The Drowned City

The Drowned City wasn't on any map.

It rose from the mists like a grave long forgotten—half-submerged buildings of black stone, archways twisted by salt and time, streets choked by water that pulsed like a living thing. At its center, a spire loomed sideways, tilted like a broken tooth in the jaw of the world.

Maela stepped into the shallows first. Her boots sank into the mud, and the cold bit at her bones.

"I've dreamed this place," she murmured.

Alric's hand hovered near his sword. "You and half the world, apparently. Except none of them lived to talk about it."

Konrad didn't speak. He watched the spire.

Not with awe.

With dread.

They moved slowly through the flooded streets. Ghost-lanterns—strange blue flames—bobbed in the air, tethered to nothing. Bones jutted from balconies. Statues wept rusted tears.

Each step forward felt like wading into a memory not their own.

"This city," Maela said, "was built by the first Circle. Before they fractured. Before we—"

"Before we did something," Alric cut in.

She met his gaze. "You still don't believe it."

"I believe the world's cracked open and swallowing us whole. I believe I don't wake from sleep without a blade in my hand anymore. I don't know what I believe about us."

Silence.

They reached a gate—tall, half-submerged, inscribed with the same ancient glyphs Maela had seen in the basin.

"This is it," she said. "The mirror's inside."

Konrad moved to the door. "Then let's break it open."

"No," she said sharply. "We open it right."

He looked at her. Something new in his eyes—doubt, or maybe fear.

"Why do you know how?" he asked.

Maela didn't answer.

Instead, she knelt and pressed her palm to the glyphs.

The stone trembled. Water receded.

And the gate opened.

Inside was a chamber not built by hands.

It was too smooth. Too precise. The air was dry, though there was no roof. At its heart floated a perfect sphere of glass, suspended over a basin of silver flame.

The mirror.

Alric stepped toward it. His reflection didn't match him.

It was younger. Sharper. Wearing a crown of thorns.

He recoiled. "What is this?"

Maela whispered, "It shows what you are when you forget what you're afraid of."

Konrad approached next. His reflection held a child's hand. Then the child vanished. His face crumpled.

"I don't want this," he said.

"It's not a choice," Maela replied.

She looked last.

Her reflection was… wrong.

She wasn't Maela.

She wore silver robes. Her eyes glowed faintly red. And behind her stood a ring of faceless figures bowing low.

The reflection raised its hand.

And Maela collapsed.

Alric caught her before she hit the ground. Her breath was shallow. Her pulse rapid.

"What did it show her?"

Konrad was already drawing his blade. "It's not what it showed. It's what it unlocked."

The mirror pulsed once.

Then cracked.

The sound was like ice breaking in a cathedral.

From the walls came whispers—more ancient voices than they'd ever heard. The silver flame surged upward, revealing a set of stairs beneath the basin.

Maela stirred.

"It wants us to go down," she gasped.

"No," Konrad said. "It's trying to pull us in."

Alric looked between them.

"This is it. This is where we find the truth."

"Or where it finds us," Konrad muttered.

They helped Maela to her feet.

And descended once more.

In Ebron, Lady Vael stood before a map scorched by candle flame.

"The mirror has been breached," said the Whisperer.

She nodded. "Then the hollow law must be enforced."

She placed a coin on the map — silver, etched with the symbol of the first Circle.

"Send the Bound. And light the sky."

As Alric, Maela, and Konrad reached the chamber below the mirror, they found themselves standing before a mural of impossible scale.

Painted in ash and blood.

It showed the fall of the world. Not as legend remembered it—but as it truly happened.

A gate. A betrayal. A sacrifice.

Three figures stood at the center.

And one of them bore Maela's face.

Alric stepped closer. "That's you."

Maela's voice was hoarse. "No. It's who I used to be."

Konrad ran his hand along the fresco. "That's what this has all been leading to, hasn't it?"

Alric didn't respond. He was staring at the final part of the mural.

The world, shattered.

And a throne made of shards.

He whispered, "This is the end of the road."

Maela corrected him. "No. This is the road's beginning."

Above, the drowned city stirred.

The sky cracked with a sound like a scream held in too long.

The second sun grew brighter.

And beneath it all, the mirror finally shattered.

TO BE CONTINUED…