False Reflection II

The battle was relentless.

Hakan was strong, but the shadow that wore Luca’s face was faster—inhumanly so. It twisted and lurched at him, its body moving in ways no mortal should, its limbs lengthening unnaturally in the flickering moonlight.

Hakan barely got his greatsword up in time to block the first strike. The force behind it sent him skidding back, his boots scraping against the stone. Francesco leaped away, keeping his distance.

The shadow struck again, its fingers sharpening into claws mid-swing. Hakan ducked, then countered with a powerful upward slash. His blade carved through the creature’s shoulder, but instead of blood, thick black mist poured from the wound. The thing shrieked, stumbling, but it wasn’t done.

Hakan set his stance and charged forward.

The shadow lunged to meet him. They clashed.

The force sent echoes through the labyrinth, the cold air swirling violently around them. Francesco could barely track the rapid exchange of blows—Hakan’s brute force against the shadow’s unnatural agility. Sparks flew as steel met shifting flesh, the thing twisting and dodging around Hakan’s swings like liquid, its mouth stretched in a grotesque mockery of Luca’s former grin.

But Hakan was relentless. He gritted his teeth, planting his feet and swinging with everything he had.

The greatsword met its mark.

The impact sent the shadow skidding back, black mist pouring from its torso where the blade had split it open. It staggered, letting out a guttural, warped shriek, its limbs writhing as it tried to reform—

Hakan didn’t give it the chance.

With a final roar, he brought his blade down straight through its chest.

The shadow convulsed, its body trembling—then it burst into black mist, vanishing into the cold.

Silence.

Hakan exhaled, before sheathing his blade. “Damn bastards…” he muttered. “They can steal faces too.”

Francesco stared at the space where the creature had been, his expression unreadable.

“Mister Luca… didn’t make it,” he murmured.

Hakan glanced at him, frowning at the quiet sorrow in his voice. He rested a hand on the boy’s head, ruffling his auburn hair once.

“Kid, you’re real perceptive,” he said. “I oughta listen to you more. If you see anything out of the ordinary, don’t hesitate.”

Francesco blinked up at him, then gave a sheepish smile. “I didn’t do anything...”

“Don’t be modest. You’ve got sharp eyes.”

Francesco said nothing, just nodding slightly before they continued on.

❈

Hours passed.

The labyrinth stretched on, endless and shifting. Then—rain. A light drizzle at first then a steady downpour.

Hakan cursed under his breath. “Splendid. As if this place wasn’t miserable enough.”

Francesco, however, suddenly stilled.

“…Do you hear that?”

Hakan glanced at him. The boy’s gaze was sharp, scanning the misty corridors. Then, over the patter of rain, voices. Not whispers. Not illusions.

Arguing.

As they rounded a corner, they found the source. A group of five stood in a wide clearing between the towering walls. Tension crackled in the air.

Swords were drawn.

One woman—tall, dark-haired, her expression twisted in frustration—stood at the center, her voice cutting through the rain.

“They’re shadows, all of them! I swear it!” she shouted, pointing accusingly at the men around her. “I know what I saw!”

“Lying wench!” one of the men snapped. “You’re trying to turn us against each other! You’re the shadow here!”

Another man, visibly shaken, shook his head. “We all saw each other before the trial started! How do we know you didn’t change?”

“You don’t see the way he looks at me when you turn your back?! He’s the liar!” The woman’s voice seeped with venom.

Hakan scoffed, folding his arms. “That woman is accusing everyone and causing chaos. She’s a shadow, no doubt.”

Francesco, however, wasn’t ready to accuse just yet. “Wait.”

They stepped closer, but the group barely acknowledged them—too caught up in their spiraling accusations. Then, the woman turned to them, her expression shifting from rage to desperation.

“You! Please, help me!” she pleaded. “They’re all shadows! They’re trying to get me to let my guard down so they can kill me!”

Hakan sneered. “How convenient.”

Francesco didn’t answer her. His eyes scanned their faces, their breaths that turned into white haze from the cold. All was in order. Then what was the so-called flaw if somebody was a shadow? Or were they all human?

His gaze dropped to the puddles forming in the rain. The woman’s reflection was there, clear as day.

Then—one of the men grabbed her wrist, his grip tight.

“Enough!” he snapped. “You’re making this worse for everyone!”

Francesco’s heart stopped. The man had no reflection.

Then—another hand.

Another man gripped the first’s shoulder, as if trying to calm him. That man had no reflection either.

Two shadows.

Francesco’s voice was quiet. “Mister Hakan.”

The warrior’s gaze followed his. Understanding dawned.

Hakan’s fingers tightened around his sword hilt. Then, without a word—he moved. His greatsword drove straight through the first man’s back.

The reaction was instant— The body burst into black mist.

The woman gasped, stumbling back in shock. The remaining men froze—except one.

The second shadow let out a terrifying, distorted scream. It lunged.

But Hakan was ready.

The battle was quick, brutal. Hakan struck first, driving the shadow back with sheer force. It twisted, screeching, its limbs snapping unnaturally as it tried to evade his blows.

But Hakan’s strength was undeniable and his surprise attack gave him the edge.

He blocked its desperate swipes, overpowered it with relentless strikes, and—after a final crushing blow—his sword cleaved through its form.

The shadow crumbled into mist. Three.

Hakan’s chest rose and fell with exertion. The battle had been brutal. He sheathed his sword, exhaling.

Then—

“You damn thief!”

The woman’s shrill voice snapped his attention back. She was livid.

“Those were our kills!” she snarled. “You stole our victory!”

Hakan stared at her. Then—he shrugged. “Weren’t you pleading for help a few minutes earlier?”

One of the men—the only other survivor—was shaking with fury.

“You robbed us of our Oaths…” he hissed, his face darkening. His hand darted for his sword.

Hakan sighed. “Don’t. If you know what’s good for you.”

“Mister Hakan—“ Francesco tried to warn him, but the man had already lunged.

Steel flashed.

Before Hakan could counter, a sharp bell rang through the labyrinth. Then the walls moved, curling like tendrils.

A dozen arms shot from the stone, clawing at the man who had drawn his sword against another human. His face twisted in horror as the labyrinth itself seized him, thousands of palms closing in around his eyes, his mouth, his very soul.

He screamed.

Francesco watched, unblinking, as the stone dragged him into its depths.

Then—he was gone. The woman collapsed to her knees, sobbing.

“This trial is sickening…” Hakan glared at the spot where the man disappeared off to. He turned, gripping Francesco’s shoulder. “Come on, kid. We’re done here.”

The two left without looking back.

❈

Dawn broke.

The blood moon faded, the cold lifted, and the walls of the labyrinth sank back into the ground.

Hakan and Francesco stood in the empty clearing. They were the only ones left.

A deep, resounding voice echoed in their minds.

“You have endured. To the warrior go the spoils.”

Hakan winced as a leaf of gold burnt into the back of his hand, the first third of the oath complete on his skin.

“And the survivor lives to see another day.”

Francesco, meanwhile, received nothing—except for the right to live. And yet the young boy sighed in relief nonetheless.

As they stepped beyond the ruins of the trial, Hakan ruffled Francesco’s hair.

“You’ve got a sharp mind, kid. In the end you helped in more ways than I could have imagined.”

“Y-Your praise is too much…” Francesco shied away in embarrassment.

“It was rightfully earned. It’s only a pity you couldn’t kill some yourself.”

“Oh no, I was a mere observer.”

Hakan laughed, walking ahead of the young man.

“You ever thought about picking up the blade? I could teach you if you’re—”

Hakan stopped mid stride. A dagger had slipped into his back. The man stiffened. Eyes wide, he turned, staring at Francesco in horror.

The boy’s expression was blank. Cold. Calculating. Like the reflection that stared back into him from the river. The real Francesco Cissoti.

“Y-You—! Damn brat!”

Hakan unsheathed his sword, but it felt too heavy on his hands. He tried to move but his legs barely budged. The dagger was poisoned.

Hakan’s vision blurred. He staggered, swung wildly—but Francesco, the no longer timid and weak boy, moved impossibly fast.

With quiet efficiency, the boy stepped past the clumsy blow—and drove his dagger straight through Hakan’s throat.

The warrior fell with a gurgling sound, blood staining his chest blade red.

Francesco stood over the body, his gaze lifeless. Then the sensation across the back of his hand made him realize. He looked at the gold leaf of strength forming on it.

He grinned.

“Master… it seems that your theory was correct.”