Demon Core

~ [Revir] ~

Half-Elf | ♀ | Priestess Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor ??? Level: 100

Something feels off.

In the midst of a malevolent, undulating sea of darkness, the Demon-King's horrific castle looms, its twisted spires piercing the underworld like a thousand obsidian daggers, forged in the infernal fires of some monstrous, otherworldly pit. It is here that the very normal and absolutely resolute priestess Revir, an ethereal vision of grace and divine power, accompanies the ragged remnants of the once-vaunted crusade, a motley assortment of warriors, rogues, and sorcerers, their hearts steeled against the insidious tendrils of fear that grasp at them, threatening to engulf their very souls.

— Or something.

As the brave band of adventurers breaches the latest threshold of this unholy lair, pressing down into a new floor after leaving behind the fresh horrors of the last, a new room awaits them, its walls constructed of mirrored glass of such eerie perfection that the reflections adorning its surface threaten to draw them into a dizzying, inescapable labyrinth of their own visages. Here, amidst the shattered fragments of their own myriad faces, hundreds of humans, orcs, elves, and dwarves find themselves ensnared in a waltz of shadows and reflections, the air thick with trepidation, as if the very atmosphere itself were a living, malignant entity, poised to strike, and, honestly, at this point, it might be fair to assume that it is.

If nothing else, the Demon-King’s castle has shown that nothing is to be trusted. Not the stones, not the wood, not the walls, and not the floor. Nothing.

In the center of this chamber, the priestess Revir stands, her matted hair cascading like a midnight waterfall over her tired shoulders, the flickering torchlight casting a halo of gold around her muddied, broken features covered in filth, if only to mockingly illuminate them even more. Her luminous eyes survey the room, penetrating the haze of unease, seeking to pierce the veil of darkness that threatens to suffocate her and her comrades. The silken folds of her ivory robes, embroidered with the intricate sigils of her sacred order, ripple gently, as if stirred by an unseen breeze, the hem dancing just above the cold, glassy floor. In this hall of mirrors, where the boundary between reality and illusion blurs and wanes, the priestess feels the weight of the darkness pressing upon her, a palpable force that seeks to infiltrate her very being and corrupt the purity of her essence. With a resolute breath, she raises her alabaster arms heavenward, her slender fingers outstretched, as if beseeching the gods themselves for their divine intervention. Her voice, clear and melodious, resonates throughout the chamber, its haunting, lilting cadence echoing through the infinite corridors of reflection, the incantations she utters hoping to weave a tapestry of light and hope amidst the suffocating gloom.

— But nothing happens.

One, Revir’s thoughts, as one can see, verge toward the deeply dramatic. Two, for some reason, her holy magic just isn’t working anymore. As Revir's prayer nonetheless reaches a crescendo, the power of her faith ignites within her, if not within anyone else, and… nothing happens.

The crusaders, their courage not exactly renewed by the priestess's display of divine grace, simply keep on walking as she stands there in the middle of the room, their eyes alight with the usual determination and fervor, their weapons raised warily in defiance of the darkness that seeks to consume them — even if no monsters have appeared yet.

Revir sighs, clutching her hands together before her chest, watching them all walk. A few of them give her a strange look as they then keep moving. She can only assume that they too are plagued by some ill from the Demon-King’s castle and its foul works.

In this hall of mirrors, where the lines between truth and deception are as fluid as the shifting sands of time, the priestess Revir shrugs and then marches on together with her fellow crusaders, their souls bound together by a shared purpose that surely transcends the strange shadows, even as the malevolent gaze of the Demon-King, from his throne of bones and despair, falls upon them, what can only be his laughter acting as a chilling dirge that reverberates through the twisted corridors toward her heart.

“Hey, you good?” asks a man from the side, looking at her questioningly.

Revir nods. “I am well; thank you, Brother,” replies the priestess.

A harrowing scream shatters the oppressive silence that had settled upon the chamber. It is the tortured cry of a man ensnared in the clutches of some unspeakable terror, his voice twisted and distorted, as if the very sound itself were being ripped apart by unseen claws, which is likely apt, given that the same thing is happening to his body.

Details.

The crusaders whirl about, their eyes wide with shock and horror, as they bear witness to a scene that defies comprehension, at least for anyone who hasn’t been here for the last few days: a man, his face contorted in an expression of sheer, unadulterated agony, is being dragged, kicking and flailing, into the cold embrace of one of the mirrored walls. It is as if the very surface of the glass has come alive, its silvery tendrils coiling around the man's limbs like serpentine vipers, their grip unyielding, their intent malevolent and insidious.

Revir, her heart pounding like the frenzied beat of a war drum within her breast, leaps into action, her lithe form propelled forward by the desperate urgency of the moment. With a fluid grace that belies the tempest of fear and adrenaline surging through her veins, she extends her hand toward the doomed man, her fingers outstretched, her voice raised in a fervent incantation, the words spilling forth like a torrent of divine power, seeking to banish the darkness and wrench the man from the clutches of the mirror's deadly embrace.

— But nothing happens.

Something grabs her and shoves her out of the way — another priestess of the crusade. Revir falls down, sliding over the slick glass, and looks at the stranger who is casting a spell in her place — one that works.

The other priestess's words resonate within the chamber, a coruscating wave of energy rippling forth from her outstretched hand, washing over the mirrored walls like a radiant tide, its lambent glow casting a kaleidoscope of shimmering reflections across the room that carries from one mirrored surface to the next. For a fleeting moment, the glassy tendrils seem to waver, their grip on the man faltering, as if the very fabric of their existence were being torn asunder by the force of what looks like divine intervention.

Alas, it is not enough.

The tendrils, their resolve redoubled by some inscrutable, malevolent will — or perhaps simply being offended — tighten their grip on the man, dragging him inexorably toward the mirrored abyss, tearing him in half. Revir watches in helpless despair as the man is swallowed whole by the glassy wall, his final, guttural scream echoing through the chamber until it’s muffled, as he vanishes, as if pulled beneath a body of water.

Blood floats to the top of the mirror and then runs down its side, dripping through from the other side, as if it were fabric.

“Oh…” says Revir. “Foobar,” mutters the priestess, rising to her feet. “Sister, what was that?” she asks.

The other priestess turns her head, looking at her. “Get it together!” snaps the woman, before rolling her eyes and walking off, leaving Revir standing there, somewhat bothered. She supposes it’s only right for them to be annoyed by her. What good is a priestess who can’t use any magic down in the Demon-King’s castle?

In the aftermath of this horrifying spectacle, the crusaders march in a tighter formation now, their metal boots clinking over the glassy floors, their eyes wide, and their breaths ragged. The priestess Revir, her shoulders heaving with the weight of her grief and the burden of her responsibility to be useful in any fashion at all, raises her head, her eyes ablaze with a fierce, unwavering determination. If nothing else, she can keep a strong spirit as they march to the throne of the wretched Demon-King himself, where they will confront the monstrous architect of the world’s suffering and bring his reign of terror to a final, cataclysmic end.

Probably.

Revir walks on, rubbing her face. Maybe she’s just out of soul-points. Maybe that’s why her magic isn’t working? It’s been a long trek so far, it wouldn’t be surprising. But it’s not like she’s been able to get any good sleep here, for obvious reasons. Plus she’s hungry and really thirsty, but they’re not allowed to eat or drink inside of the castle for some reason.

The air within the chamber of mirrored glass suddenly grows thick, the atmosphere charging with a palpable malevolence that seems to seep into the very marrow of the priestess' bones, filling her with a disquietingly familiar sense of impending doom. The whispered echoes of the lost man's final, anguished cries still linger in her ears.

Without further warning than that, the mirrored walls begin to shudder and tremble, the glassy surface undulating and writhing like the surface of a storm-tossed sea. The crusaders, their eyes wide with terror and disbelief, watch as the reflections adorning the walls take on a life of their own, their forms twisting and contorting, their faces warped into grotesque parodies of their true counterparts. It is as if the very essence of the Demon-King's malevolence has seeped into the glass, imbuing it with a monstrous, insatiable hunger for the lifeblood of those who dare to trespass within his unhallowed domain. With a sound like the splintering of a thousand panes of glass, the mirror images burst forth from their planes of existence, their claws outstretched and their eyes burning with a fathomless, unholy rage. The chamber erupts into a cacophony of screams and the clash of steel as the crusaders desperately attempt to fend off the relentless onslaught of their twisted doppelgangers.

“FORMATION!” screams a voice at the front of the line as people begin to try to form up, sometimes confusing their contemporaries with their nearly perfect copies. Although, the giant claws and fangs are sort of a giveaway.

The priestess Revir, her heart hammering within her chest like a thunderclap, raises her arms in supplication, her voice rising in a desperate plea to the divine powers that guide her to finally let her cast a useful spell so that she can help everyone. The words of her prayer, in her mind’s eye, weave a shimmering tapestry of light, the radiant glow suffusing the room, a beacon of hope amidst the relentless tide of darkness that threatens to engulf them all.

— In reality, however, nothing happens. She’s just standing there with her hands above her head, muttering to herself as people around her scream and fight to the death.

As the battle rages on, the air is thick with the coppery tang of blood and the stench of fear, and the floor is slick with the viscera of the fallen. The screams of the dying and the howls of the mirror-born monstrosities meld together into a single, discordant symphony of pain and horror, a testament to the unspeakable cruelty of the Demon-King and the depths of his depravity as men are torn into the mirrors and as beasts are torn from them.

Amidst the chaos and carnage, the priestess Revir, her robes spattered with the lifeblood of her comrades, stands perfectly still as a very useful, purely metaphorical, beacon of light and hope, her unwavering faith a bulwark against the tide of darkness that threatens to engulf them all. With every incantation and every prayer, she battles to turn the tide of the conflict, her every breath a testament to her indomitable spirit and her undying commitment to the cause of righteousness.

It’s not like she’s actually fighting, since she has no magic. But she’s sure that her prayers are very useful. The gods are listening to her, right? So it makes sense that even if she can’t fight, she can make herself useful by praying during the fight!

It’s a perfect system.

Revir beams with pride, watching as the last of the mirror-born abominations is vanquished, the chamber of mirrored glass falling silent once more, the shattered remnants of the once-pristine walls littering the gore-streaked floor like the shattered dreams. The priestess Revir, her strength all but spent from her very zealous praying, gazes upon the scene with tear-filled eyes, her heart heavy with the weight of the sacrifices made in the name of their quest.

Soldiers lie, screaming and clutching their eviscerated guts and lost limbs all over the room, covered in razor sharp glass, on which many more are impaled.

She did great.

“Hey,” says a voice from the side. She turns her head, looking at the man. He nods his head. “Why don’t you stay in the back, huh?” he asks.

Revir smiles, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, Brother,” she replies. “I’m here for you all,” says the priestess eagerly, not sure why he rolls his eyes and walks off.

People are kind of grouchy. It’s not that she doesn’t get it, but it does seem a little unnecessary.

“There’s no need to have an attitude!” she calls after him, cupping her hand by her mouth.

Some people are so ungrateful.

With a quiet determination that belies the fresh doubt that threatens to consume her, Revir decides to lead the remnants of the crusade onward, deeper into the heart of darkness, their eyes fixed upon the promise of retribution that awaits them at the end of their harrowing journey. For some reason, nobody stops her from marching out of formation, let alone near the front of the line. But that’s fine. Maybe they’re all just being supportive of her efforts.

She appreciates that.

The Demon-King must pay for the suffering he has wrought upon their world, and it is by their hands, bloodied and battered though they may be, that his reign of terror shall be brought to an end — a final, cataclysmic conclusion that will see the dawn of a new age, free from the shadow of his malevolent tyranny.

Through the twisted corridors of the Demon-King's horrific castle, the weary band of crusaders presses onward, their footsteps echoing like the forlorn cries of lost souls. Each step takes them deeper into the heart of darkness, the air growing hotter and more oppressive as if the very walls themselves sought to smother them beneath the weight of broiling despair. As they navigate the maze-like passages, the specter of loss haunts their every step, the memory of their fallen comrades a constant reminder of the price they have paid to stand against the Demon-King. And yet, even in the face of such overwhelming sorrow, the flame of hope refuses to be extinguished, its flickering light casting away the shadows of doubt and fear that threaten to engulf them.

Revir stares smugly at the darkness.

And then, at long last, they stand before the throne room of the Demon-King, the massive doors etched with symbols of torment and suffering, a grim testament to the horrors that lie within. With a deep, steadying breath, the priestess Revir places her trembling hand upon the cold, iron door, her heart pounding within her chest like the beat of a war drum. As one, the crusaders steel themselves for the final confrontation, their eyes alight with the fire of determination, their souls bound by a shared purpose that transcends the ravages of time and the specter of death.

With a thunderous roar, the doors are flung wide, revealing a chamber bathed in darkness, its air thick with the stench of decay and the palpable aura of malevolence that emanates from the monstrous figure that sits upon a throne of bones and despair. The Demon-King, his form wreathed in shadow, gazes upon the ragged band of crusaders with eyes that burn like the embers of a dying fire, a cruel, mocking smile playing upon his twisted, inhuman visage.

“So you’ve finally made it,” says the beast from his throne.

The priestess Revir, her eyes locked upon the monstrous visage of the Demon-King, raises her arms in a final invocation, her voice resounding with the full force of her divine power, a clarion call that echoes through the chamber like the trumpets of judgment. As her words weave a, metaphorical, tapestry of light, the crusaders rally past her, their weapons raised, their hearts filled with the unshakable resolve to bring an end to the Demon-King's reign of terror.

As the battle unfolds, the very fabric of reality seems to tremble under the weight of the conflict, with the forces of light and darkness locked in their latest skirmish in their ever-eternal struggle that threatens to rend the world asunder. However, amidst the chaos and the carnage, the priestess Revir stands as a beacon of hope, her unwavering faith a bulwark against the tide of darkness that threatens to engulf them all.

She stands there, holding her hands in the air, as a man flies past her, crashing against the wall and flattening into a paste. Revir winces, closing the one half-squinted eye she had open, and then continues praying as the sounds of metal and bones strike out all around her senses.

And then it’s done.

The dust settles and the shadows recede, the Demon-King is vanquished, his twisted form cast down upon the cold, unforgiving stone of his once-impenetrable fortress. The ground starts to shake. The Demon-King’s castle trembles as it begins to fail, his foul demons running in panic as their magic wanes and they are hunted down.

The priestess Revir, her robes stained with the blood of her enemies — mostly because of backsplash — raises her eyes to the heavens sealed by the stones above their heads, her heart filled with a mingled sense of triumph and sorrow, knowing that the price of their victory has been steep and the road to redemption long and fraught with peril.

People cheer all around the room.

With the Demon-King defeated, the crusaders must return to a world forever changed by their sacrifice, their names etched into the annals of history as champions of light and defenders of the innocent. And though the darkness may rise again, one thing remains certain: the goodness of life shall never falter, for there will always be those who stand against the encroaching malignancy, their hearts burning with the indomitable spirit of hope as they stand strong against the ever returning darkness that plagues this good world.

Something feels off.

Revir’s smile drops from her blank face as she stands there, staring vacantly for a while, before suddenly a disorienting sensation washes over her and her fellow crusaders. With a sickening lurch, the illusion that had ensnared them shatters like a pane of glass, revealing the cold, cruel truth: they had never left the chamber of mirrored walls.

“BLUEBERRIES!” yells the priestess, hitting her fists against the glass as she looks around the room that they have been teleported back to, or maybe, more aptly, the one that they had never left.

Everything that had just happened was an illusion, a mind-game.

She narrows her eyes, staring around the room as the rest of the crusade comes to the same realization. They’ve been played. This was just another trick of the castle.

Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.

This is another attempt to break them down and weaken their spirit. But it’s not going to work.

The priestess Revir, her breaths ragged and her heart heavy with the bitter sting of betrayal, gazes upon the faces of her comrades, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief as they realize the extent of the Demon-King's malevolent deception. The realization dawns upon them too that their battle, their triumph, and their sacrifices were all but an elaborate ruse, a cruel game designed to break their spirits and shatter their resolve. Though the weight of this revelation threatens to crush them beneath its oppressive burden, the priestess Revir refuses to succumb to the manufactured despair that seeks to consume her. With a steely determination that belies the tempest of fear and doubt that rages within her, she raises her head, her violet eyes ablaze with the fire of defiance.

"Let’s not worry about it!" she declares, her voice resolute and unwavering as it echoes across the glassy room that they’re all still trapped in, standing in puddles of blood and gore from their friends' bodies. "The darkness cannot prevail so long as the light of our faith burns brightly!" she says, clasping her hands together and holding them over her heart.

People look her way before turning away, many of them mumbling and muttering. She’s not really sure what their problem is, honestly. People have gotten so sour lately. If only they could find another safe room, like the one just after floor ten, so that everyone could rest in peace. But that’s a long way back from down here, where they are now.

The crusade returns to its formation, somewhat more disorganized than a moment ago.

Revir can nonetheless only imagine that everyone’s hearts are filled with a renewed sense of hope and determination after her statement prior.

United in their shared purpose of getting the hell out of here one way or another, the ragged band of crusaders presses onward, their eyes fixed upon the promise of redemption that lies just beyond the veil of deception. Though the shadows may gather, and the darkness may threaten to engulf them, they know that they are not alone, for they carry within them the light of hope and the indomitable spirit of their shared resolve — just like Revir does. Together, they will face the Demon-King and his legions of darkness, and they will stand as champions of the light, their hearts bound together by the unbreakable bonds of faith and camaraderie!

What else is there to do? It’s almost a romantic thought, isn’t it? All of this doom and gloom really offers a person with a thinking pattern like her a great opportunity to really flex her mental muscles. People always told her she was dramatic, but what’s wrong with a little drama?

Their footsteps echo like the hollow beats of a funeral march as they navigate the treacherous confines of the room, their eyes darting between the myriad reflections that surround them, searching for any hint of an escape as they move through it again a second time.

And yet, despite their best efforts, the chamber seems to defy their attempts to leave, its mirrored walls shifting and undulating with a malevolent intelligence that confounds their every move. It is as if the room itself were alive, its thirst for their suffering insatiable, its hunger for their despair unquenchable, until they once again find a large, grand door at the end of a way.

As they approach the threshold of the chamber, the air is thick with a palpable sense of dread and foreboding, and the illusion begins anew. The mirrored walls tremble and shudder, their glassy surface coming to life as the twisted reflections of the crusaders burst forth once more, their claws outstretched, their eyes filled with a fathomless, unholy rage as the trap springs a second time, with the catch that those who died the first time are still very much very, very dead.

That’s the game the room is playing; it’s grinding them down not only in body but in spirit at the same time.

With a sinking feeling of despair, the priestess Revir and her fellow crusaders realize that they are trapped within an endless cycle unless they find the real way out, the Demon-King's malevolent laughter once again echoes through the chamber like the mocking chimes of a twisted bell. The room seems to revel in their suffering, its mirrored walls reflecting the agony and anguish that fill their hearts, a cruel testament to the depths of the Demon-King's depravity.

And yet, even as they face the relentless onslaught of their twisted doppelgangers, the priestess Revir refuses to succumb to the despair that threatens to engulf her. With a fierce determination that belies the tempest of fear and doubt that rages within her, she stands there in the middle of the room and prays very loudly, not casting a single spell — because her magic isn’t working.

Funnily enough, no doppelganger ever comes to claim her.

Weird.

The battle rages on, and the crusaders continue their desperate struggle against the mirror-born abominations.

From the depths of the mirrored walls, disembodied whispers begin to slither forth, their susurrant hisses echoing through the room like the rustling of dead leaves in a desolate graveyard. The voices, insidious and malignant, speak of terrifying truths that burrow into the minds of the crusaders like ravenous maggots, gnawing at the fragile strands of their resolve and threatening to unravel the very fabric of their sanity.

Revir clutches at her head, listening to the words that are flowing into her like babbling water, their sinister whispers a constant, insistent refrain that threatens to drown out the light of her faith. She prays louder, clenching her eyes and holding her head; the chilling revelations they speak of shake her to the very core, forcing her to confront the darkest corners of her own soul — the most horrifying truths that she had sought to keep hidden, even from herself.

— She might be kind of useless.

Revir falls down to the ground, holding her head, and catches sight of her own reflection in one of the mirrored walls, the image staring back at her with an unblinking, predatory intensity that sends a shiver of primal terror down her spine. The reflection, a twisted doppelganger of herself, seems to be watching her every move, its unblinking gaze a silent, malevolent accusation that pierces her heart like a dagger of ice.

With a gut-wrenching scream, Revir collapses to her knees, her anguished wails echoing through the chamber like the mournful cries of a lost and tortured soul. Her eyes, once filled with the light of hope and determination, are now hollow and haunted, the windows to a spirit shattered by the cruel whims of fate and the unfathomable depths of the Demon-King's depravity. Tears streaming down her face, Revir raises her gaze to the one remaining, unbroken mirror, her eyes locking with those of her own reflection. The reflection, its expression impassive and cold, seems to mock her anguish, a chilling reminder of the terrible secrets that she has been forced to confront. With a ragged, desperate voice, Revir screams at her reflection, her words a torrent of rage and despair that reverberates through the chamber like the howls of a damned soul. The mirror remains silent, its empty stare offering no comfort or solace as it bears witness to her torment.

"Why?!" she shrieks, her voice cracking under the strain of her grief.

The chamber echoes with her screams. The reflection, with its unblinking gaze never wavering, offers no answers, no reprieve from the terrible burden she must bear.

In the suffocating silence that follows, Revir's sobs gradually subside, together with the sounds of battle and death.

The sound of broken glass crunching beneath Revir's feet fills the air as she rises back up to her feet and looks around herself. The shattered remnants of the once-pristine mirrors reflect her tortured visage from countless angles.

As she moves forward, her footfalls echoing through the oppressive silence, Revir casts her gaze around the chamber, her heart seizing with a sudden, gut-wrenching realization: she is utterly, irrevocably alone. The rest of the crusade, the brave souls who had fought alongside her, who had shared in her struggles and her triumphs, have vanished without a trace, leaving her to face the darkness that lies ahead with no one by her side.

A creeping sense of dread begins to envelop the useless priestess Revir, its icy tendrils snaking their way through her mind, sapping her of her strength and her resolve. The shadows around her seem to grow darker and more menacing, their inky depths teeming with the nameless horrors that lurk just beyond the edge of her perception.

She’s the last one left.

She’s… she’s all that there is.

What is she supposed to do? She’s not enough. She can’t do anything. She’s nothing alone.

The priestess stares at her broken reflection, its fathomless gaze filled with the terrible knowledge of what awaits her. The oppressive weight of her isolation bears down upon her, crushing her beneath its suffocating embrace, her spirit buckling beneath the enormity of the task that lies before her.

Her breaths come in ragged gasps, the air heavy and stale, as if the very atmosphere of the chamber were conspiring to choke the life from her. The whispers of the damned, the tormented souls who had succumbed to the darkness, seem to echo around her, their voices a cacophony of misery and despair that claws at the tattered remnants of her sanity, and yet, even as the shadows close in, Revir cannot escape the terrible truth that gnaws at the edges of her consciousness, a truth that threatens to consume her whole: she is alone, abandoned by her comrades, her faith, and perhaps even her gods, left to face the darkness and the horrors that await her with nothing but the broken shards of her own reflection for company. With faltering footsteps, Revir makes her way toward the door that had once led to the Demon-King's throne room in the last illusion, the broken glass that litters the floor crunching beneath her feet like the many ground bones of the fallen. Her heart pounds with a terrible, suffocating dread, each beat a harbinger of the horrors that await her beyond the door.

Her hand trembles as she reaches for the door, the cold metal of the handle biting into her flesh like sharp teeth. With a ragged breath, she pushes the door open, the hinges groaning in protest as though they, too, sought to warn her of the unspeakable terror that lies within.

As the door swings open, Revir's breath catches in her throat, her eyes widening with a mixture of horror and disbelief at the sight that greets her.

There, seated upon the Demon-King's throne, is her own reflection, her missing doppelganger who had never shown up in any of the fights, her face a twisted mirror of her own torment and despair.

The figure on the throne wears a cruel, mocking smile, its eyes gleaming with a malevolent intelligence that chills Revir to her very core.

As she stares into the eyes of her own twisted reflection, Revir feels her sanity begin to fray, the terrible realization that she has been cast into a nightmare from which there may be no escape clawing at the edges of her consciousness. The whispers of the damned grow louder, their voices a cacophony of suffering that fills her head like a swarm of ravenous insects, each one gnawing at the fragile strands of her resolve. Her knees buckle, and she collapses to the cold stone floor, her breaths coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The doppelganger on the throne watches her with a cold, unblinking gaze, its smile a cruel parody of her own anguish, as if to mock her for daring to believe that she could… well, do anything.

She lies there, broken and alone, the cruel laughter of her dark reflection echoing through the chamber like the peals of a twisted bell. She knows that the horrors that await her are far greater, far more terrible than anything she could have ever imagined.

The darkness, it seems, has finally claimed her.

Sharp, clacking footsteps move her way as the beast walks over from the throne — the Demon-King for some inexplicable reason wearing adventuring boots with a platform heel — as she lifts her gaze and looks up as sharp fingers grab the bottom of her head, lifting it.

“You’re not real,” says Revir, wanting to crawl back, but being unable to, as she stares into the cold eyes of the thing before her.

Long blue strands of hair fall down past the doppelganger’s face as they look at her from up close, their pupils fractured and spiderwebbed like shattered glass. "Well, one of us isn’t,” it replies.

“Don’t send me back,” begs Revir, closing her eyes in fear.

“Why not?” whispers the ‘Demon-King’, their lips next to her ear.

Revir cries, not wanting to go back again.

— Not to the mirror room, but back. Back there. Back to where she really is.

“I’m scared,” admits Revir. “Don’t make me go back alone,” pleads the useless priestess who has no holy-magic at all because, well, she isn’t a priestess and she doesn’t have access to real holy-magic to begin with. “I don’t want to be alone again.”

“Ah…” whispers something softly into her ear, a tongue feeling like it's pressing itself in through it and moving toward her brain like a worm. “Well…” says the voice. “That’s. Too. Bad.” The voice changes from that of a very familiar woman to that of a man, whom she is repulsed by — her father. “Ruhr.”

Ruhr opens her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. Something feels off.

A strand of her own wet hair, soaked from sweat, clings to the inside of her ear as she shoots upright, looking around the room, and she immediately feels down next to her for Zacarias.

But he isn’t there.

Ruhr stares at the empty spot next to her for a moment, before looking back out at the crusade’s camp that they’ve set up to heal the wounded and rest for a few hours.

The river-sorceress pulls in her legs, pressing the blanket against herself as she wraps her arms around them, staring down at the floor between her knees.

That’s right.

Zacarias is dead.

She was dreaming and got to forget for a while.

— Ruhr flops over sideways, staring vacantly into the distant crowd, who mostly ignore her, as they have been doing. She seems to have lost her authority, probably because she’s spent the hours babbling in derangement.

Her arm stretches itself out, a finger tracing over the dusty floor to rewrite the name Revir mirrored backwards.

‘River’.