Oliver stepped back and summoned his energy. The runes on his swordstaff glowed as he invoked Astral Shield. The force struck the twenty-foot wall and collided with magic barriers. The elves must not have trusted six-foot-thick stone to protect them. The stone blew away like dust, some hitting the Tower of Leaves and rebounding back. A shard narrowly missed his head.

The magic barriers snapped like rubber bands, and he ran forward.

The smooth, pale stone stretched skyward and appeared seamless and impenetrable to the unsuspecting eye. Hell, even Oliver couldn’t tell this close. But he felt along the surface, looking for a way up, for the invisible windows and handholds behind the facade mirage.

A subtle shift in texture gave him hope, but he found nothing. Time was running out, not just for Staharad but for himself. There’s no way his entry would go unnoticed.

He put his head close to the wall and looked with the aid of the last rays of sunlight that caused it to shimmer with the angle. He squinted, searching for any distortion in the perfect plane.

A barely perceptible line. He reached out again, and his fingers slipped through the illusion, finding purchase on a ledge. The sound of approaching footsteps extinguished a spark of triumph.

An elven guard appeared from around the tower and sprinted forward. He moved with the grace and silence of a shadow despite wearing jewelry that rattled when he drew a curved sword.

Oliver's heart pounded. He wasn’t high enough to avoid the sword, so he dropped. He was forced to fight but had no time for it.

The man used a curved sword, which proved no match for the swordstaff. The staff section slammed into the guard's head, and he sprawled.

Something whistled. The combat senses he hadn’t earned or earned in some other life kicked in, and he twirled the swordstaff. Steel rang. He turned in time to see a second guard.

"Even taken by surprise, you fight remarkably. But surrender now. Should you defeat me, you’ll still be surrounded in moments."

Oliver tightened his grip on his swordstaff. "I can't do that.”

Without further warning, the guard lunged with a sword that gleamed with an ethereal light. A magic sword? Their blades clashed, and blue sparks flew.

The guard was faster than anyone Oliver had faced before. Each strike was followed by another that snapped forward like a rattlesnake.

Oliver didn’t understand why the man complimented him when he was a master himself. However, his reflexes felt sharper than ever, and he parried a thrust aimed at his shoulder, twisting his weapon to lock the guard's blade. With a swift motion, he struck the guard's wrist with the butt of his swordstaff, causing him to drop his weapon.

Undeterred, the guard swung a fist toward Oliver's jaw. He ducked, countering with a sweep of his leg that knocked the guard off balance. Seizing the moment, Oliver delivered a controlled blow to the side of the guard's head.

Breathing heavily, Oliver leaped to the ledge and found another handhold. He saw seven guards racing to stand below. One had a bow and knocked an arrow.

The ascent was disorienting with the setting stone. The ruddy surface simmered. Yet his hands and feet found grips and footholds, and he climbed recklessly. Below, the guards shouted at him, and he heard the twang of the bowstring. The arrow whistled past him and skipped off the tower.

"Sound the alarm!" one said.

A protrusion led to an opening, a window. He hooked his arm over it and nearly lost grip as his foot slipped on the slick surface. He himself up, an arrow sliced through his pant leg before he crawled through the narrow opening.

He landed inside with a muffled thud, rolling to absorb the impact. The room was dimly lit save a rainbow from a crystal cup. He knocked over a chair from a set of ornate furnishings. He was in a sitting room.

What am I doing? I have no plan.

The room led to a larger chamber with couches and a curtained platform like a private playhouse. On the opposite side, a stairway led up to higher floors. He took three steps at a time and peaked into each doorway until he reached a storage room with glass containers. But nothing was labeled, and he couldn’t bring it all.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

He had to keep looking, even if it seemed pointless. But why was he helping a Player? The man had probably spent the entirety of his life abusing NPCs. It didn’t matter. He was never one for self-reflection.

Out of frustration, he kicked open a locked door and barged into a room filled with the scent of vanilla.

A rustle of fabric caught his attention. He turned to see the elf girl from the delegation standing near a dressing screen. Her eyes widened in surprise, and her cheeks flushed. She was clad in delicate undergarments, her silver hair reaching the small of her back.

Oliver realized his eyes feasted on the display, and his face reddened, too. He must have looked like a maniac kicking a door open just to stare at a barely dressed elf girl. "I," he stammered, averting his gaze. "You said you wanted to talk?"

She started laughing. Why was she laughing? “Turn around. I need to change. Why did you come barging into my bedroom.”

Before he turned, the distant shouts of guards filtered into the room. Her expression became urgent. "Looks like you made some noise on your way in.”

"I had no choice. My teacher.” He cleared his throat. “Wizard teacher asked for an elixir of healing. He’s dying, and I came here looking."

"Come with me," she said, grabbing his hand.

Startled, Oliver allowed himself to be led. She guided him to a tapestry on the far wall that she pulled aside and pulled on a handle. She pulled open a small door to reveal a hidden passage. They slipped into the narrow corridor.

The passage was pitch black. They moved quickly, the girl's grip on his hand firm and reassuring.

"Why are you helping me?" Oliver asked. He wished he could see better. She was on her hands and knees right in front of him.

"I had a feeling you were one of us."

He wasn’t sure what she was saying.

They emerged into a circular chamber lined with high mirrors, each framed in ornate silver and inscribed with elven script. The reflections were distorted, some hypnotic, and some showed glimpses of lush forests, bustling marketplaces, and serene lakes.

"What is this place?" Oliver asked.

"The Hall of Mirrors," she explained. "These were once all portals, and some still are."

She moved toward one of the mirrors, its surface rippling like water. "This one goes to a different point in the city."

Oliver hesitated. "I need the elixir. I can't leave without it."

"Yes, of course." She took the necklace and displayed a bottle pendant. “I have one on me at all times. Everyone should.”

A voice startled him.

“Elstina, dear, what are you doing?” A woman asked, emerging from the mirrors. She wore silk and had a permanent frown, though her skin was still smooth. It seemed the elves didn’t wrinkle. “I wondered when you’d tire of your studies and take an interest in boys.”

Elstina glared at the woman. “Mother. This is important. I’ll be back later.”

“I hope you didn’t doom him.”

“It’s none of your business,” Elstina said, grabbing Oliver’s hand. She entered a mirror.

The two emerged in a room with a mirror and a door. It smelled damp and moldy.

Oliver steadied himself with a hand on the wall.

"Disorienting," she said and let go of his hand. "You'll get used to it."

The door led to stairs and a dead-ended. She rapped on the ceiling a few times, waiting for someone. Footfalls neared, and the ceiling, a hatch, lifted away. They emerged from what must have been a basement to a small kitchen. A single countertop and stove stood opposite a room with busy tables.

A man stood dumbfounded. “I wasn’t expecting…”

“It’s okay, William. There’s no trouble. I was in a hurry and decided to take a shortcut.”

“As is your prerogative. Can I help you with anything?”

“Yes,” she said. “Two good horses.”

“I don’t ride horses,” Oliver began, but the man cut him off.

“Are you sure? I can bring a litter.”

“No. Horses will be fine.”

“An elf on a horse. There’s a first for everything.” He hurried away.

The inn's tables held a rough-looking crowd. They hunched closed and whispered and eyed Oliver. He felt like he’d walked in on a conspiracy. When the horses came, he did his best to mount the taller in one go and just made it.

The journey back was grueling. He sprawled limply, and she rose straight-backed. Dawn broke when he reached the tower.

"Staharad!" he called out from the entrance but got no reply.

They hurried upstairs and found the wizard pale and unmoving on the couch.

She knelt by the couch and took his wrist. “I don’t think his heart is beating.”

Not after all he went through. He thought he’d saved the wizard’s life. Why couldn’t you have held on?

She looked up, “Wait, maybe. It’s weak.” She took the tiny bottle and put it to the gray lips.

A weak voice wheezed from Staharad. "Oliver?"

He fell to the wizard's side, relief flooding through him. The wizard breathed normally but fell asleep.

She pulled him aside. “Oliver, he’s a player.”