Asrael was frozen solid- petrified with what he was being forced to watch. His own, green eyes stared back at him from within the reflective surface. But the Asrael inside the mirror was different from the one whose terror had frozen him solid before the pool of purple smoke. He was not a handsome man- neither of them were. But the creature beyond the glass remained the ugliest, by far. Whereas Asrael was pale, gaunt and bagged-eyed, this monstrosity was something else entirely- a rotten husk in comparison to his own, glorious self. His skin had dried and crackled- half his upper lip had been torn off, but most disturbing was the intensity of the glow to his eyes... it reminded him of the eyes of-

“Yes.” Asrael took a step back with disbelief as the creature spoke in his own voice. He finally blinked and saw that a phantom image lingered beyond his eyelids- confirming his initial fears... there, in the darkness of his blink, he could see a form layer his own- the Satyr in all its husky, rotten glory- glaring at him with the same intensity as his own form. The green eyes, the half-rotten jaw- the windows into his abdominal and thoracic cavities were a spitting image of his nightmares of old.

“What in the the Hells is this trickery!?” Asrael asked the green-eyed woman at his side, whose response came in the form of a girlish giggle. She asked: “Can you finally hear Him, Asrael? Have you finally opened your ears for Azazeel?” He shook his head with disbelief. Was this morbid perversion of his own image the Satyr that had haunted his dreams? The monster that had molested his mind with its unending clatter of chains? Asrael was left to mire in the misery of the mirror. He had questions for him- hundreds of questions. If this truly was Azazeel, he could reveal truths beyond what any human might ever discover- a real, live Demon, trapped in the mirror just an arm's length away from him... alas, he could not find the words to ask him anything but;

“You have followed me... I have seen you in my dreams- you are the one who showed me the mark.” The Satyr drew back Asrael’s remaining lips to grin at him. Lita’s arms closed around Asrael from behind. He raised his hands to deflect her, only to pause as he saw that she intended to unbutton his shirt and bare his runes- as if to display what the necromancer referenced. For reasons unbeknownst to him, Asrael had frozen to allow her warm hands to sully his body- baring the careful engravings across his chest and abdomen.

As with the runes covering the room’s interior, he felt shamed as he saw Lita’s hands tracing the carvings... he- of all people, should have been able to decipher them by now, they animated him, after all. Then and there, he decided, that if he would bring anything away from this conversation, it would have to be the truth of the Mark. Before he could question the makings of it, the mirrored Asrael spoke:

“It is of the Void- beyond even the Demons’ understanding. As you are, Void Affined...” The Void? He had only ever heard mention of it- that theoretical plane beyond the world beyond the Rifts- something the apprentices and his Master would theoretisize, only to come up empty-handed without any discernable proof of its existence, time after time.

“The Void?” He questioned, still lost for words to express his confusion. The malicious grin of his counterpart succeeded in conveying what its complete lack of movement and posture could not- that he had terms for betraying his well-kept secrets. To Asrael’s dismay, Lita would be the one to speak in the Satyr’s place:

“The Demons live by a code- a binding contract they cannot manipulate.” He knew of this code- it was written in every foolish, inspiring fairy-tale book his Master had insisted on reading him, in hopes of inspiring some heroism and altruism, but just as the tales had failed to inspire him, he had dismissed the code as nothing more than a fairy-tale.

“A deed for a boon. A trade.” Asrael muttered. Lita pressed her warm, gentle fingers against his markings and squeezed up against his back with a whisper: “He has asked the same of me... I have accepted- together, we may Gift him what he seeks and receive our Boon. You may have all that you wish, for but a small sacrifice.” He raised his arm to see her green eyes peer at him through the reflection of the mirror. She had undressed her hood- allowing him to see the blinding beauty of her long, neatly combed hair- the luscious lips... those deep eyes.

“I want information. But you- both of you... wish for payment?” He asked in summary of their conversation, only to see both himself and the girl nod. Lita pressed his chest to turn him around- a motion he hesitantly followed to meet her piercing, profound gaze. She raised her hands to continue stroking his scars and whispered: “You still do not know of your magic, Asrael... you are rare- the rarest of all Magi. Your magic is as plentiful as it is scarce- your affinity unique. Which is why he needs it to see into the Void, where he can learn more.” This seemed to confirm what Asrael had read in Gerathar’s book- that the Demon had a propensity to stare into the fabled realm for unknown reasons, but little of what the girl was saying made any sense to him- an irking realization.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“And what do the two of you want from me?” He asked- narrowing his eyes to meet her benevolent stare.

“Only what you want, Asrael... He knows you will not be His, but there is a solution... let me bear forth another of the Void Affinity- together, we can reshape this world... all you need do is follow your heart’s desire and..." She stood to her toes to whisper a warm breath into his ear: "grant me your seed.” He found himself swallowing the contents of his dry mouth at her suggestion. Was that all he needed do? Bed this beautiful woman- the prettiest, most gracious creature he had ever laid his eyes on and offer her his seed? It struck him that neither of these beings seemed to understand that, while he still walked the earth, his organs had long since ceased their function. Producing spittle had been a challenge, but what they suggested was nothing short of madness... but perhaps, with the power of a Demon- a being from beyond the realms of possibility’s limitations... Lita turned him around to face her and continued tracing his otherworldly runes. He narrowed his eyes to signal his suspicion as he asked;

“And what assurances do I have that you do not do to me, what you have done to Titus? How long will I be your puppet before you drive me insane with your tricks?” The Asrael in the mirror remained unmoving- unblinking and unbreathing as he responded: “The Man is what he was always meant to be. All I have done was to offer him what his heart desired most- his elevation to his true self is his merit alone.” Asrael looked away from the mirror, as seen above his shoulder, to find Lita still looked at him with her dazzling, green eyes. She whispered: “Titus has only now stopped pretending.” It made his stomach churn to hear the angelic being speak Neda’s words, as if to reveal that she knew everything he did.

Despite his hesitance, he was finding it increasingly difficult to resist the approaching woman as she reached for his face. He wished to lean into her and to step away from her with rivaling intensity. She grabbed hold of his cheek and the angle of his jaw to lead his face down towards her, when finally: Asrael saw something in the corner of his eye. It was a slight movement- a wrinkle of a nose and a showing of pristinely white teeth- puzzling as they belonged to a Blightlander who had never heard of dental pastes before they had met.

“Get the fuck off of him!” Neda roared as she soared through the room- both her knives poised for a stab. Asrael hardly had the time to turn to investigate before the white dress collided with him and nearly knocked him off his footing. A sharp pain in the center of his chest sent him reeling backwards, where his back stopped against the heavy mirror. Ahead of him, Neda stood with her dagger at the ready- scanning the dark, sticky chamber with menacing, trembling lips, bared teeth and a glare to her red eyes that unnerved even the Necromancer.

“Where did you go, you loose-crotched sandlurker!?” She shouted and waved her one dagger around. Asrael could feel a splitting headache emerge as an occult veil lifted from his mind. Had she cast another one of her tricks on him? Of course- it made more sense than her vivid tales of the Void and that awful Satyr. He quickly spun about to verify his suspicion and saw, to his delight, that the only thing moving in the mirror was himself and his frantic, infuriated companion- his savior.

He turned to look at her with disbelief. A moment previous, he had nearly been lured into bedding the terrorizing woman that seemed to live off of his misery, only to be saved by a mad wildling with a knife. He breathed a deep sigh of relief as his foolishness dawned on him- the Void... Surely, it had to be a trickery of his mind. Thankfully, neither of his companions had the wisdom nor the consciousness to see the trickery.

“Did you do it!? Did you-… did you do anything with her!?” Neda turned around and waved the knife about- demanding an answer from her Master. In the brief moment of relief that followed the invasion into his mind, he imagined he may well have been capable of complying with her demand to kiss him, not to punish her, as he had always thought a touch from his lips would be, but to sate her curious thirst for him. Considering he knew nothing of romance, save from having been forced to witness the insufferable plays in Capita, he decided against it and let the gravity of the illusion’s message wash over him.

“No... but not for her lack of her trying. Now, come. We must leave immediately... with any luck, she has retracted back into whatever Hell she crawled out of.” Sensing a relief beyond his frown, she briefly pondered... was this her chance to strike? Before he could grab hold of her and Bartholomew, Neda bent forward, pursed her lips and closed her eyes. He could scarcely believe his fortunate misfortune. The girl was, undoubtedly, as simple as could be. A moment previous she had fought off magics he could not and now, she was prostrating herself in the middle of enemy territory.

Thankfully... unfortunately... she had gravely misread the situation. Her heart leapt with joy and expectation as he grabbed hold of her wrist and led her hand forward to her missing dagger and found, to her horror, that it stuck out from Asrael’s chest. She opened her eyes to verify her suspicion. In her furious display of her prowess, she had swung out to gravely displease her Master- a displeasure he was all too eager to display beneath his lowered brow and the pained grimace. With a yelp of agony, he used her hand to jerk the blade out of his chest- already dreading the hours upon hours of patchwork ahead of him and grabbed Bartholomew by the wrist to lead both his airheaded companions back into the cellar.