The Mirror of Destiny
1273 Words
The corridor curled like a snake under the bones of the manor, sloping deeper into the forgotten center of the estate. Armand stayed close behind Celeste, each step an echo consumed by silence. Shadows seeped from the walls. Creaks beneath his boots made him jump, and each one stretched his nerves tight. Each dancing torch cast distorted reflections, and the deeper they descended, the more the air grew heavy, humid, thick, and charged.
They came to a door. Giant, antique, and covered with delicate glyphs that throbbed in the dark. Armand was sure they shifted, curling, reforming into patterns he couldn't understand when seen out of the corner of his eye. The door wasn't only old. It was sentient.
This is it," Celeste whispered, her voice husky. Her gaze was fixed on the carvings, something reluctant and awed in her look. "Blackthorn's curse beyond this door."
Armand swallowed, his head bobbing.
Celeste's hand went up, touching nothing, only pointing, and the door creaked open with a protesting groan.
Within lay an enormous room, impossibly big, as if the house warped time and space to hold it. Shelves ran curved along the walls, filled with books of old bound in aged leather, sewn with symbols no living mouth could utter. Talismans floated suspended in mid-air. Candles burned without fire. Magic danced within the air, aged and brazen.
At the center of the chamber stood a black mirror taller than a human and as wide as a carriage. Upright in a gilded, obsidian frame inlaid in silver filigree that curled like veins. Its surface was motionless, blacker than the night, but radiating an unnerving, iridescent glow.
And watching them.
Armand was frozen. Unable to turn away.
"That's it," Celeste said. "The Mirror of Destiny."
His voice was thick with incredulity. "It resembles a mirror."
"It isn't," she replied. "It's an imprisonment, an exit, a scar."
He moved one step forward hesitantly. The surface of the mirror rippled, swaying like dark water disturbed by the touch of a wind. It seemed to be alive, breathing.
It's where the curse started," she went on, her voice remote. "It is where the blood was sworn, where the bargain was struck. The immortality my family desired. This is where we obtained it. But the price. was forever."
Armand spun back to her. "So we destroy it.
Her eyes flashed to his. "Not so soon. The mirror is sealed with blood, nourished by it. It won't shatter until we cut the bonds that sustain it."
He blinked, the full import of what she was saying beginning to sink in. "Bonds like ours."
Celeste nodded. "Your blood. My blood. The pact exists because we do."
He stared at her, agog. "You said I'm the key. Why? Why me?"
Celeste stepped toward the mirror, her fingers tracing the altar that stood before it. “Because your family was one of the founding bloodlines. Hunters now, yes. But once, protectors of the curse. Your ancestors helped create it—then turned on it. But the bloodline remained marked.”
He staggered back, heart pounding. “So everything I’ve been. my vows. It was all built on a lie? ”
No," she said. "It was constructed on ignorance. And maybe. fear."
Armand spun around from her, fingers on the altar. "You're telling me I have to donate my blood to this abomination to reverse what they've done?"
"Yes," she said. "But not to nourish it, to deprive it."
He glanced over his shoulder at her, a burning anger beneath his skin. "And what's to become of me?"
Celeste said nothing.
"What's to become of me, Celeste?
Her tone was as cold as ice breaking beneath one's feet. "You can die. Or worse."
He glared into the mirror, its glass swirling now, showing not his reflection but images, visions of his mother's face, of flames, of the vampire whose undead flesh his blade had entered years before. Ache and remembrance blended in a bitter montage. The mirror understood him.
He stepped back.
Celeste came behind, her tone softer now, closer. "You don't have to do it alone."
Her fingers grazed his hand.
He swung to her.
"You want so much," he breathed.
"I give more," she said.
He stepped in, his face inches from hers. "What if I give you my blood, and I survive?"
Celeste's breath hitched. "Then the curse is killed, and perhaps we survive too."
His fingers pressed against her jaw, turning her chin. "And what are we, Celeste? If it ends, what are we?"
Her eyes softened. "We are what's left. The aftermath."
Their mouths met—slow, searching, starved.
The kiss deepened, and she moaned softly, pressed against him, her cold skin warming as his hands found the curve of her waist. She buried her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. His lips brushed her throat, and she arched with a gasp.
"Armand," she whispered, breath trembling.
His mouth found her collarbone. "Say you want me."
"I shouldn't."
"Say it."
“I want you,” she whispered. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
His hands slid down her body, beneath her dress. She gasped again, breath hitching as he lifted her effortlessly onto the altar, the stone cool beneath her thighs.
He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. Her fingers tugged at his shirt, exposing the muscles beneath, and her mouth found his neck, her fangs grazing but not breaking the skin.
"I might lose control," she panted.
"Then lose it," he whispered against her mouth.
She moaned, and for an instant, they yielded two spirits colliding with each other, locked together by centuries of pain and blood. The curse throbbed under them. The mirror flashed wildly.
Then, just as suddenly, she drew back, eyes open.
"No," she panted. "The mirror—it's responding."
Armand spun around. The surface of the mirror writhed, snarling, and a black tendril shot toward them.
He threw himself over her, covering her just as the shadows crashed into the altar, both of them falling to the ground.
Armand came to his feet, sword at the ready. "Tell me what to do!"
Celeste struggled to her knees, blood oozing from her temple. "The ritual. It must be started now."
She dipped into her cloak, drawing out a ceremonial silver knife etched with both her family crest and that symbol Armand had dreamed of.
She pressed it against him, shaking.
"You need to cut your palm," she said. "And press it against the mirror."
Armand glanced at the mirror now twisting, its surface a whirlpool of blackness.
He grasped the blade.
His hand trembled.
Celeste’s eyes locked on his. “I’ll be with you. No matter what happens.”
He nodded.
And cut.
Blood welled from his palm, hot and vibrant. The moment it hit the mirror’s surface, the world screamed.
The mirror exploded in light, shadow, and flame colliding as a thousand voices cried out at once.
Armand stumbled back. Celeste screamed, clutching her head.
Visions ripped through him. A burning town. A crying child. Vampires on fire. A god buried beneath the earth stirring from slumber.
And then nothing.
Darkness.
Quiet.
And then. air.
Armand opened his eyes. The mirror was nowhere to be found.
The altar split down the middle.
Celeste was lying next to him, her chest expanding and contracting.
He stretched out, touching her cheek. "Celeste."
Her eyes opened, but only just.
"It's done," she whispered. "The curse, it's broken."
A small smile played on her lips.
But Armand wasn't smiling.
Because in the quiet of his mind, he could still hear something.
Another name. Another sacrifice.
- Writer
