Chapter 22 (Part 1): Shattered Mirrors
(Where Truth Bites Sharper Than Blades)
Part 1: The Bloodied Puppeteer
Bennett stood amid the carnage, a grotesque marionette with strings of crimson. The gaping hole in his chest pulsed mockingly—a wound that should have killed a grown warrior thrice over. Yet here he was, swaying like a drunkard's shadow, laughter bubbling through blood-flecked lips.
"Master!" Robert's roar tore through the chaos as another griffin slammed Bennett to the earth. Talons raked the boy's ribs, painting the grass scarlet.
But Bennett rose. Again.
"Robert." His voice, calm as a frozen lake, cut through the knight's panic. "This isn't real. None of it." A griffin dove—Bennett didn't flinch. "Our enemy plays with your nightmares. Your guilt."
The knight froze. Bennett's finger jabbed at his own phantom wounds. "Look closely. Does a corpse bleed joy?"
Overhead, the flock circled like vultures scenting doubt.
Part 2: The Knight's Gambit
Robert's blade sang as he unleashed forbidden reserves of aura—muscles splitting, veins blackening with strain. A griffin shrieked, impaled mid-dive.
"Solskya!" Robert barked, cradling Bennett's broken form. "Break the spell!"
The alchemist's hands trembled. "I… I can't rewrite minds! Only fire and—"
"Burn them all then!"
Bennett's chuckle halted the argument. "Robert," he whispered, "your aura's flaw. Where?"
The knight recoiled. A warrior's weakness was sacrosanct—a secret guarded closer than lovers' vows.
"Now," Bennett pressed, eyes glinting with alien certainty.
"Fourth rib. Right side." Robert's whisper carried the weight of a death sentence.
The boy moved faster than pain should allow. A dagger flashed—not at griffins, but into Robert's chest.
Gasps erupted. Loyalty warred with survival instinct… and lost.
Robert collapsed, not from steel, but betrayal's venom.
Part 3: The Unraveling
"Dream's end," Bennett declared, spreading bloodied arms.
The griffins froze mid-scream. Cracks spiderwebbed across their forms, golden light spearing through until—
Pop.
Day became dusk. Corpses dissolved into snoozing soldiers. Robert's armor gleamed unmarred save a scratch where steel had kissed third, not fourth, rib—a child's feeble strike.
"You… knew?" Robert rasped, fingering the dent.
Bennett knelt, plucking a shivering green-furred creature from the grass. "Illusions feed on fear's architecture. Your brother's death. The marsh. Perfect clay for molding nightmares."
The creature—a squirrel-like thing with a crystalline horn—hissed. Light burst from its forehead, flooding Bennett with visions: skyscrapers, sirens, a life not his own.
He staggered but didn't release it. "Ah. So you're the echo."
Chapter 22 (Part 2): The Unchained Soul
(Where Worlds Collide and Masks Shatter)
The Fractured Mirror
Bennett's laughter had vanished. His fingers tightened around the squirming creature's throat, its bulbous eyes reflecting flames not of this realm.
"Seeking my fears?" His whisper carried the weight of dead stars. "You poor fool. My nightmares aren't here."
The fearling's horn pulsed with desperate light—flickers of phantom dragons, rivers of blood, a throne room collapsing. All dissolved against Bennett's skin like rain on obsidian.
Sorskrall stumbled closer, breath ragged with greed. "A fearling! By the Six Hells, master! Its horn alone could buy a kingdom!"
The creature shrieked, fat legs kicking air. Bennett studied it like a surgeon assessing a tumor. "Immunity to mind magic… Useful."
"More than useful!" The alchemist's trembling hands sketched arcane symbols in the air. "Its hide brews truth serums! Its bones anchor wards! Even its scream—"
A whistle split the sky.
Green fire erupted thirty paces ahead. From the emerald inferno stepped a figure robed in molten gold—and every Roland guard instinctively leveled weapons.
The Gilded Stutter
Robert's blade hissed free. "Declare yourself!"
The golden mage raised slender hands. A girl's face emerged from the hood—cherubic cheeks flushed pink, lips trembling around words that refused to form.
"I-I-I—" Her voice broke like cracked porcelain. "P-p-please…"
Bennett's grip tightened on the fearling. The creature's struggles weakened, its horn dimming.
The mage girl pointed desperately. "Th-that! My m-m-master's…" Tears welled in doe-like eyes. "L-l-lost it… P-p-punish me if…"
Silence fell. Even the wind seemed to pity her.
Robert exchanged glances with Lynette. A stuttering archmage? The absurdity clashed with her robe's Imperial Sunthread embroidery—a fabric reserved for the Arcane Conclave's inner circle.
Bennett stepped forward, fearling dangling like a grotesque puppet. "Your pet?" His smile returned, colder than glacial runoff. "Prove it."
Proof of Blood
The girl flinched. Her hands danced—a spellform so complex Sorskrall gasped. Emerald runes materialized, forming a cage of light around the fearling.
It screamed.
Not in pain, but recognition. The creature's horn flared crimson, projecting images:
A tower of black ice where the girl knelt, head bowed before a shadow with seven fingers.
The fearling curled asleep on a pillow of frostbitten roses.
A contract etched in the girl's own blood, binding her to retrieve the creature.
Bennett's eyes narrowed. "Compulsion magic. Your 'master' enjoys branding slaves."
The girl crumpled to her knees. "N-n-no choice…" Her whisper carried lifetimes of shackles. "H-h-he'll…"
A distant howl echoed—not wolf nor griffon, but something older. The fearling suddenly spasmed, its horn cracking.
"Master!" Sorskrall lunged. "Its core's destabilizing!"
Bennett stared at the weeping mage, then at the dying creature. A choice crystallized:
Weapon…
...or key?