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He raises one brow. “You want me to hold your hand, little human?”

“No, sir. I just—never mind.”

Sathrin snorts. “I’ll be upstairs, enjoying a warm meal. Don’t get lost.” He turns on his heel, taking the torch with him, and marches back the way we came.

His footsteps fade into silence, leaving me with only the dim glow of a single wall sconce. My pulse pounds as I turn to face the archway. The runes etched into the stone look unnaturally dark, like old stains that seeped into the rock.

I steel myself, stepping under the arch. Immediately, a chill washes over me, and the tiny hairs on my nape rise. Something about the air feels…wrong, as if it’s denser, clinging to my skin.

The corridor is narrow, the walls damp. I hold the bucket in one hand, the rag in the other, stepping forward cautiously. There’s no sound but the drip of water echoing somewhere unseen. The corridor extends about thirty feet before curving to the right. Along the walls, a few ancient tapestries hang in tatters. A thick layer of dust and cobwebs coats everything.

I want to race back to Sathrin, to beg for any other assignment, but I know that’s pointless. He’ll mock me and force me down anyway. Better to finish my chore and leave as quickly as possible.

I drop to one knee and begin scrubbing the floor where the mold is thickest, near the base of the wall. My rag soaks up dark stains that look alarmingly like old blood, though I refuse to dwell on that. I focus on the mechanical motions: dip the rag, scrub in a circular motion, rinse, repeat.

Minutes pass, perhaps hours. My fingers go numb from the cold. The flickering sconce behind me doesn’t do much to chase away the darkness. I move farther down the corridor, approaching the bend.

As I turn the corner, the sight before me makes my throat tighten. The corridor opens up into a broader chamber with three passageways branching off. Unlabeled doors, some made of heavy iron, some of rotting wood, line the walls. This must be the “storerooms” Tovel spoke of, though it feels more like a labyrinth.

I step into the chamber’s center, searching for some sign of which route I’m supposed to clean. The bucket sloshes at my hip, my own heartbeat thunderous in my ears. A low wind moans through the corridor, though I’m unsure where it comes from—there’s no visible window or opening.

The leftmost passageway beckons, perhaps because it’s partially lit by a single torch bracket. I inch toward it, refusing to think about how easy it would be to get lost here.

Just as I cross the threshold, something skitters across the floor behind me. I whirl, heart in my throat, but see only a flicker in the shadows. My mind conjures images of monstrous rats or twisted creatures living in the catacombs. My body tenses.

“Get a hold of yourself,” I whisper, though the sound of my own voice in this silent place is anything but reassuring.

Forcing myself to continue, I approach a door at the end of the corridor. It’s slightly ajar. Yellowish mold creeps along the wooden panels, and the hinges are rusted. I push it open with my foot, lifting the bucket in case something lunges out.

Inside is a small chamber stacked with crates and sacks—storeroom indeed. The stench of rot hits me. From the look of it, none of these supplies have been touched in years, if not decades. Cobwebs dangle from the ceiling like ghostly drapes.

I kneel to scrub patches of black-green mold creeping along the stone floor. My every breath is shallow. Each scrape of the rag reveals more questionable stains, cracked floor tiles, and signs of water damage. If Tovel expects me to make this place “acceptable,” she’s delusional. But I have no choice.

As I work, my mind drifts to Silas, to the small flicker of hope he always carries. He’s the one who insists humans aren’t doomed, that somewhere in Protheka there might be a safe haven. Some city or stronghold that looks on our kind with pity instead of disdain. I’ve never believed such a place could exist, but I cling to the thought all the same.

A sudden chill scuttles up my spine. It’s not the usual coldness of this underground space; it feels sharper, almost electric. I drop the rag and stand.

It’s then I notice a faint glow pulsing beneath a crate in the far corner, like a thread of pale light shining through a crack. My heart thuds. Does the floor have a gap? Or is there some hidden compartment?

Curiosity and dread war within me, but before I can think better of it, I set the bucket aside and tiptoe closer. The crate is half rotted, easy enough to push aside. As I do, I reveal a hidden trapdoor set into the floor. A seam in the stone frames a recessed handle.

That glow flickers from the crack where the trapdoor doesn’t quite meet the threshold. A prickle of apprehension warns me to ignore it. Yet I kneel, brushing away dirt and mold to get a better look. My fingertips run over runes etched around the trapdoor’s edge. They’re unlike the ones in the archway—these look older, the lines more jagged, carved with a shaky hand.

I exhale a tremulous breath. In the stories told among slaves, I’ve heard mention of hidden rituals and cursed relics. Is that what’s down there? Something best left alone?

But if I don’t report this, will I be punished for “concealing” valuable property of House Vaerathis? Tovel might decide I’m lying or incompetent. My gut twists, and I glance at the open doorway, half expecting Sathrin or Tovel themselves to appear and see me meddling.

Silence.

Steeling my nerves, I slide my fingers under the handle, tugging at the trapdoor. It’s heavier than I expect, but I manage to lift it enough to peer into the darkness below. That strange glow increases, like white phosphorescence. It paints dancing shadows on my face.

A short ladder descends into a cramped space. The air that wafts up is shockingly cold, making me shiver from head to toe. My instincts scream danger , but another voice inside me whispers that knowledge is power, and power is my best shot at survival.

I set a foot on the ladder and climb down. My entire body trembles. I keep imagining rats or monstrous shapes waiting below, but I can’t turn back. My curiosity overpowers my fear.

At the bottom, my boots hit stone. The glow emanates from a circular pattern etched on the wall—a swirl of runes forming a ring around a polished black surface. It’s…a mirror? I step closer, hardly believing what I see. The frame is carved directly into the stone, but the mirror’s surface looks liquid, like oil shimmering under moonlight.

My reflection there is warped, ghostly. I raise a hand, and the reflection lags, as though it’s not just a mirror but something deeper. I hear a faint humming, a pulse that resonates in my chest. My heart pounds, matching that rhythm.

For an instant, I think I catch a flicker of movement behind my reflection—like a shape drifting in dark water. That’s impossible. I want to back away, to scramble up the ladder and seal this place forever.

But then I recall everything that’s been taken from me: my freedom, my dignity, Silas’s safety. If there’s even a shred of power here, something to tip the scales, shouldn’t I at least look?

Swallowing hard, I whisper, “What are you?”

The mirror ripples, and a faint wind stirs the hair around my face, though there’s no earthly source for it. That flicker behind the glass grows more defined—something tall, angular, with eyes like pale flames.

My stomach knots. Is that a figure? A demon? A spirit?

A compulsion seizes me, urging me to touch the surface. I can’t explain it; it’s as though the mirror is calling to me, its power reaching out in silent invitation.

Before I lose my nerve, I press my palm to the glass. It’s cold as ice, jolting me with a sensation akin to grabbing a live wire. A pain lances up my arm. The runes carved in the frame flare white. My vision wavers.

I gasp, trying to pull away, but some invisible force holds my hand in place. My reflection distorts, and within it, I see eyes—glowing silver-blue, inhuman, staring at me from behind the glass.

A soft voice echoes in my head, not in any language I know. It resonates with an undercurrent of hunger, despair, and longing. The trapped figure stirs behind the reflection, forcing me to question whether I’m hallucinating from the catacombs’ rumored toxins. But no—this feels far too real.

A wave of dizziness hits me, and I sink to one knee. The mirror’s surface ripples again, and I feel something push against my palm from the other side, like a hand pressing into mine. Then, with a muted roar—like distant thunder—the glass cracks from the inside.

I yank my hand free at last, stumbling back against the damp wall. My breathing is ragged, my skin clammy. The black mirror pulses, spiderweb fractures glowing with eldritch light. Then the reflection darkens, and I’m left staring into a void.

A single heartbeat passes in silence. Two. Three.

Then a shape emerges from the mirror. Tall, lean, half-wreathed in shadows that swirl around him like living smoke. My entire body seizes with terror. This is impossible. Yet here he stands, stepping onto the stone floor with unnatural grace.

His pale skin is almost luminescent in the gloom, his hair a soft white that falls just past his ears. And his eyes…flickering silver-blue, an impossible color. He looks too beautiful to be a monster, yet something about his presence screams danger. My mind reels.

He surveys me as though I’m something unexpected but not unwelcome. The mirror behind him dulls, the cracks still glowing faintly. I can’t find the words to speak. I can barely breathe.

He opens his mouth, and his voice comes out softly, almost curiously. “Who…summoned me?”

I want to run, but my legs refuse to move. My lips part, and I manage to whisper, “I…didn’t mean to.”

His head cants to the side, eyes narrowing as he studies me. “You touched the mirror. You spoke words?—”

I shake my head frantically. “I said nothing!”

He goes silent for a beat, as if listening to some internal echo. Then his gaze drifts around the cramped chamber, to the runes on the walls, the half-rotten ladder. A new tension lines his shoulders. “House…Vaerathis,” he breathes, as though naming an ancient enemy. His tone trembles with suppressed rage.

I flinch at that name spoken aloud in such venom. “Yes. You know it?”

His eyes meet mine again, luminous in the dark. “All too well.”

My entire body trembles. Even if I don’t understand what he is exactly, it’s clear he’s a demon or something similar to it. The catacombs are rumored to house malignant secrets. And I’ve just unleashed one.

He exhales slowly, almost like a sigh of relief. “I’ve waited centuries,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to inspect the cracks across his pale skin—like black tattoos or markings that stir under his flesh.

A hundred questions spin in my mind. Who is he? Is he going to kill me? But more pressingly, Will the Vaerathis family sense his release?

I push myself upright, clutching at the stone wall. “I—I shouldn’t be here,” I manage.

He turns that eerie gaze on me, and I see something akin to pity or fascination. “Nor should I.”

I swallow hard. My heart pounds so loudly it nearly drowns out my thoughts. “Please…don’t kill me,” I blurt. Shame heats my cheeks that I’ve resorted to begging, but I can’t face the notion of dying down here, alone in the dark.

He arcs a brow, stepping closer in a way that feels both graceful and predatory. “Kill you?” A slight tilt of his head. “You are but a mortal in chains, yes? House Vaerathis enslaves you. Perhaps you and I share an enemy.”

That flicker of possibility ignites a kernel of hope in my chest. Could this strange, beautiful horror be an ally? It seems impossible, yet my life is a tapestry of impossible horrors. Maybe I’ve found an impossible salvation.

My voice shakes. “If you hate them, can you—can you help me get out of here? Who are you?”

He says nothing at first, searching my face with those spectral eyes. Then, quietly, “Daeva and I can get you out. But everything comes with a price.”

Despite the fear roiling inside, I force myself to meet his stare. If this is my one chance to break free of House Vaerathis, I have to take it. “Name it,” I whisper.

A slow, almost delicate smile tugs at his lips, though it carries a note of sadness. “We’ll discuss that soon. For now, I suggest we leave these corridors before your captors realize I’ve returned.”

At that, he lifts a hand toward me. The mirror behind him flickers ominously, the runes on the wall faintly glowing like watchful eyes. My pulse pounds in my ears. I know I’m making a bargain with something far more dangerous than any dark elf. And yet…my desire for freedom, for revenge, for anything beyond these chains, overrides my terror.

I nod, swallowing hard. “Lead the way,” I manage, my voice surprisingly firm for someone whose entire world has just turned upside down.

And with that, we ascend the ladder together, leaving the hidden chamber—and the black mirror behind, never realizing how profoundly this moment will alter both our destinies.