The chains fell like dying snakes at Elarion's feet. The air rippled as if reality itself had gasped, and the roots that had bound him for decades shriveled to ash. His golden eyes were not eyes anymore—but cracks in a mask that once resembled humanity.
Callan stepped forward, blade half-drawn.
Lysander hissed under his breath, reaching instinctively for a sigil ward. "You said he was bound."
"I said he was imprisoned," Callan replied. "I never said the prison worked."
Elarion straightened his back. He wasn't tall, nor broad, but the way the space folded around him made him feel larger than the room. The runes on the walls dimmed.
"You shouldn't have come," he said, voice echoing with a thousand whispering echoes. "But I'm glad you did."
Solenne raised her sword. "We're not here to free you."
"You didn't," Elarion said. "I freed myself the moment my brother broke. He fed me his madness. Drip by drip. Year by year. And now…"
He grinned, skin peeling faintly at the corners of his mouth.
"I'm full."
Callan held his ground. "I need to know what he is."
"He was a man," Elarion said, voice calm again. "He was my brother. Born beneath the red eclipse, chosen by the Oracles. We trained together, fought together, dreamed of an empire of balance. But he couldn't let go of control. Of perfection."
"He bled his soul to the Throne," Callan said.
"Yes," Elarion nodded. "And in doing so, created a mirror that reflects only what it fears. He became the echo of his own paranoia."
"What does that mean?" Solenne asked.
Elarion turned to her. "It means the Emperor you'll face isn't bound by flesh. He's not a man who can be stabbed. He's a refracted will. A shadow cast from a thousand pieces of a broken self. Each fragment given form. Each one alive."
Callan frowned. "And how do we kill that?"
"You don't," Elarion said. "You collect it."
A sudden vibration spread through the sanctum.
Lysander cursed. "Something's shifting."
"No," Elarion whispered, eyes gleaming. "Something's watching."
They turned toward the far wall, where a mirror had formed—smooth glass, untouched by dust, framed in pale stone. It wasn't there when they entered.
It showed them not their reflections—but scenes.
Callan, kneeling before a burning village.
Solenne, slitting a noble's throat in the dark.
Lysander, holding the corpse of a child in his arms.
None of it had happened.
Yet.
Elarion walked toward it. "This is the Emperor's latest gift. A bleeding mirror. He's showing you your fates—not as prophecy, but as threats. He's letting you know he sees you now."
The mirror bled. A single crimson drop ran down its center.
Callan moved forward, fists clenched. "Then I'll show him we're not afraid."
He drew his blade and slashed through the glass.
The world bent.
They awoke not in the sanctum, but in a ruined battlefield beneath a blood-red sky.
Everywhere around them, versions of themselves fought shadowed enemies. Some won. Most died. The ground was littered with alternate outcomes. With regrets made real.
"This isn't real," Lysander said, backing up. "This is a construct."
"No," said Elarion, who had followed them into the illusion. "This is the Emperor's soul. You're inside a shard. He's testing you."
Callan narrowed his eyes. "Then let him test."
He walked toward the center of the field.
The ground beneath him cracked.
And something climbed out.
It looked like him.
Same eyes.
Same scars.
Same sword.
But its smile was wrong.
"You'll fail," it said. "Because you're still trying to save something."
Callan didn't answer.
He lunged.
The two versions clashed—steel on steel, soul against soul.
Solenne and Lysander fought their own shadows, each encounter brutal, personal. This wasn't war. It was confession through violence.
The false Callan fought with rage. With calculation. He mimicked every move—then twisted it.
But Callan had something the reflection lacked.
Pain.
And purpose.
He took a wound to the side—then shoved his blade through the false self's throat.
It gasped. Flickered. Vanished.
The battlefield cracked again.
And the real world returned.
They were back in the sanctum. The mirror shattered. Elarion stood quietly, nodding.
"You passed."
"What was that?" Solenne asked, panting.
"One shard," he said. "There are twelve. All tied to fragments of the Emperor's self. Only by breaking them all can he be made whole enough to kill."
"And where are they?" Callan asked.
Elarion's grin was thin.
"Scattered. In minds, in ruins, in bloodlines. One lies beneath Varranis. One inside a child who doesn't know they're cursed. One is buried in your own memories."
Callan's jaw tightened.
"I'll find them."
"I know," Elarion said. "Because if you don't, the next reflection will be me."
The sanctum collapsed behind them.
As they rode into the dawn, Callan didn't speak for hours.
He stared at the horizon.
And whispered the names of those he'd yet to save.