Chapter 16 #3
He was still turning the thought over when his feet carried him forward without thinking. His hand rose toward the mirror, fingertips brushing its shimmering surface before his mind caught up with the motion.
“Ark, no!” Rhodes’s voice cracked through the haze.
Too late.
The air recoiled. The mirror’s magic lashed out—fast, violent.
The blow struck Ark’s chest and sent him sprawling.
He hit the ground hard, ribs flaring with pain.
But worse was the backlash of magic—raw and searing, burning straight through his protective glove.
The corrupted energy tore into his bandaged hand like fire through parchment.
He gasped, the breath caught in his throat, vision splintering.
Caius swore. “The mirror’s not dormant at all. It’s reactive!”
Ark pushed up to one knee, vision flickering. “Draw the sigil. I’ll hold it.”
The mirror pulsed again. Rhodes moved to his side, feet planted, erecting a barrier around them.
Caius knelt and began sketching a sigil that pulsed with faint light.
Each line glowed—dim at first, then brighter—as Ark pressed his palm to the floor, blood slicking the edge of the circle.
He pushed his magic into it despite the pain. The energy in the room twisted, hissed.
The house groaned. Its corruption hadn’t grown from an accumulation of emotions. It had been brought here, sealed inside the mirror like a sickness in a jar. Over the years, it had leaked out, soaking into the walls, the floorboards, and the very soil beneath the foundation.
The mirror screamed without sound, the pressure crushing against Ark’s eardrums. He gritted his teeth as the energy inside the artifact surged back. His entire right arm lit up in pain. Corrupted magic snaked up from his palm, curling along his wrist like molten wire.
Caius’s sigil pulsed once, twice, then cracked apart with a sound of shattering glass.
The blast vaporized Rhodes’s barrier and threw him back into a stack of crates.
He went down in a cloud of dust. Ark was sent hurtling into a heavy oak beam.
His ribs cracked. He slid to the dusty floor, his coat smoking where the corruption had touched it.
His palm was a ruin of raw, glowing flesh. The glove had burned away entirely.
“Ark!” Rhodes roared, already pushing up from the pile of splintered wood.
Caius’s stylus still glowed as he fought to stabilize what remained of the sigil. “The anchor is shattered! I need to redraw it, now!”
Ark tried to speak but coughed instead. His head swam. “The corruption has latched on. It’s in my veins.”
Caius abandoned the sigil and rushed to him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “We should leave. Come back later.”
“I’ll be fine. Just redraw the sigil.”
“You’re in no state—”
“I can hold it.” Ark’s arm trembled, grinding his molars to keep steady.
If they stopped now, the mirror would have time to recover.
When they returned, it would be stronger.
Smarter. It would know their tricks. He’d seen it before—corrupted artifacts that learned and adapted.
The first attempt was always the best chance.
Rhodes grabbed Caius’s shoulder. “We end this now.”
Caius didn’t argue anymore. He drew a new sigil on the floorboards, adding additional runes to amplify their power.
Ark pressed his ruined palm to the floor again, biting down a sound between a growl and a groan.
As Caius completed the diagram, Ark channeled his power, and the entire thing flared to life.
The corruption hissed, screamed, then went still. The mirror dimmed. The runes on its frame faded from violent red to a dull, throbbing grey. For the first time, the house no longer felt like it resisted them. The hostile aura faded. It relaxed, and so did Ark.
His legs gave out. He dropped to one knee, then folded forward, half aware of Rhodes lunging to catch him.
The chill of the floorboards pressed against his cheek, but the fire in his body registered more—coiling hot through his veins, anchored in the ruin of his hand.
The corruption tried to erode his magic.
His shadows fought back like an immune system against infection, but still, his body grew weaker by the second.
He heard Rhodes’s voice as if from underwater. “His fever’s spiking. Pulse is erratic.”
Caius’s coat settled over his shoulders. The wool was warm—or should have been warm—but Ark shivered anyway, a violent tremor rattling through him. He couldn’t stop. His teeth chattered. The fire in his hand had spread to his chest, but his skin was cold. Clammy.
“We need to move him. Fast.”
He heard the words, but they sounded like they came from far away. Caius’s arm braced his back. Rhodes gripped his shoulder. He was being lifted, carried. He tried to hold on. The darkness pressed in. The taste of copper and ash coated his tongue.
One name surfaced—the only thing that felt solid, the only thing that wasn’t burning.
Cassia.
He didn’t know if he said it or just thought it. Then, the fever pulled him under.