Page 68 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Ark shook his head and put his gloves on.

“I don’t think anyone has tried,” Rhodes said. “The agent said the house has changed hands fourteen times in the past twenty years. No family has ever managed to live here long past their first year.”

Ark reached the top first. Behind a single white door, the attic was dim and spacious, cluttered with old furniture and covered in dust. But in the far corner, half-buried under a sheet, stood an ornate mirror, its frame gilded with gold.

“That’s our artifact,” Rhodes murmured. “The source of the corruption.”

The Seer’s Glass of Virelle—a relic from the Second Accord era, crafted by a famed oracle who’d embedded a sliver of her own foresight into the silvered glass. It had vanished during the great fire over a century ago. Aegis & Ash wanted it not merely to contain its corruption, but to study its ability to absorb Memory Magic and bend it. In the right hands, it could be a key to understanding how magic and time converged.

His father had never understood Aegis & Ash. Couldn’t understand why Ark had turned down a path paved in gold—governance, diplomacy, legacy—and instead chosen this: tracking down forgotten things in broken places. Kassenor had called it menial work. A glorified janitor, cleaning up cursed remnants others had the luxury to ignore.

He looked down on Aegis & Ash—the company Ark, Caius, and Rhodes had built at sixteen and nurtured for nearly two decades—like it was a youthful rebellion gone too far. Something suitable for the disenfranchised, perhaps. For people like Caius and Rhodes, who had no unimpeachable bloodline to fall back on—but not for his son.

Now, staring into the Seer’s Glass, his father’s dismissal was a cold echo in his mind. He couldn’t help but wonder: would Cassia see it the same way? Would she look at this—the dust, the danger, the dredging up of cursed things—and see a prince hiding among the debris?

A wry smile touched his lips, surprising him.

She probably would, but the thought carried no bitterness. If Cassia teased him about it, she’d do it with a knowing smile, as if she saw the value in cleaning up the world’s broken pieces. It wouldn’t be a judgement or dismissal; it would be an understanding.

And that made all the difference.

He was still turning the thought over when his feet carried him forward without thinking. His hand rose toward the mirror, fingertips brushing its shimmering surface before his mind caught up with the motion.

“Ark, no!” Rhodes’s voice cracked through the haze.

Too late.

The air recoiled. The mirror’s magic lashed out—fast, violent. The blow struck Ark’s chest and sent him sprawling. He hit the ground hard, ribs flaring with pain. But worse was the backlash of magic—raw and searing, burning straight through his protective glove. The corrupted energy tore into his bandaged hand like fire through parchment. He gasped, the breath caught in his throat, vision splintering.

Caius swore. “The mirror’s not dormant at all. It’s reactive!”

Ark pushed up to one knee, vision flickering. “Draw the sigil. I’ll hold it.”

The mirror pulsed again. Rhodes moved to his side, feet planted, erecting a barrier around them. Caius knelt and began sketching a sigil that pulsed with faint light. Each line glowed—dim at first, then brighter—as Ark pressed his palm to the floor, blood slicking the edge of the circle. He pushed his magic into it despite the pain. The energy in the room twisted, hissed.

The house groaned. Its corruption hadn’t grown from an accumulation of emotions. It had been brought here, sealed inside the mirror like a sickness in a jar. Over the years, it had leaked out, soaking into the walls, the floorboards, and the very soil beneath the foundation.

The mirror screamed without sound, the pressure crushing against Ark’s eardrums. He gritted his teeth as the energy inside the artifact surged back. His entire right arm lit up in pain. Corrupted magic snaked up from his palm, curling along his wrist like molten wire.

Caius’s sigil pulsed once, twice, then cracked apart with a sound of shattering glass.

The blast vaporized Rhodes’s barrier and threw him back into a stack of crates. He went down in a cloud of dust. Ark was sent hurtling into a heavy oak beam. His ribs cracked. He slid to the dusty floor, his coat smoking where the corruption had touched it. His palm was a ruin of raw, glowing flesh. The glove had burned away entirely.

“Ark!” Rhodes roared, already pushing up from the pile of splintered wood.

Caius’s stylus still glowed as he fought to stabilize what remained of the sigil. “The anchor is shattered! I need to redraw it, now!”

Ark tried to speak but coughed instead. His head swam. “The corruption has latched on. It’s in my veins.”

Caius abandoned the sigil and rushed to him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “We should leave. Come back later.”

“I’ll be fine. Just redraw the sigil.”

“You’re in no state⁠—”

“I can hold it.” Ark’s arm trembled, grinding his molars to keep steady. If they stopped now, the mirror would have time to recover. When they returned, it would be stronger. Smarter. It would know their tricks. He’d seen it before—corrupted artifacts that learned and adapted. The first attempt was always the best chance.

Rhodes grabbed Caius’s shoulder. “We end this now.”