The Crescent Mind

The air in the labyrinth was thick with an oppressive stillness, each breath Orion took echoing through the endless mirrors that surrounded him. The floor beneath his feet was smooth, cold—its surface gleaming, reflecting a thousand versions of himself. Every step he took was an invitation to confrontation, his every movement mirrored back at him, showing his face, his posture, his expression, but never quite him.

He could feel the weight of the eyes watching him, though there was no one in sight. The walls were lined with polished glass, each fragment twisting his features into grotesque shapes, multiplying his image until he no longer recognized himself. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps. In the silence, the only sound was the sharp scrape of his boots against the stone beneath him.

Where am I? he thought, his fingers tightening around the hilt of Lunaris, the blade at his side. The sword felt heavier now, an anchor to a reality that seemed increasingly distant. What is this place?

The mirrors seemed to beckon him, each one reflecting a different version of his past—the boy who had fled the Cult of Stars, the scared child who had clung to Selene's presence, the young man who had wrestled with the weight of a destiny he never asked for. But something was off. The boy in the glass didn't feel like him. His eyes—his own eyes—were dim, as though drained of purpose, of will. The longer Orion looked, the more distant the figure seemed. It was him, but not. The boy in the mirror had given up before ever truly understanding the fight.

No… this is a trick, Orion thought, taking a step back. This isn't real.

But the reflections didn't stop. The images warped and shifted, flickering like a candle caught in a gust of wind. Some versions of him stood tall, proud even, with Selene's mark glowing brightly upon his brow. Others were hunched, broken, like shattered fragments of a soul that had been stretched too thin.

He felt a pull—something deeper than the fear gnawing at his insides. A sensation of losing himself, of slipping into the cracks between the shards of the mirrors. His breath quickened, his pulse racing as the images of himself began to close in, crowding his thoughts, suffocating him.

I can't stay here. His mind screamed for escape. I can't lose myself again.

For a brief moment, he closed his eyes. The sound of his breath, ragged and shallow, was the only thing keeping him grounded. Selene's presence had been faint, almost nonexistent since the Astralum incident, and the warmth he had felt—the mysterious warmth that had sparked within him—had faded into the background like a whisper he couldn't quite grasp.

But it was still there. Faint, but undeniable. A flicker of light in the darkness, the faintest hint of warmth, like a distant star.

"Selene?" he whispered under his breath, a desperate plea.

For a long moment, there was nothing. No answer, no sign.

Then, just as he was beginning to lose hope, a soft pulse of energy stirred within him. The light of the moon, faint but growing, spread through his chest like the first glimmer of dawn breaking the night. It was a comfort, a tether to reality, but it wasn't enough to dispel the doubts swirling in his mind.

You cannot keep running, Orion.

The voice was not Selene's. It was… something else. A force, ancient and fractured. It whispered from the depths of the labyrinth, a reminder of the weight of the stars within him.

The reflections in the mirrors shifted again, showing him not just himself, but those around him—Serah, Iris, Azrael. He saw their faces, their struggles, their victories. But most notably—he saw their failures, their fears reflected back at him. He saw the marks of the stars that had chosen them, their burdens.

I'm no different, Orion thought bitterly, his hands gripping Lunaris tighter. They have their burdens, and I have mine.

He watched as his reflection shifted again. This time, it was not just a broken version of himself but a grotesque mockery. A version of him with shattered wings, the mark of the star across his brow dim, fading. The light around him flickered and died. The image in the mirror spoke to him—no, sneered at him.

"You are nothing but the echo of a fallen star," it hissed, its voice as cold and bitter as ice. "You were meant to be a tool, a puppet. You think you can escape the truth? Your path was written the moment you were born."

The words stung, and Orion felt something deep within him crack. His vision blurred, his breath shallow and ragged, as the weight of the mirror's accusation pressed down on him. His chest ached. He wanted to fight it, to push back, but the reflection was so convincing. He could feel the truth of it in the pit of his stomach, gnawing away at his resolve.

I'm just a puppet, the voice echoed in his mind, tied to the stars' whims. I can't escape it. I'm not strong enough.

His hands trembled. Lunaris felt heavy in his grip, like it was slipping through his fingers. The weight of the sword, once a source of pride, now felt like a symbol of his failure. A failure he couldn't outrun, no matter how fast he ran.

I'm not enough.

The labyrinth seemed to close in on him, the mirrors reflecting his brokenness, his weakness, the parts of him he had hidden from the world. Each mirror showed him a different version of himself—a person who had been defeated, a person who had given up. And with every step he took, the pressure increased. The walls of glass seemed to bend inward, trapping him.

I am nothing but a failure. A hollow soul. Alone.

The air grew colder, his breath forming clouds before him. No one can save me from this.

But then, something stirred. It wasn't a voice, but a feeling—a soft, familiar warmth. It radiated from his chest, from the very core of his being, like a faint pulse of moonlight. It's Selene, he thought, desperate, reaching for her, but she was too far away, distant, and faint.

And then, just as quickly, the warmth began to flicker—flicker like a dying star.

No. His heart stuttered. I can't… I can't lose it all.

He let out a breath, pushing through the pain, pushing through the self-doubt that gnawed at him. I am not my reflection. I am not my past.

The warmth grew, faint but certain. His chest swelled with determination. He lifted his head, his eyes narrowing in defiance. I will not be defined by these illusions.

His grip tightened around Lunaris, his other hand pressed against his chest as he felt the pulse of the warmth grow stronger.

"I choose my fate," he said, his voice hoarse, but steady.

And with those words, the mirrors shattered.

Each piece of glass fell to the ground in a crystalline clatter, scattering into the void around him. The labyrinth began to dissolve, the illusions falling away like dust in the wind. Orion stood there, heart pounding in his chest, Lunaris steady in his hand. He wasn't sure if he had passed the trial or if it was only just beginning. But one thing was certain: the path before him was no longer clouded by doubt.

I am Orion, he thought. I am the Star of Lunar. I choose who I am, not these illusions.

The feeling of warmth lingered, like the moon's gentle embrace. And for the first time in a long while, Orion felt that maybe, just maybe, he could be more than his star-mark. More than the expectations that had been placed on him. He had a choice. And he would make it his own.

Orion's chest heaved, the echoes of his decision still lingering in the air. His hands trembled, but his heart had never felt steadier. In the distance, the towering figure of the Trial Keeper — a figure draped in robes of shadow and light, their face hidden — began to dissolve into the mist. The presence that had surrounded him shifted, no longer a suffocating pressure, but a quiet acknowledgment.

A voice, soft yet resounding in its certainty, filled the space.

"You passed the trial."

The words wrapped around him like a blanket, soothing the last remnants of pain. A profound stillness settled in his chest, and the burning within him, the fractures that had plagued his body and mind, finally quieted.

The shadowy figure materialized again, now more distinct. In their gaze, Orion saw the faintest glow of something familiar—a glimmer of the stars, distant and untouchable. Their voice, now laden with a soft reverence, spoke once more.

"Congratulations, child of moonlight."

Orion stood tall, his breath steadying, though his mind still swirled with the remnants of his trial. He had chosen. He had taken control of his fate. And though the road ahead was uncertain, he now stood at its threshold, free from the constraints of fear.

With a final glance toward the being who had guided him, Orion felt the lingering weight of the moon's gaze, as though Selene herself were watching him, a silent partner in his growth.

"Thank you," he whispered, though he knew it was not just for the trial.

And as the Trial of Concord faded into the silence, Orion knew: this was only the beginning.