Void III: The Labyrinth of Lies
“The perfect lie is not told by a stranger, but reflected by the one you trust the most.”
The void twisted into a maze of shifting corridors, walls made of shadow and mirror-like stone. Every footstep thudded off-beat, echoing in the wrong direction. The mirrored walls warped their reflections—sometimes lagging, sometimes racing ahead, as if time itself was fractured. The air tasted metallic, sharp as blood, and their breath fogged in the chill—though no warmth should have lingered in this place.
Darkhorn emerged not with a charge, but with a reflection—his form multiplying across the mirrored walls. Ten helms turned toward them, ten blades gleaming, though only one was real. Among the shifting helms, one pair of eyes glinted with cold, knowing malice.
“Keep formation!” Tristan barked, forcing calm into his voice. “Don’t chase the illusions—watch the angles!”
Isolde’s hands glowed blue, water swirling defensively around her. “Easy for you to say when the walls keep moving!” She lashed out with a torrent, shattering one reflection—only for two more to take its place.
A hiss of arrows split the air. Trieni loosed shafts into the shadows, trying to pin the real Darkhorn. For a heartbeat, one helm staggered. “There!” she cried—only for the figure to dissolve into mist, the sound of mocking laughter echoing in its place.
The real strike came from behind. Darkhorn’s greatsword scythed downward toward Trish. She barely raised her frost shield in time—ice exploded into a hundred shards, stinging her cheek and burning her arm with frostbite. She screamed, collapsing to one knee, blood welling where the shards had cut through skin.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Trish!” Isolde darted to her, already weaving healing mist. Her heart pounded; even as she mended wounds, her mind screamed at the shifting walls: Which way is real?
The corridors squeezed tighter, the air thickening until every breath felt like swallowing fog. Cold sweat prickled on Trieni’s brow as her arrow wavered, the echoes of their footsteps now a cacophony that seemed to mock every move.
Tristan swung his blade into the nearest Darkhorn, sparks shrieking as steel met steel. But when his eyes lifted, two stood before him—mirror images circling like predators. For a heartbeat, Trieni’s aim faltered, sight fixed between two shadows—one wearing Darkhorn’s helm, the other Tristan’s own face. Her grip trembled. If she loosed, whose heart would she pierce?
A tremor rippled through the labyrinth. The mirrored walls bled together, reflections overlapping until the heroes’ faces warped—smiling when they did not smile, striking when their blades lay still. Among the shifting helms, Darkhorn’s true eyes met Tristan’s in the glass, cold and unblinking.
Shade’s whisper coiled through their skulls, low and intimate, as though it had crawled up from their own throats: “Your hands shake. Your eyes deceive you. Tell me, when your friend turns their blade, will you see the enemy… or will you see them too late?”
The corridors squeezed tighter, stone grinding like teeth. Every mirrored surface now bore an army of Darkhorns—and an army of themselves, each reflection with eyes too sharp, too eager.
They pressed back-to-back, blades raised, but their shadows didn’t follow.
Their shadows lunged.
The trial had begun, and already the maze was gnawing at the one bond they could not afford to lose. Here, the sharpest wound would not come from Darkhorn’s sword. It would come when trust itself drew blood.
Where the first Darkhorn tested strength and the second tested speed, this one attacks something far more fragile:
perception.
Shadows that betray them.
Faces that move when the real ones don’t.
hesitation. And hesitation kills faster than a blade.
He whispers.
He nudges.
He shines a light on the insecurity already inside them.
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VOID IV will be posted earlier, so stay tuned.
