The silver-black door, a shimmering curtain of liquid shadow, sealed shut behind him with a whisper — not a sound that vibrated the air, but a resonance that echoed deep within Andre's mind, a subtle shift in the fabric of reality. There was no resistance, no click of a latch, no grinding of stone, as if it had never been there, simply dissolved into the profound darkness. Andre stood alone in a narrow tunnel carved from ancient, rough-hewn stone, cold and damp, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic, like old iron. The golden, pervasive light of Lumenia above was gone, utterly swallowed by a shadow deeper than night, a darkness so absolute it felt like a physical presence, pressing in on him from all sides.
His pulse quickened, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs, echoing the rapid thrum of the golden veins beneath his skin. The shard of weeping stone, clutched tightly in his palm, burned faintly, pulsing with a cold, silver-black light, like a dying star struggling against the void. It was a beacon in the oppressive gloom, yet also a chain, a tangible link to the suffering of Iriel and the weight of his terrifying new purpose. The air here was different from the tunnels leading to Cael; it was heavier, colder, carrying a profound stillness that felt both ancient and alive, a silence that hummed with unseen energies.
Ahead, the tunnel split, diverging into two distinct paths, each a profound choice in this realm of forgotten truths. One path glowed faintly with a dying amber light, flickering like a candle's last breath, casting long, wavering shadows that danced mockingly on the rough walls. It felt familiar, almost comforting in its conventional illumination, a path that might lead to a lesser, more digestible truth. The air here smelled faintly of dust and old parchment, like a forgotten library.
The other path was coated in black crystals that absorbed what little light existed, swallowing shadows whole, creating an even deeper, more absolute darkness. These crystals seemed to drink the ambient gloom, leaving behind only an oppressive, lightless void. This path felt dangerous, forbidden, yet undeniably compelling. The air here smelled distinctly of iron and old tears, a scent that resonated with the weeping eye on his shard, with the sorrowful memories of Iriel.
Choose, whispered a voice behind him, a voice that was not Cael's, nor Iriel's, but a collective, resonant hum that seemed to emanate from the very stone, from the depths of the Beneath itself. Choose, or be lost. The words were not a threat, but a statement of undeniable fact, a fundamental law of this forgotten realm.
Andre swallowed the knot in his throat, his mouth dry. His mind raced, trying to process the implications of each path. The amber light, the conventional path, perhaps leading to a less painful truth, a compromise. But Iriel's words echoed louder: "They want you to choose one of the seven… but the one they cannot see is the way to end this." The seven golden doors, the seven Stars, the seven lies. The amber light felt like another of their deceptions, a softer, gentler path to the same consumption.
The stories Cael had left, etched into his very flesh, echoed in Andre's mind, fragments of a forbidden history: The Beneath was a prison. A graveyard. A sanctuary. For the lost Lightbearers. For truths too terrible for daylight. It was a place where the Order's pervasive light could not reach, a realm of unmaking. If he was truly to break Lumenia, to free the Silent Star, he had to embrace the unmaking. He had to walk the path of true darkness.
He stepped forward, towards the path veiled in black crystals, his decision firm, forged in the fires of betrayal and newfound purpose. As he moved, the walls pulsed faintly, veins of silver-black running beneath the stone like living things, mirroring the glow beneath his own skin. The black crystals seemed to hum in response to his presence, a low, resonant vibration that he felt in his bones.
The temperature dropped sharply, a profound chill that pierced his robes and seeped into his flesh. His breath misted before him, a fleeting cloud in the oppressive gloom, quickly swallowed by the absorbing darkness. The air grew heavier, denser, filled with the overwhelming scent of iron and old tears, a smell that clung to him, a constant reminder of the suffering that permeated this place.
And then he saw them — faint, flickering shapes beyond the tunnel walls, just at the periphery of his vision, like distortions in the very fabric of the darkness. Shadows? No. Not mere shadows. Figures trapped between light and dark, caught in an eternal twilight. Their forms were indistinct, wavering, yet unmistakably humanoid. Their eyes, when he could discern them, were hollow mirrors, reflecting nothing, absorbing all light. Their faces were twisted in silent screams, expressions of agony and despair frozen in their mirrored surfaces, yet no sound escaped them. They were the Mirror-Faced Ones, the beings Cael had warned him about, the echoes of forbidden history.
Andre's heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic, terrified beat. He felt a primal urge to recoil, to turn away from the horror, to shield his eyes from their unsettling reflections. The lore entry he'd seen flashed in his mind: Witnesses report seeing themselves within the mirrored face — but twisted, aged, dying, or smiling in impossible ways. Some see lost loved ones. Some see forgotten sins. Some see futures that never came to pass. Their presence often leads to mental breaks, seizures, or death by overwhelming memory.
One of the Mirror-Faced Ones stepped forward from the indistinct mass, taller than the rest, its mirrored face cracked down the center, a jagged line bisecting its reflective surface. It was the one Cael had spoken of, the one that could speak, the Keeper of the Veil. Its presence radiated a profound sorrow, a silent lament that filled the oppressive air. It raised a hand — not to strike, not to harm, but to beckon, a slow, deliberate gesture, an invitation to confront the truth.
His fingers clenched the shard of weeping stone tighter, its coldness a grounding force. A voice echoed in his mind — Iriel's final warning, delivered in that profound, non-dream: Do not look away.
Andre met the gaze of the mirror-faced being, forcing himself to look directly into its cracked, reflective surface. The world around him seemed to dissolve, the tunnel, the other flickering figures, all fading into a swirling vortex of light and shadow. In that reflection, he saw not himself, not his own twisted future, but the shattered city beneath the Hollow Crown's fall — the rebellion's last breath, the agonizing moments of Eldoria's demise. He saw the fury of King Maltheris, the cold, serene power of the Seven Stars, the chaos of the Forgotten Flame. He saw Iriel, defiant and burning, shattering the Veil, trapping the shadow.
And something more.
He saw the aftermath of Iriel's sacrifice, not as the Order had presented it, but as it truly was. The Veil, once a shimmering barrier, was now a tattered, bleeding wound, held together by sheer force of will, by the fragmented essence of Iriel herself. He saw the Seven Stars, their radiant forms now appearing less divine and more predatory, feeding on the raw energy of the fractured Veil, on the suffering of Iriel's soul. They were not guardians; they were parasites. He saw them meticulously rewriting history, purging all mention of Iriel's rebellion, of the Silent Star, of the true nature of their power. They built Lumenia not as a sanctuary, but as a grand, intricate machine, a colossal battery powered by the very souls they lured across the Veil, Lightbearers like him, like Cael.
The Mirror-Faced One's reflection shifted, showing him not just the past, but the present. He saw the statues in the Hall of Ascension, not as symbols of virtue, but as prisons, each containing a screaming fragment of Iriel's soul. He felt her agony, her frustration, her desperate yearning for release. He saw the golden pulse in his own chest, the resonance with Thuriel, not as his power, but as a direct connection to Iriel's chained essence, a conduit through which his own life force was being siphoned, subtly, constantly, to feed the Light.
The vision intensified, becoming a torrent of suppressed memories, forbidden knowledge. He saw the Silent Star, not as a corrupted entity, but as a primal force of balance, of entropy, of truth through unmaking. It was not evil; it was a necessary counterpoint to the Light's relentless purity, a force that prevented stagnation, that allowed for change and rebirth. The Order had chained it, silenced it, because it represented the ultimate truth: that even light, without shadow, becomes a prison.
He saw other Lightbearers, countless others, who had come before him. Some succumbed to the Light's embrace, their sparks consumed, their memories erased, becoming silent, obedient conduits. Others, like Cael, resisted, their defiance making their essence even more potent, their suffering a richer fuel for the machine, until they were broken, cast aside, their bodies warped, their minds shattered, left to wander the Beneath as living echoes of forbidden truths. The Mirror-Faced Ones were the silent witnesses, the keepers of these erased histories, their mirrored faces reflecting the unbearable weight of memory. They were the ultimate consequence of the Order's lies.
The vision pulsed with a final, searing image: the girl on the tracks, her unsettling smile, not a symbol of innocence, but of a cold, calculated delivery. She was a lure, a puppet of the Order, sent to bring him across the Veil, to feed the machine. His act of selfless heroism, his desperate attempt to save a child, had been nothing more than a carefully orchestrated trap.
Andre gasped, a ragged sound torn from his throat. Blood streamed from his eyes and ears, hot and sticky, a physical manifestation of the overwhelming influx of memory. His body convulsed, his muscles seizing, as if trying to reject the torrent of truth. He felt a profound sense of violation, of betrayal, a cold rage simmering beneath the surface of his fear. Physical proximity to one may cause: Bleeding from the eyes or ears. Involuntary truth-speaking. Temporary memory loss or gain of someone else's memories. The lore entry was no longer an abstract text; it was his lived reality.
He clenched the weeping eye shard, its coldness a lifeline. He remembered Iriel's words, her defiant cry: "Light without shadow is blindness. I burn so others may see." And Cael's desperate plea: "You're not here to save Lumenia. You're here to break it."
The Mirror-Faced One remained still, its cracked face reflecting the raw agony on Andre's face, the tears and blood mingling with the sweat. It was not judging him, not condemning him, but simply showing him, bearing witness to the truth. And in that reflection, amidst the shattered city, the burning ruins, the endless suffering, Andre saw not just despair, but a flicker of hope. A tiny, fragile ember of possibility.
The hope was not for Lumenia, not for the Order, not for the Light. The hope was for the unmaking. For the breaking of the chains. For the release of the Silent Star. For the freedom of Iriel's shattered soul. For the end of the machine. The Mirror-Faced One was not a monster; it was a guide, a silent ally in a war he had only just begun to understand. Its reflection, while showing him the full horror of the past, also showed him the path forward. It showed him that Iriel's sacrifice was not in vain, that her defiance still echoed, waiting to be rekindled.
The vision receded, the tunnel slowly reforming around him, the other Mirror-Faced figures fading back into the gloom. The cracked-faced one remained, its presence still strong, its mirrored surface now calm, reflecting only the faint, silver-black light from Andre's shard. The bleeding from his eyes and ears stopped, leaving behind a dull throb. His body still trembled, but his mind was clear, sharper than it had ever been. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but it was now tempered by a fierce, burning resolve.
He looked at the Obsidian Door, now fully open, revealing the vast, silent realm beyond. This was the true Beneath, the domain of the Silent Star, the place where truth was forged in darkness. He looked at the weeping eye shard in his hand, its silver-black glow a stark contrast to the golden pulse in his chest. He was a Lightbearer, yes, but he was also a keeper of shadows, a vessel of forbidden memory.
Andre took a deep, shuddering breath, the air here, though heavy with the scent of iron and tears, felt strangely invigorating, liberating. He had walked through a door of lies, and now he stood at the threshold of truth. He had seen the machine. He had seen its victims. And he had seen the path to its unmaking. His journey in Lumenia had just truly begun. He had been brought here to break it. And he would.