Book One – Chapter 6

As Yves gazed at his reflection in the ethereal mirror, he found himself bathed in a cascade of brilliant streams of crystalline light, as if he was cut out from this world and placed upon a sheet of unspoilt nothing that still tried to flicker anything substantial into existence. Approaching, spilling and spoiling this sanctuary, looming ever higher above him, the Vicha remained a black enigma amid this opus of brightness, a rotten mass untouched by the symbiosis of light, unrooted in this dimension. The dome mirrored only endless, seamless layers of the light it incorporated, like celestial fragments of the most star-strewn sky.

The tempest outside lashed against the dome, rain and wind converging with thunder into a haunting, harrowing melody, gradually turning resonant, almost captivating, if you dared listen beyond the chaos. Every flash of lightning transgressed through the transparent yet reflective mirrors, casting streaks of endlessly reflecting beams of gold across hundreds and hundreds of meters of radiant surface above, below and around Yves. Amid his creation, Yves recognised the beauty that could be wrought by magic. In a world so marred by ugliness, beauty needed to be crafted. The thought carried strange solace. This was not the worst place to die.

In his hands, he cradled two objects. In his right hand, a feather so weightless it was almost imperceptible; in his left, the crystal half-ball, a relic burdened with familiar weight. One was to forget, the other a reminder of past commitments and present convictions.

Confronting his reflection in the mirror, Yves witnessed the looming mountain advance over the platform, veins of shadow surging like tendrils, seeking the edge of the crater, pressing forward.