The mirrors shimmered, swallowing Klara and Friedrich whole.

The world twisted, bending reality into something far more painful than any battle they had fought. It wasn’t just memory—it was reliving it.

The winds howled through Grimsvik, carrying the scent of rain and charred wood. Klara stood at the center of the village square, her arms trembling as sparks of electricity crackled between her fingers. Her heart pounded against her ribs as excitement and fear fought for control.

She had trained for months, determined to push past her limits. She knew she was strong—but she needed proof. Proof that she could wield the full might of the Storm element.

Control the wind.
Call the lightning.
Become stronger.

Above her, the sky twisted into an ominous spiral of dark clouds. Thunder rumbled.

Klara stretched out her arms and called upon the storm.

At first, it was beautiful.

Raindrops hung suspended in midair, swirling in delicate patterns around her. Lightning danced at her fingertips, flickering in hues of silver and blue. Power surged through her veins.

And then—

A sudden gust tore past her, far stronger than she intended. The rain intensified into a violent downpour. Lightning snapped wildly, no longer obeying her command, lashing out against the wooden buildings.

“Klara! Stop!”

The villagers’ voices barely reached her. Panic clawed at her chest as she struggled to rein it in, to force the storm back under control.

It was too late.

The wind roared like a living beast, tearing through the village. Wooden stalls collapsed beneath its fury. Stone pathways cracked as lightning struck the ground. The air filled with the scent of wet earth and burning wood.

Then came the screaming.

She turned just in time to see the flames.

One of her bolts had struck a house.

And inside—

Klara’s stomach twisted as she saw them. A woman and a child, trapped behind a collapsing doorway, their eyes wide with terror.

The mother screamed, trying to shield her child as embers rained down.

No.
No.
No.

Klara raised her hand, calling desperately upon the wind to smother the fire, to extinguish it before it was too late—

But the storm did not listen.

A violent gust slammed into the house, feeding the flames instead of quenching them.

“Klara, stop this!” someone shouted again, but the voice was swallowed by the chaos.

The roof collapsed.

The woman shoved her child forward in a final, desperate act just before the burning debris crashed down upon her.

Klara’s mind went blank.

Her body felt numb as she stood frozen, unable to look away from the destruction she had caused. The storm still raged around her—but she no longer felt powerful.

She felt monstrous.

The villagers turned toward her.

Horror.
Fear.
Accusation.

She had done this.

Klara fell to her knees, gasping, her fingers digging into the mud.

The memory twisted, shadows warping the world—before shattering like broken glass.

Klara found herself back in the tower, the echoes of screaming still ringing in her ears.

***

The von Hardenberg estate stood proud, its towering stone walls and grand halls drenched in the soft glow of twilight. The air carried the crisp scent of autumn leaves, and in the backyard courtyard, two brothers stood facing each other.

Friedrich tightened his grip on his greatsword, the familiar weight grounding him. Across from him stood his older brother, August, blade in hand, his expression unreadable.

It was meant to be a sparring match.
A simple duel between brothers.

But Friedrich saw the tension in August’s clenched jaw, the way his grip was just a fraction too tight.

This was not training.

“Again,” August said, lifting his blade.

Friedrich hesitated for only a moment. August had already lost twice that day—but his brother’s stare did not waver.

Friedrich exhaled and raised his guard. “Alright.”

The duel began—and August attacked with full force.

Steel collided, the impact sending vibrations up Friedrich’s arms. August was fast—faster than before. His swings were reckless, driven by something deeper than the desire to win.

Frustration.
Jealousy.

“You always win, Friedrich.”

Friedrich parried another strike, his thoughts racing. He had never meant for their rivalry to turn into resentment. August had once been the stronger one—the brother Friedrich admired. But over time, Friedrich had surpassed him.

And August had never forgiven him for it.

August feinted left, then brought his blade down hard. Friedrich caught it easily and pushed him back. His brother was tiring. His movements were slowing.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Friedrich said quietly. “We’re family.”

August’s expression twisted. “That’s easy for you to say.”

He lunged.

Friedrich did not think. Instinct took over.

His greatsword swung faster than he intended, striking deep into August’s side.

The world froze.

August staggered back, his sword slipping from his grasp. Blood spread across his tunic, staining it a deep crimson.

The breath left Friedrich’s lungs. “August—”

His brother looked at him, eyes filled with something Friedrich could not name.

Then, without a word, August turned away and walked off.

Friedrich wanted to stop him. To speak. To apologize.

But his feet would not move. His voice would not come.

He watched as August disappeared beyond the estate gates, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind.

And he never returned.

The courtyard faded.
The estate dissolved into nothingness.

Friedrich stood once more within the Tower of a Thousand Mirrors, his greatsword trembling in his hands.

The trial had forced them to relive their deepest regrets—their greatest failures.

The mirrors no longer reflected who they were now.

They showed the younger Klara, standing amid the ruins of Grimsvik.
The younger Friedrich, watching his brother walk away.

The past would always remain with them.

But the tower whispered an unspoken question—

Would they allow it to define them?