edge, forcing a shaky breath into my lungs before stepping through.
The air shifted immediately, cool and damp, carrying a metallic tang that set my teeth on edge.
Before me stretched a chamber lined with mirrors, endless corridors branching into reflections of reflections.
My own face multiplied into dozens, each set of eyes sharp, accusing.
“Bechora Knightvale,” a cacophony of voices hissed in unison. The name rattled through the space like a curse as a crown of black iron materialized atop my head in the reflections. “Heir to the stolen throne. Born to rule. Born to right the realm. Too weak to take it.”
I shook my head. “That is not my name,” I snapped, taking a step forward.
“Weak.” The voices hissed in defiance as the mirrors rippled.
In their depths, a new scene replaced my reflection.
I recognized myself as a toddler, cradled in the arms of a human woman who held a striking resemblance to me.
Beside her stood a fae male, his emerald-green eyes the same color as mine.
I knew with every fiber of my being that these were my parents.
Geordie moved toward them; his usually cheerful face twisted in agony.
“This is the only way,” he said. “She has to survive.” He turned to the male, his eyes pleading. “I promise, father, I will keep her safe.”
Tears slid down the woman’s face as she reached an arm out to embrace Geordie. “You are not of my blood, Geordalis, but you are the son of my heart. You will keep your half-sister safe until it is time for her to return to this realm and set things right.”
Geordie’s jaw clenched as he sagged into her hold for a moment before he pulled back with a tight nod.
The woman pressed a kiss to my hair, releasing Geordie as the male I recognized as my father tore open a portal.
Her shoulders shook with grief as she stepped forward.
“This is the only way,” she sobbed. “Selir willing, I will see you again, my little star.”
I watched as she released my small body through the portal. Geordie stepped forward to follow and stopped abruptly, his eyes going completely white.
“No,” he bellowed as the sound of a door being battered down rang out.
The scene shifted almost too quickly for my eyes to follow—shadows wrapping around my parents as they bade Geordie to run. A blade flashed, blood splattering across my parents’ clothing as screams ripped through the glass before the vision cut away.
“No,” I cried out, begging my feet to move. “This can’t be real!”
“Descendant of the last Starcaller Queen,” the voices droned. “Blood of the throne. Child of a slaughtered line. You are the heir. The realm bends to you. War follows you. These are the truths we whisper.”
The images came faster now—armies clashing under banners of flame, the Fae King laughing over a mountain of corpses.
Zypher’s body, crumbling to ash. Gabriel’s head lolling in death.
Shadrie, torn apart. Miles’ lifeless eyes staring up at me.
I screamed, pressing my palms to my ears and slamming my eyes shut as I forced my feet to carry me forward.
I stumbled until I slammed into the hard, cool surface of another mirror and was forced to open my eyes.
I saw them then—the three males who weren’t mine, but I felt drawn toward anyway.
Vallynn, Dante, and Caulder, dragged in chains, their expressions carved from fury and betrayal.
The executioner’s axe fell once, twice, three times.
Their heads rolled across the mirrored floor.
Finally, it was me, kneeling at the block.
My own execution reflected endlessly in the glass until I couldn’t breathe.
I could feel the weight of the crown in my reflection pressing heavier and heavier on my skull. Every whisper drove the blade deeper into my chest. “Too weak. Too small. Too afraid.”
For one terrible moment, I believed it all, sinking to my knees as despair tore at me.
The voices taunted me with the destruction I would bring, the endless death.
But then I remembered Zypher’s arms around me, Gabriel’s reluctant hand in mine, Shadrie’s inappropriate jokes, the studious way Miles attacked every problem.
They had all believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself.
The labyrinth wanted me to believe in a future where I let my own fear consume me. One where I refused the truth it spoke and led my friends and mates to their bloody deaths. I forced myself upright, every part of me trembling. “I will not accept this,” I whispered—then louder, stronger.
The mirrors rippled, cycling through vision after vision.
I forced myself to look closer; some of it was true.
The woman sobbing had been my mother. I’d dreamed of her voice more nights than I cared to recall.
The fae male with emerald eyes—my father—his face setting off a twinge of undeniable familiarity.
That I was the Starcaller was another undeniable truth.
A deep, knowing acceptance settled into me as I considered the possibility that the throne belonged to my family—that I was the rightful ruler of this realm.
But the rest—the crown crushing me, the endless corpses, the betrayal in the eyes of those I cared for—those were possibilities, shadows twisted into inevitability by fear.
“I see it now,” I whispered, pressing my palm against the cold glass.
“You show me what was and what could be, but I’m the only one who can decide what will be.
” The crown in my reflection flared, heavy and gleaming, but I refused to bow beneath it.
My voice grew stronger, steadier. “I am Bechora Knightvale. I am the Starcaller Queen. That much is truth,” The images of war and ruin screamed louder, trying to drown me out.
Their weight caused me to stumble, but I refused to give in, my feet carrying me forward one step at a time.
“I am not too weak. I am not too small. And I am not afraid.” The last word tore from my lips in a roar.
The mirrors around me shattered, shrieking as shards of glass exploded through the air.
My arms flew up to protect my face, and the sensation of being jerked forward shot through me.
The illusions’ screams were ripped away, and quiet chatter reached my ears, causing me to peek through my arms. I was back in the cathedral—whole and unharmed.