Malcolm didn't want to rely on Kramathor's assistance again, ever. He was so disgusted by his experience that the first thing he did when he came back to his senses was to leave that godforsaken chapel behind.

Now, he was at the town's "mansion," essentially an oversized wooden house. Sitting at the table, he munched on one of the dead guard's arms, properly skinned as it should be. On his left, half the guard hung on a hook, perfectly hollowed of organs, decapitated, and partially carved.

Malcolm didn't understand why raw meat eaters were usually depicted as gruesome, uncivilized beasts. He thought this while using his claws to get a piece of flesh stuck in his teeth. Grabbing the carving knife, he made an oblique cut from the shoulder to the midsection, securing one of his favorite cuts.

Getting some bread, he salted and peppered his meal, enjoying the way the candlelight brightened the droplets of blood, making it seem as if his plate was decorated with tiny rubies.

"Think about it, Kantor," he said, addressing Kantor, who was ravaging a pile of fat and refuse. "Imagine raising your food from birth, softly caressing it while imagining yourself feasting on its flesh, deceiving it into a false sense of security until the moment you grow hungry enough, then creeping from the shadows, striking it in the head, and boiling it in its mother's milk. And they say we are the savages!"

He laughed heartily as he enjoyed his dinner, and Kantor made strange growling noises that Malcolm decided to interpret as assent.

The heartwarming scene of the two friends having a friendly conversation while enjoying lunch had its happiness quickly taken away by a thought at the back of Malcolm's head. "Something terrible lurks below, eh?" He sighed and deflated. He wasn't really looking forward to meeting whatever this thing was, but God himself had told him to do it, so he sort of had to.

His mind was better suited for practical battle positioning and weapon strategizing, but even if his intellect had grown dull regarding abstract matters, he could understand that the creature below was probably a literal, if sadistic, suggestion that he look at the foundations, sewers, or whatever lay beneath Thornguard.

Finishing with the mansion, he took a stroll back to the chapel, enjoying the afternoon warmth and sunlight. Having been underground for so long had unforeseen effects on his mood, making him depressed and almost nihilistic; nothing a good measure of sun couldn't fix.

Taking a left beside the chapel, there was an unassuming hatch made of the same white-painted boards as the rest of the church. Malcolm pried it open, destroying the flimsy lock that held it together, clearly not intended for someone determined and strong. Malcolm supposed it was there to prevent children from wandering into whatever place lay below.

Looking down, a seemingly endless staircase went straight down as far as the sight reached, the narrow steps giving it an even more stretched impression than it probably was. Seeing how the light from outside dimmed out of existence as the staircase progressed, he wondered whether it was too late to switch plans and forfeit the competition. Even if it was an option before, now that he had requested divine intervention and it had been granted, there was no turning back.

Malcolm started descending and lit a small lamp to aid his feline eyes. A supernatural darkness enveloped the place, like something didn't want prying eyes upon it. Even his blessed sight wasn't of any use in a place devoid of even a shred of light.

As the minutes elapsed, the warm weather of the province started dwindling, as if the very energy of life was being sapped. Soon, shelves with books and skulls appeared beside the stairs. Malcolm tried to grab one of the books in the hope of getting a clue about where he was getting himself into, but not a moment passed after his hands grabbed the mushy hardcover that the entire book crumbled into dust and scattered.

Malcolm coughed and waved his hand at the sudden dust-clogged environment. After the same thing happened two more times, he realized it was futile to try to figure out what the books were about. He had lived long, but this place kept surprising him – an entire town built over some cursed ossuary.

The deeper he delved, the more skeletons he found neatly arranged in rectangular cavities beside the staircase, all affected by the same time-encapsulated condition that held the books together. He wondered why the place was built only to go below, not a single room to the side. Who were all these people? Random villagers who happened to die before he came? Heroes of yore who stopped or trapped this thing he was looking for? Priests of sorts? What made everything so cold and brittle?

He feared that should he stay too long, he'd turn into dust as well. For a moment, he felt relieved that the structure went straight down, as ominous as it was, rather than a maze-like build where he could lose orientation and join the army of skeletons therein. Alone in the dark, dreading the deafening silence around, he wished he'd brought Kantor for moral support.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

After an unknown but definitely too long time, the staircase ended, and a large room, empty enough to serve as a warehouse, appeared. Moving forward, about thirty meters in, he saw strange white sigils drawn on the floor. At first, he thought it was chalk, but upon closer inspection, the slightly dirty, ivory-like color made him suspect it was written with bone dust.

He pursed his lips and walked inside the circle, wishing he wouldn't find a giant lake or something of the sort. Whispers of dead spirits warned him not to go forward, muttering "Die, you're gonna die, die..." and other things too softly spoken to make out.

The circle turned out to be just a semicircle. At the center, against the wall, Malcolm found a mirror. His expression softened, and he felt a bit merrier; it was much better than he expected. Coming closer, he saw in the reflection nothing other than himself – no strange specter on his back or bloody handprints, no letters spelling "let me out."

He checked himself in the mirror, flexing and making silly poses mostly out of the nervousness the whole thing caused. After messing around for a while, he looked carefully at the mirror, trying to find a switch or anything worthwhile that could explain why the natives took so many precautions. At first sight, he saw nothing.

He sighed at the local's superstition, thinking that perhaps he misinterpreted the vision and that "below" was some sort of metaphor beyond his comprehension. The inner self, perhaps? He extended his hand, trying to dislodge the mirror and take it upstairs to have a better look at it, in a place not surrounded by whispering voices and strange sigils.

"Superstitious mundanes," he thought. "Probably deployed some sort of magic to have these voices scare off any overly curious locals. Won't work on me, though!" Then, as he was about to pull the mirror, he saw the reflection in the corner of his eyes and noticed that the figure in the mirror had both arms at its sides. He widened his eyes and stepped away, the reflection smiling wildly.

"Come on, Malcolm... Thought we were taking a stroll! Your people have neglected me for quite a while; it's your duty as the newly appointed leader to make amends..." The voice was shockingly similar to his own, yet the inflection was off, high-pitched at first and almost a growl towards the end. Malcolm extended his claw and pointed menacingly.

"Who are you?"

The figure laughed, as if finding the question amusing. "Me? I am you."

"Don't give me that! You're obviously lying!"

"Am I?" The figure's smile vanished, replaced by a serious expression, where its eyes, equal to those of Malcolm yet so utterly different, seemed dark as midnight. "We're both travelers, born in another place yet stuck here, unaided and trapped, alone. We can't see our way out of this prison, but together... maybe."

"Maybe what?" Malcolm inquired accusingly. The reflection's smile returned.

"Maybe we can escape. I've seen what troubles your mind, and I can offer you a perfect solution to your conundrum."

"Oh yeah? And what's that?" Malcolm felt curious despite his reluctance to make deals with mirror demons.

"Heh. Just bring me those pesky peasants, and I'll make sure their allegiance is properly aligned, so to speak." The reflection showed its sharp teeth in a wicked smile.

Malcolm didn't feel sure about making shady deals with this entity that refused to even say its name.

First off, why was it that each morning he felt compelled to walk further down the line, break even more moral barriers than before? He had just made amends with taking prisoners and experimenting on them, which seemed pretty ruthless if he said so himself, and now he would massively subject innocent people to what? Brainwashing of sorts? Demonic possession? Even if he agreed to this, which he felt tempted to admit, given his distinct lack of an army, the entity's deal might backfire on him, and the "affected" people might turn against him in an effort to unleash the mirror thing.

On one hand, Kramathor had guided him here, so there must be something he could do to help in his quest to not die. On the other hand, making seedy deals with sealed entities in a basement surrounded by skulls could result in a quickly gained increase in power but also a rapid decrease in being alive.

Malcolm was a big fan of being alive; he realized that after unwisely entering a trial that sent him unarmed and unarmored deep into unknown lands surrounded by enemies, unfortunately.

"You worry too much, Malcolm. How could you possibly not put a little faith in this pretty face?" mocked the being. That settled it; this sinister theme of pretending to be him made him too uncomfortable to make any deals.

"You only think of yourself, Malcolm. I'm trapped in a mirror; I can't choose how I look."

Malcolm looked aghast.

"Can you read my mind?"

"Of course, I do. This is my city, remember? There's nothing you can hide from me."

"Get out of my head!"

"You see, that's not how it works. I'm here because you, mortals, decided to play tricks on me. I've accepted that fate; I'm not angry anymore, but I refuse to be told what to do by a kitten stumbling his way around unknown lands. It's not only your mind that I can read, Malcolm. Without my help, you have less than a month to live."

"What do you mean by that? Lies!"

The thing chuckled. "The curiosity still gets the best of you, eh? Why don't we do this: you provide me with one villager and test the results yourself. If you're not satisfied, you can always shatter the mirror, and I'll be gone."

Malcolm scoffed. Yeah, right. Shattering the mirror would surely set him free, the conniving bastard!

"Language! Can't help a spirit from trying, can you? But my offer still stands. What's it going to be, Malcolm? Concord or demise?"