The sound comes first — the clatter of boots, the ring of steel.
Guards.
Your breath catches. The glow of the mushroom is gone; the witch’s bowl lies shattered on the floor, and Margaret’s body slumps in your arms, eyes half open, as though still pleading for you not to see. Blood seeps into the cracks between the stones, spreading like a dark blossom.
The metallic rhythm grows nearer. You hear voices — alarmed, shouting. Someone has summoned them. The witch, perhaps. Or perhaps your own cries carried farther than you knew.
Your mind stumbles through fog. You rise, the dagger slick in your hand, its reflection a tremor of crimson light. For a moment you look down again — at her, at what you’ve done — and you feel the vision collapse inside you like a dying star. The dream is gone. The truth remains.
A voice inside you whispers: Run.
You stagger backward, knocking over a chair. Margaret’s music sheets scatter across the floor, their notes blotted with blood. The window — the sea air rushes through it, cold and salt-heavy. You wrench it open.
“Stop!” a guard’s voice shouts from the corridor.
You climb through the window. The wind tears at your cloak as you drop to the terrace below. Pain shoots up your leg, but you run — limping, gasping — across the gardens Margaret planted, past the roses and the half-built vineyard. Behind you, shouts multiply.
The estate’s walls loom ahead. You scale them clumsily, scraping your palms, leaving streaks of blood on the stone. The moon cuts through clouds, silvering the bay. The sea calls — endless, black, merciless.
When your feet hit the ground outside, you run.
The streets of Aldebryn twist like veins, filled with smoke and the faint cries of fishermen returning from night’s tide. You dart through alleyways, cloaked in shadow. The dagger glints once, then you shove it beneath your belt.
“Find him!” a voice echoes from far behind. “The Duke’s gone mad!”
Mad. The word strikes you harder than any blow. You remember her laughter, her tenderness — the mask, the Magus said — and your vision reels again with fragments of what you saw: Margaret in the desert, turning toward the music, her face calm, almost blissful; Margaret learning of your parents’ death, her sorrow rehearsed; Margaret’s smile behind the veil.
Could it have been a lie? Could it all have been illusion?
You stumble into a narrow street lined with shuttered inns. A drunkard looks up, startled, as you pass — then looks away quickly, as though sensing the storm that clings to you.
At last you reach the docks. The smell of tar and salt fills your lungs. Ships rock gently on the tide. You search the masts for one that might take you, but every vessel is watched — lights flicker on decks, guards in green and silver livery stand at every pier.
There is no escape by sea.
You turn inland again, toward the cliffs. The city fades behind you, its lights scattered like dying embers. The road narrows, the wind sharpens. Somewhere below, the waves pound against the rocks.
You stop at the edge, breath ragged. The dagger gleams faintly in your hand.
“What have I done?” you whisper.
The sea offers no answer — only the same eternal motion, indifferent and vast. You fall to your knees, retching, shaking, the cold biting through your clothes. The wind whips your hair across your face like a scourge.
Behind you, hooves. The guards have followed.
“Duke!” a voice calls out. “Lay down your weapon!”
You rise slowly, the dagger trembling in your grasp. The moonlight spills over the steel — bright, accusing.
“I didn’t mean to—” your voice cracks. “It was the witch. She deceived us both.”
They spread in a half-circle, cautious, blades drawn. One of them — the captain — steps forward. His expression is not cruel. Only resolute.
“My lady lies dead,” he says. “And her murderer flees into the night. There can be no misunderstanding.”
“She lied,” you whisper. “She was part of it — the desert, my parents—”
The captain raises his hand. “Enough.”
You look at him, at their torches flickering like false stars, at the abyss behind you. There’s nowhere left to go.
When they seize you, you do not resist. The dagger falls from your hand, landing silently in the grass.
They take you back through Aldebryn’s sleeping streets. Windows open as you pass; faces appear, pale and fearful. By dawn, word has spread — the foreign duke, the noble murderer, the madman who slew his wife.
At the estate, her kin are waiting.
Margaret’s brother steps forward. His armor gleams in the gray light. “You will hang,” he says, voice hollow. “For her blood, for her name.”
You try to speak — to tell them of the witch, the visions, the lies — but your words tumble like stones, senseless against their grief. You see it in their eyes: there is no space for truth. Only punishment.
They drag you to the citadel square. The gallows rise against the pale morning sky, wooden and indifferent. The air smells of smoke and iron.
A priest murmurs a prayer, though you hear none of it. The rope scratches against your neck as they tighten the noose. Your hands tremble, bound before you.
You look toward the horizon — where the sea shimmers faintly beyond the rooftops. Somewhere beneath it, you think, lies the witch’s path, the mushroom’s secret, the truth you thought you found.
Perhaps it was all madness. Perhaps it was revelation.
The captain gives a signal. The crowd murmurs. You draw a final breath.
Then, softly, you begin your mantra — the only prayer you still believe in:
“All mirrors are broken.”
“I’m looking at myself,”
“Reflected on the sand.”
“On every grain of sand.”
“Reflected on people.”
“On every pair of eyes looking at me.”
“I am with others and in others.”
“And there I remain eternal.”
“Alone I’m not, and I never was.”
The words steady you as the world narrows to the wooden platform beneath your feet.
You hear the lever creak.
For an instant, you think of your parents, of Margaret, of the crow — its wings cutting through the endless sky.
Then the floor gives way.
Darkness rushes up to meet you.
And all the mirrors — every reflection, every self — fall silent.
…..
THE END
….
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