BIG MIKE PULLED ON a white glove like a priest preparing the sacrifice for Ari.  Slow, solemn, like each finger held a prayer.

Yanick and Rayla watched in silence as the cloth touched the surface of the Mirror of Spies. The black glass flinched. Then it glowed. Not bright, just a throb of pale light, like the breath of a beast stirring in its lair after too long asleep.

Mike’s finger moved. The mirror obeyed. Strange little paintings appeared. Square, sharp, neat as coins laid on a tomb.

He tapped one of them. The picture changed. Scrolls. Pages. The very same writings Yanick had uncovered at the farm.

“What witchcraft is this?” Yanick asked, throat dry, pulse quickening like a deer hearing twigs snap behind it.

Rayla smirked, leaning over Mike’s shoulder, eyes glinting.

“No witchcraft,” she said. “You still think the world is ruled by spells and charms? Grow up. There is much more. Maybe you’ll learn one day.”

Big Mike said nothing. Not to her. Not to Yanick. His eyes stayed fixed on the mirror, tracing the pages as they slid past. His face like a stone. His breath still.

Now and then, he muttered something, too low to catch. Maybe prayers. Maybe curses.

Time crawled. Yanick felt it stretch, heavy and slow like wet wool. Rayla fidgeted. Tapped her foot.

“Well?” she snapped. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. She might’ve watched the pages dance, but the truth in them stayed locked to her. The words were written in a tongue she didn’t know.

Mike didn’t answer.

“Speak,” she pressed.

“Silence,” he replied, quiet but cutting.

Rayla sighed. Turned. Walked to the table. Uncorked a bottle. Poured something thick and bitter into a tin cup. The smell punched the air. Something sharp. Something that had burned plenty of throats before. Yanick never liked the smell of alcohol. Boys giving him a hard time in the academy always reeked of it.

Mike kept reading. They kept waiting.

Yanick breathed shallow, heart tapping out battle-drums.

Rayla sipped. Impatient, coiled.

Then, at last, Mike waved his hand over the mirror like a candle-snuffer, and the light inside it vanished. Gone. Dead again. He tucked the glass back under his cloak, as though hiding a blade.

“What did you see?” Rayla asked.

Mike looked at her. Then at Yanick.

“A great deal,” he said, voice flat as iron. “More than we hoped. Or feared. Their plans stretch farther than we thought. But there is something more important than that. And more pressing.”

Rayla’s hands curled into fists.

“Tell me.”

Mike breathed deep. The kind of breath you take before giving bad news to a king.

THE GLOVE MADE IT EASY. Pulled from the drawer, slipped on like a stolen skin. Just one touch, and the mirror stirred—lit up with tiny, perfect paintings, each no bigger than a coin.

Yanick leaned in. Eyes flicked over the symbols.

He’d seen some before, in Mike’s mirror. The jagged wheel. The chalice. The lightning mark. Runes. An upside-down droplet.

That had to be it.

He pressed his finger to the sign. The surface shimmered. Shifted. A map appeared—long hall, side passages, a gate at the end leading… somewhere. Maybe out. Maybe not.

A tiny blue dot kept blinking on the parchment-light. Yanick realised that this hast to be this room. The room he’s in right now. He scanned the plan once again, trying to memorise as much as he could.

He yanked the glove off, stuffed it beneath his shirt, against his skin. Then proceed to open the door.

The corridor was silent. Too silent. Like the stone itself was holding its breath.

Yanick moved.

First step, then another, then he was running. Light on his feet, fast but not frantic, as if speed alone could make him invisible. Right. Straight. Right again. Every turn carved from the half-remembered map in his skull. He didn’t question it. There was no time, no room for doubt. Doubt is a trap.

The air tasted of dust and something else. That strange material that this place was built with had this peculiar smell. Not unpleasant, but Yanick couldn’t describe it as pleasant either. This smell was unnatural.

His boots made barely a whisper against the floor, but his heartbeat wasn’t so polite. It pounded against his ribs like it wanted to break out and flee without him. His breath came short, sharp, ragged. Not enough air in this place. Not enough time.

Then there were voices. Muffled. Distant. But real.

He stopped. Pressed his back to the cold wall. Listened.

Nothing ahead. Nothing close. Not yet.

Left. He turned. Moved again. Quicker now.

And he saw the light.

Pale. Cold. A silver promise pouring through a wide stone arch. It flooded the hallway like moonlight at the end of a tunnel. Open space beyond it. Open meant escape. Open meant air and sky and maybe, just maybe, freedom.

His legs carried him faster. Almost there.

Hope bloomed too early. It choked his throat, made him clumsy. He pushed himself. Only few more steps until…

“Halt!”

The word didn’t sound like a voice. It sounded like a command carved into the world itself.

Yanick swerved, instinct taking over. But too late.

A blow struck him from behind, without shape, without sound, just power. Pure, raw, merciless.

It knocked the breath from his lungs. Slammed him into the wall like a puppet with cut strings. His shoulder cracked against the stone. The world spun sideways. His knees gave out.

He tasted blood. Metal and heat and shame.

Still on the ground, Yanick lifted his head, vision blurred.

A figure advanced. Armour glinting, face hard, eyes colder than steel.

In the guard’s hand, a rod. Short. Simple. Spitting flickers of light that didn’t belong in this world. It buzzed, hissed, crackled like a beast barely held in check.

Not magic. Not natural either. Something worse.

Behind the first guard, more shapes emerged. Boots hit the stone like war drums. They came fast, sure, without hesitation.

Yanick tried to crawl, to stand, to do something, anything, but his body betrayed him. Muscles gone slack. Chest heaving. No strength. No air. Just pain.

A pair of boots stopped inches from his cheek.

“Take him,” came the order, flat and final.

Rough hands seized his arms. Callused, unkind. Yanked him up like he weighed nothing. Feet dragged against the ground. His head lolled, the world bleeding colours.

The light faded behind. The hallway darkened again.