The Fractured Path

The air in the forbidden wing of the Midnight Citadel was a living thing — cold, serpentine, and ancient. Shadows gathered in corners where light dared not linger, and the silence felt heavier than stone, pressing against Dacre's chest like an unspoken warning.

He stood at the threshold, the vast corridor stretching before him like the gaping maw of some forgotten beast. The walls, slick with obsidian veins, pulsed faintly — as though the very bones of the Citadel were alive, reacting to his presence.

The Echoed Glass called to him.

Its pull was not a sound, not a voice — but a vibration deep within his ribs, a hum that wove itself into his blood and whispered along the edges of his thoughts. Each step he took forward echoed louder than it should have, the sound bouncing unnaturally off walls that seemed to shift ever so slightly when he blinked.

Dacre was not a stranger to danger. As the Rider of Cataclysm, his very existence was a blade balanced on the edge of ruin — but this place felt older than ruin, older than him.

The first test revealed itself without warning.

A sudden gust of wind — if it could be called wind — tore through the corridor. It smelled of rust and rain, and with it came the sound of distant bells, though no bells hung in the Citadel. The air twisted, and a figure emerged — a guardian forged from shadow and steel, its form rippling like smoke, yet its blade gleamed with cold precision.

No eyes, no mouth — only a mask of silver carved with ancient runes Dacre didn't recognize.

The guardian struck first, faster than thought.

Dacre barely dodged, the sword slicing a thin line across his arm — not deep, but enough for pain to bloom. His blood dripped onto the floor, and the stone absorbed it instantly, glowing faintly red as though the Citadel itself hungered for him.

He clenched his jaw. There was no room for hesitation.

The battle unfolded like a cruel dance — every move Dacre made was mirrored by the guardian, as if it drew its strength from him. His attacks were met with equal force, and for a heart-pounding moment, he realized the guardian was not trying to kill him.

It was testing him.

But the test was not of strength — it was of control.

With each strike, the pull of the Echoed Glass grew stronger. His bond with Mirelha, the very force that had fractured the threads of fate, burned hotter within him — a wildfire threatening to consume everything.

And the guardian was feeding off it.

Dacre forced himself to steady his breathing, swallowing the storm that raged inside him. He thought of Mirelha — not the fierce Angel of Death the Celestials saw, but the woman behind the title. The one whose laughter was a rare, delicate thing. The one who once pressed her forehead against his and whispered that even if the universe unraveled, she would choose him every time.

He anchored himself in that moment.

With a final, precise swing, Dacre didn't aim for the guardian — he aimed for the thread connecting their movements. A single, fluid strike severed the invisible link between them.

The guardian collapsed into a swirl of shadows, and the corridor fell deathly silent again.

The first test was over.

But the pull of the Echoed Glass only grew stronger.

---

Vaelen's Rebellion

Elsewhere, beneath the grand halls of the Citadel, Vaelen moved like a ghost through the lower chambers — far from the rehearsals and the Celestials' ever-watchful eyes.

A torch flickered in his hand, casting a thin halo of light around him, but it did nothing to dispel the weight in his chest.

He wasn't supposed to be here. The Celestials had forbidden anyone — even him — from wandering too close to the roots of the Citadel, the place where ancient spells still thrummed beneath layers of stone.

But Vaelen wasn't here for answers.

He was here for truth.

The letter — the one warning him that Mirelha and Dacre's love was not the cause but a symptom of something greater — burned in his pocket like a hidden flame.

And he wasn't alone.

In the shadows stood Eryndor — an old scholar banished by the Celestials long ago, his crime unknown but his name whispered like a curse. His hair was silver, his eyes clouded but sharp as daggers.

"You're bold," Eryndor rasped. "Or foolish."

"Perhaps both," Vaelen replied coolly. "But I want to know why the Celestials fear Mirelha's bond with Dacre. It's more than a matter of order, isn't it?"

Eryndor chuckled softly — a sound like dead leaves scraping stone. "Ah, so the loyal hound begins to see the chains around its neck."

Vaelen's jaw tightened. "Answer me."

The old scholar stepped closer, his bony hand brushing against the wall where faint carvings spiraled — lines intersecting, looping into impossible shapes. Symbols Vaelen had seen on the altar during the rehearsal.

"These marks," Eryndor said, "are older than the Celestials' reign. They speak of the Echoed Glass — a mirror not made by gods, but by something far more ancient."

Vaelen's blood ran cold. "The first light…"

"Yes," Eryndor whispered. "The mirror is not just a reflection of what is — it shows what could be. What was. What never should have been."

Vaelen's mind reeled. If the Echoed Glass had fractured when Mirelha and Dacre's bond formed, then their love hadn't just disturbed the threads of fate — it had disturbed something deeper.

Something the Celestials could not control.

And if they couldn't control it — they would destroy it.

---

The Second Test

Dacre pressed forward, blood still trickling from his arm as he descended deeper into the forbidden wing.

The air was thicker here, the stone walls growing darker — almost as if light itself refused to touch this place. And then he saw it: a vast chamber lined with mirrors.

Not glass, but polished obsidian — so dark they seemed to devour the room's edges.

As Dacre stepped forward, his reflection shifted. It wasn't him — not entirely. Each mirror showed a different version of himself. One bore white scars down his face. Another held a crown he had never worn. One version of him had no eyes — just black voids staring into eternity.

The mirrors hummed softly, as though alive.

And then, the second test revealed itself.

From the largest mirror stepped another Dacre — not an illusion, but a perfect echo.

A version of him corrupted by time, his eyes glowing silver with magic, his armor darkened and worn. This echo didn't speak — it screamed — a sound like breaking glass and burning stars.

They clashed.

Steel against steel, fire against fury.

But the test wasn't strength — it was identity.

The mirrored Dacre moved with the same precision, but his strikes were wilder — more desperate. Dacre realized that this echo was not just a reflection of his power — it was his fear.

Fear of losing Mirelha.

Fear of becoming the very force of destruction he was destined to be.

And when he finally struck down his mirrored self, the obsidian glass didn't shatter — it bent, rippling like liquid.

At the heart of the room, a single shard of the Echoed Glass pulsed with light — the first light, ancient and raw.

It knew him.

And Dacre realized — the tests were never about stopping him.

They were about preparing him.

For the mirror wasn't a prison.

It was a doorway.

To be continued…