False Reflection I

The water was still. A perfect mirror.

He crouched by the river’s edge, watching his own reflection ripple as he dipped his hands into the freezing stream. A young teenage face around 15 years stared back at him, his red eyes sharp, unreadable, calculating. His damp fingers ran through his dark auburn hair. His mother had always said it reminded her of autumn leaves. A deep, burning red.

But that was long ago.

The memory was faint now, as fleeting as the reflection in the water. His mother—gone. Their home—gone. What was left?

He was orphaned by poverty, his family’s lack of coin taking away the only relative he ever had. After he was found on the streets, and taken in by his master, there was nothing left for him to do other than fulfill it.

A purpose.

The boy’s name was Francesco Cisotti.

He splashed his face, letting the cold bite his skin. When he rose, his sharp, calculating gaze vanished. In its place there was something else.

Something crafted. Something planned.

A figure moved in the distance.

Francesco stepped back, melting into the trees. His sharp gaze followed the lone traveler making his way toward the clearing ahead. A warrior, as clear as day.

Tall. Broad. A greatsword strapped to his back.

Francesco waited, letting the man pass just close enough. His eyes traced the determined gait, the silent confidence, the kind of strength the trial demanded.

Then, he moved— A perfect misstep.

Francesco stumbled onto the dirt path, purposefully clumsy. His foot caught on an unseen root, his body tilting forward as he landed face first.

A sharp groan. A flicker of vulnerability. A young boy, hopelessly out of place.

The warrior stopped immediately. Francesco felt the gaze on him before he even looked up.

“You alright, kid?” The voice was deep, steady.

Francesco blinked up at him, eyes wide, like a startled deer. “Ah—! I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, shifting sitting up on his knees as if trying to gather himself. “I didn’t see—” He broke off, glancing up at the warrior with uncertainty.

The man exhaled, offering a hand.

Francesco took it, the warrior pulling him up with effortless ease.

“Are you lost, boy?”

Francesco shook his head. “No, sir.” His voice was quiet, careful. “I… I heard about the trial… That’s why I’m here.”

The warrior raised a brow.

Francesco continued, averting his gaze “I… I know I won’t come out victorious, but I just… I wanted to see it. I wanted to know what it takes.” A half-smile. “Guess that makes me stupid, huh?”

The man studied him. A long pause.

Then, to Francesco’s quiet triumph—

“Hah. You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.” The warrior huffed and tilted his head toward the path. “The name is Hakan Orsato. You can stick around me if that’s what you want. Come on, kid. Try not to trip this time.”

Francesco smiled.

❈

The entrance to the trial was nothing short of monumental.

A colossal statue of Vael’Karth loomed over the gathering warriors. Chiseled from ancient stone, the God of Strength’s hands rested upon the pommel of a massive greatsword, its tip buried into the ground.

Francesco counted at least twenty competitors. Some were battle-hardened warriors, scarred and seasoned. Others—desperate men with nothing left to lose.

All of them had one thing in common.

They wanted an Oath.

A hush fell over the group as the air shifted. Heavy. Unnatural. Cold. Then—a voice. Not from any man. Not from any overseer.

But from the statue itself. A voice that didn’t echo in the air, but inside their very minds.

"You stand before the Trial of Strength. Prove your might to me.”

A sudden rumbling. The ground trembled beneath their feet.

"Soon my labyrinth will rise. My shadows will walk among you. You must hunt them. End them.”

The competitors stood unnerved by the voice, yet none moved to leave.

"You must slay no less than three. Fail to do so, and you leave with nothing. Kill a fellow man… and you forfeit your life."

A ripple of unease passed through the competitors. Francesco felt Hakan’s muscles tense beside him.

"The shadows are not mindless. They know you hunt them. They will deceive you. But they will always carry a flaw."

A pause.

"Look closely, and you will see it."

Before anyone could react, the ground shook violently.

“The blood moon has risen. When dawn breaks, your time will be up.”

The earth split. Towering walls rose from the depths, stone grinding against stone, twisting and forming into an ever-changing maze.

Then—a blast of cold.

The sudden drop in temperature was like a punch to the gut. The air fogged with every breath, frost creeping along the stone walls. Francesco looked up and the full radiant moon as it bled into the canvas of the sky. Blood red.

And then—silence.

Hakan looked back at Francesco, who’s form shifted uneasily. There was no competitor in sight. Just tall, suffocating walls and a deathly chill.

The trial had begun.

❈

The cold gnawed at Francesco’s skin. It shouldn’t be this freezing.

His breath curled in the air like smoke, a reminder that whatever magic fueled this trial was not of the natural world. He kept close to Hakan, his boots quiet against the frost-laced stone of the labyrinth.

“This trial is madness,” Hakan muttered, rolling his shoulders, his breath misting before him. “How in the hells are we supposed to know what’s a shadow and what isn’t? ‘Look closely, and you will see it,’ the statue said. See what, exactly?”

Francesco didn’t answer right away. He was thinking. The shadows looked like men. That meant the only way to tell the difference was through something subtle.

Something easy to overlook.

Before he could dwell on it further, movement flickered ahead.

Both of them halted. A figure emerged from the mist, stepping cautiously into view.

A man. Or…?

Tall, lean, his hand resting on the hilt of a longsword. His stance was tense—ready to strike.

Hakan shifted his grip on his greatsword.

The stranger’s sharp gaze flicked between them. “Are you men?”

Hakan exhaled sharply. “I might ask you the same.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unease.

Then—recognition.

“I saw you before the walls rose,” the man said, his voice steady as he sheathed his sword. “You walked with that hunk of steel on your back like it weighed nothing.”

Hakan smirked. “That does sound like me. I think I saw you back there too…”

Francesco eased his stance but kept his guard up.

“What about the boy?”

“I… uh…”

“Been with me since before the trial. I vouch for him.”

The man sheathed his sword. “The name’s Luca,” he said simply. “And unless either of you has some unnatural talent for imitating a man’s thoughts, I’d say we’re on the same side.”

Hakan gave a small nod. “You seem sharp. I don’t mind an extra pair of eyes.”

Luca grinned, brushing damp strands of unkempt brown hair from his eyes. “Good. Because I’ve no interest in wandering this damned maze alone.”

As they walked, the three exchanged cautious small talk. Luca was quick-witted, his humor effortless. Francesco listened, speaking only when needed, keeping his focus on their surroundings.

“The Trial of Strength,” Luca mused at one point. “Never thought I’d see the day where I’d be slaying things that look like men instead of beasts.”

“…It isn’t strength alone being tested,” Francesco muttered. “It’s judgment.”

Luca shot him a sidelong glance. “Hm? You speak like you already understand the game, boy.”

“Eh?” Francesco looked away, playing it off, “I was just talking to myself…”

“This kid’s under my protection.” Hakan said, smirking, “so don’t tease him too much.”

“Ah my bad, wouldn’t wanna be in the end of that hunk of steel o’ yours!” Luca laughed, “I have a family to get back to, ya see.”

Hakan regarded him for a second, “Then you better get out of here alive.”

“Aye! I can’t very well let this trial best me. My wife will kill me if that happens!”

“Your wife? What happens to her if you gain an oath?”

“Hm…” Luca fell in thought, “She’s not a warrior, so… I guess I’ll give her mine and try for another?”

“Can you… do that?” Francesco frowned.

“The Gods will be merciful if I beg hard enough, no?”

Plenty sure they won’t. Hakan and Francesco seemed to think.

Before anybody else could speak again the ground shuddered. The walls groaned, shifting like the belly of a great beast.

“Move!” Hakan grabbed Francesco’s shoulder, pulling him back just as a massive stone barrier shot up between them and Luca.

“Luca?!” Hakan called out, slamming a fist against the stone.

“Still here!” Luca’s voice was muffled but strong. “Are you two fine?”

Before Hakan could answer—

A scream. Short. Sharp. Cut off.

Francesco felt Hakan tense beside him. They stood in silence, listening.

Nothing.

“…He’s dead…” Hakan muttered, jaw tight.

Francesco wasn’t so sure. Minutes stretched by, their breaths the only sound in the frozen air.

Then—footsteps.

Steady. Unhurried.

Hakan drew his sword, ushering Francesco behind him. They waited for a monster to step out. One worthy of being the guardian of a trial. But instead, Luca rounded the corner.

Hakan let out a breath of relief. “Thought we lost you.”

Luca grinned, rolling his shoulders. “Would’ve been a shame, wouldn’t it?”

Francesco watched him carefully. Luca spoke the same way. Moved the same way.

But something felt off.

“Why did you scream? Did you fight off anything?” Hakan asked.

“Aye, there was something like a shadow creeping up on me. But I took care of it.”

Francesco’s blood ran cold. When Luca spoke the young boy quickly realized something— His breath… It did not fog.

Quietly, he stepped closer to Hakan and whispered, “Watch his breath.”

“Hm?” Hakan frowned. But then he saw it too.

Luca, unaware—or pretending not to be—walked a few steps ahead, stretching as if shaking off tension. “What were we saying again?”

Luca suddenly slowed, glancing over his shoulder. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “What are you two whispering about?”

Hakan’s fingers tightened around his greatsword. “Kid. Get back.”

Luca’s head tilted. The smile stretched wider. Too wide. His skin began to ripple.

The friendly face twisted. The flesh along his jaw unraveled, pulling back like wet paper, revealing something dark beneath. The thing that wore Luca’s skin let out a sharp, distorted screech—and lunged.