Chapter Seven: Descent
Elias paused before the mirror in his apartment one final time. The ritual had shown him glimpses of memory and possibility, but now the mirror itself beckoned with a deeper urgency. He swallowed the knot of fear in his throat. Tonight, he would step through fully. He turned off the lights, leaving only the faint glow of the city beyond the window. He seated himself on the floor before the mirror, heart beating a steady drum of resolve and dread. He recalled the voice's instruction: let consciousness pass. This time, there would be no half-measures.
He closed his eyes and placed the bloodstained shard—the one used in the ritual—directly against the mirror's cool surface. His fingers trembled. The fragmented glass pressed against his palm felt alive, pulsing with the echo of the earlier rite. He inhaled and exhaled, centering himself. In silence, he moved his hand in a slow arc, aligning the shard's fracture with a fissure in the mirror that had grown since the ritual. As the edges met, a low hum filled his ears, as if the mirror recognized the reunion of shards. Light within the glass shimmered, rippling outward like concentric waves.
Elias opened his eyes. The mirror's surface had shifted: instead of reflecting the dim room behind him, it appeared to recede into darkness, revealing a slender vertical slit of faint luminescence. He felt the boundary between worlds thin. The space around him grew colder; the air still, as if even particles held their breath. He leaned forward, heart pounding. The slit widened, and a soft pull beckoned him. He placed both hands flat against the mirror, fingertips brushing the edges of the shard. The glass gave way under his palms, liquefying like black water. He felt himself drawn in, weightless.
He emerged into a realm that felt both familiar and alien—a distorted echo of his own world. He stood on a cracked marble floor that stretched into darkness. Fragments of mirror floated before him, hovering like silent sentinels, each pane reflecting fragments of his life: childhood afternoons in his mother's study, fleeting images of faces long gone, moments of laughter now tinged with tragedy. The air smelled of damp earth and scorched metal, a scent that stirred memories he could not name. Above, the ceiling was impossible to discern, lost in swirling mists of muted light and shadow.
As he stepped forward, the broken floor tiles groaned beneath unseen weight. Each footstep echoed in unsettling resonance, as if he walked in a cathedral made of glass shards. He felt the pull of each floating mirror pane: an invitation to peer into it, to glean another fragment of truth. Yet he knew too well the danger: each reflection risked exposing painful shards of his psyche. He steadied himself, recalling the choice he would soon face: embrace the mirror's power or shatter its hold. But first, he had to navigate this realm and confront the versions of himself waiting within.
He came upon the first mirror cluster: three panes arranged like a twisted triptych. In the left pane, he saw a child's face—his own at six years old—eyes wide with fear but also fragile hope. The scene behind the reflection showed a dimly lit room: the very corner where he had first seen the memory of his sister's body. The child's lips trembled, whispering: "I only wanted her safe." Elias's chest tightened: guilt rose like bile. He placed a hand against the glass; the pane rippled under his touch, as if responsive to his remorse. The child's reflection looked back with silent accusation, urging recognition of buried guilt.
He stepped away and approached the center pane. Here, his reflection appeared as a young man in his twenties, expression stern and unreadable. Behind him in that reflection lay a darkened street—rain-slick pavement, a single lamppost flickering. The reflected Elias stood motionless, watching a figure fall under a blade's strike. This echoed the future vision he had once seen: the woman stabbed, his own older self a silent witness. In this pane, his eyes flickered with regret and resignation. He realized this version represented his fear of inaction: the risk that he would stand by and watch tragedy unfold again, powerless or unwilling to intervene. He pressed a palm against the glass; the surface quivered, and he felt a pang of urgency: he must choose to act rather than remain passive.
The right pane showed a figure shrouded in dark robes, face obscured—a version of him yet to come if he embraced the mirror's full power unchecked. In the reflection, faceless figures knelt before him, offering broken mirrors like tribute. His reflection's eyes glowed faintly ashen; the mouth curved in a hollow smile. This was the path of arrogance and dominion: wielding power over others' memories or realities. Elias stepped back, heart pounding. The mirrored image seemed to beckon with seductive authority, while warning that such power would hollow him.
He moved onward, leaving the triptych behind. The realm's floor shifted: cracks widened, revealing depths of nothingness below. Floating fragments drifted like leaves in an unearthly breeze. The walls—if walls they were—wavered, appearing as transparent veils showing glimpses of places: his father's house, the abandoned glassworks, his own bedroom. These glimpses overlapped and dissolved, emphasizing that in this realm, past, present, and possible futures interwove.
Ahead, a corridor of mirrors beckoned: tall panes lined both sides, stretching into an unknown distance. As he walked between them, each reflection showed him in different emotional states: despair, anger, acceptance, defiance. Some reflected moments he had never lived—memories that felt false yet strangely resonant, as if belonging to another version of himself. With each step, he felt the weight of choice pressing upon him: which reflection was the true self, and which were illusions? The corridor ended at a larger mirror, framed by twisted ironwork and cracked like a shattered crown. This was the threshold: the mirror of reckoning.
He approached it slowly. The surface shimmered with swirling light and shadow. In its depths, scenes unfolded: first, his mother in a trance before the mirror in her final hours; then his own reflection, torn between fear and determination; then the shards from the ritual, arranged in a pattern that pulsed as if alive. He felt tears burn his eyes: the truth he sought lay here, but at what cost?
He raised his hand and touched the glass. The mirror responded with a sudden jolt of energy, sending ripples through the realm. He was drawn into the depths of the reflection, collapsing the space around him into a vortex of images and sensations. He felt himself falling through memories and possibilities: childhood moments with his mother, half-remembered conversations, the pain of loss, and the lure of forbidden power. The fall felt infinite, each scene a fragment demanding acknowledgment.
Then he landed on solid ground—though "ground" here was a mosaic of shattered mirrors, each piece reflecting a facet of his soul. He realized this chamber was shaped by his own psyche: a crucible where he must face core truths. A voice spoke from every pane at once, echoing in chorus: "Choose." The command resonated through him.
Elias took a deep breath. He knew the choice before him: to embrace the mirror's power fully, risking corruption, or to reject it, risking a void but preserving his humanity. He closed his eyes and recalled his mother's reasons: her search for self-understanding had led her here, yet cost her life. He recalled his father's warnings: truth burdens the soul. He recalled the visions of passive witness and tyrant. He recalled his own yearning: to redeem the past, to save others, to understand the mirror's purpose without surrendering himself.
He opened his eyes. The chamber shifted, molding itself to his decision moment. If he moved toward the throne-like shard arrangement at the center, he would embrace the mirror's gift. If he turned away, he would attempt to shatter its hold. He hesitated, feeling time stretch. Around him, the reflections waited.
He took a step backward, choosing to refuse the seductive path. The chamber reacted: mirrors trembled; reflections of power recoiled as if wounded by his rejection. A low rumble coursed through the realm. Yet simultaneously, shards rose from the floor, forming a protective circle around him, as though acknowledging his will to resist. He felt both relief and sorrow: relief for preserving himself, sorrow for relinquishing the promise of power that might have fixed past wrongs.
In that moment, the reflection of his mother appeared before him in a pane: her eyes filled with sorrow and pride. She mouthed words he could not hear, but he felt her message: "You have the strength I lacked." The chamber exhaled, and the swirling mists began to recede, revealing a faint light at the far edge of the realm—the exit back to reality.
He moved toward it, stepping over mirror fragments that no longer tried to ensnare him. The floating panes parted, guiding him toward the slit of luminescence. With each step, the realm's textures softened: the oppressive scents lifted, the cold receded. As he reached the boundary, he paused and glanced back: the realm stood quiet, mirrors reflecting only emptiness where his former reflections had been. The larger mirror he had touched before now lay cracked from within, as if broken by his choice. He felt a final tug—a whisper carried on a breath of wind: "This is not an end, but a beginning."
Then he stepped through.
He awoke on the floor before his apartment mirror, chest heaving, limbs weak as if he had run a long distance. The shard was gone from his hand, and the mirror's surface reflected only his tired face, unbroken. Dawn light filtered through the blinds, casting muted patterns on the floor. For a moment, confusion overtook him: was all that a dream? But the weight in his chest, the ache in his limbs, and the lingering echo of the realm confirmed it had been real.
He rose slowly, touching the mirror's cool surface. It remained whole, but he sensed a subtle change: the glass felt quieter, as though it acknowledged his choice. He turned away and moved into the apartment. Everywhere he looked, reflective surfaces appeared undamaged—yet he knew the cracks within himself persisted. The world seemed softer now, less menacing, but the events of the mirror realm had left an indelible mark.
He walked to the window and gazed at the waking city. The dawn light glinted off windows and polished metal, but he no longer feared their reflections. Instead, he felt a cautious awareness: the mirror's influence was not gone, but held at bay by his resolve. He recalled his journal's words: "Tomorrow, decide: pursue or flee." Now he understood that the choice was not simply to continue or abandon, but to live with the consequences: to rebuild his life while remaining vigilant.
In the days that followed, he set small tasks for himself: repairing real mirrors in his home, replacing cracked frames, cleaning each surface as a ritual of renewal. Each polished pane reminded him of his passage through the realm and the need to confront reflections honestly. Yet even as he performed these tasks, he felt subtle echoes: at times, a glimpse at the edge of vision suggested a faint shimmer in a mirror's corner, quickly gone. He did not panic; he acknowledged these as reminders of the path he'd chosen.
He wrote in his journal:
"I descended into the mirror's heart and refused its ultimate lure. The realm acknowledged my decision by fracturing its own reflection. Now, I return to a world of unbroken glass—but I carry the cracks within. My task is to guard against old temptations and honor the truth I uncovered. The mirror's power remains, but I hold its boundary. The next step is to confront the legacy it left: the knowledge of my mother's fate, the secrets that remain, and the choice to use or reject what I learned."
He paused, pen hovering. The next chapter loomed: uncovering the full extent of his mother's involvement, understanding the forces behind the mirror's power, and deciding how to guide any who might follow. He closed the journal and looked toward the bedroom door. In the stillness, he sensed a final whisper—a benediction or warning: "Walk with care; the mirror watches even in stillness."
Elias exhaled and turned away, ready to face the world anew, yet forever changed by the descent. The path ahead would demand courage and wisdom, but he had learned that true power lay not in dominion over reflections, but in mastering one's own reflection within.