A low, earth-shaking groan rippled through the foundations of the Speculum. High above, the last leftovers of the upper dark rock row of stone pillars—the grand vaulted arches, the shattered gold-silver metal struts. The watching galleries where the trial masters had once watched the stars—finally gave way. They didn’t crash down like stonework in a siege. The stone entered the spirit event horizon of the lower chamber. Then, it dissolved into fine, weightless silver mist that scattered into the infinite drafts of the deep pit.
The physical stonework was gone.
Now, only the Mirror’s Heart remained. A vast, horizonless spirit plane composed of pure, semi-clear silver glass that spanned thousands of arm-lengths in every direction. Above them was no ceiling, no vaulted arch, and no sky—only an empty, starless velvet void lit up from below by the blinding soft glow of the glass floor itself. And suspended miles above in the center of that empty expanse floated the solitary eight-sided frame of the Speculum of Forfeited Paths, slowly rotating on its axis like a dead sky compass.
The air of the Mirror’s Heart carried a distinct, choking bouquet that Ren had known since his first day in Master Corvus’s workshop. The bitter, metal tang of rusted gold-silver metal, the cloying sweetness of boiled gum arabic, and the dry, acrid sting of cold animal fat smoke. The surrounding heat was hovering near ten degrees below freezing. Every breath Ren drew burned his lung tubes like inhaled crushed glass. He formed thick…
