“A mirror?”

“Yes.”

“A mirror that eats people?”

“That’s what I’ve heard, my Lady.”

“Heard as in ‘send urgent help, there’s a carnivorous mirror on the rampage’ or heard as in ‘you’ll never guess what hoax we’re using to trick the unwary. It is the most stupid one you will have ever encountered.’ There are degrees to these things, you realise.”

Bayran Shareen, Priestess of the Inner Temple of Misrule, silently counted to ten. Dealing with Knights of the Road was a tricky proposition at the best of times, let alone one so wet behind the ears she was basically dripping.

There was a reason most towns declared martial law when one of their Class passed through on their Tours. She knew the town’s garrison was filled to bursting with everyone capable of holding a blade brushing up on their combat training. To be fair, it was unlikely even a well-drilled army could do much should a Knight’s ire be raised, but misery loved company, after all.

She took in the figure standing before her. Tall, built like a farmer’s wife and with all the confidence of someone who had wrestled a mountain bear and now had a nice new rug. The story went that this girl- fifteen if she was a day - had been trained by Gallant Stonehand himself. Whether that turned out to be a boon or curse remained to be seen.

Early impressions were not good.

Still, you played the cards the Lords dealt you. Even when it was a pair of deuces.

“I was given the information in good faith, my Lady, and asked, with all haste, to pass it on to you. My Archbishop felt the presence of a mirror devouring the soul of anyone who gazed into it would be something you probably should seek to address on your Tour. To that end, I have been tasked with giving you all the support you may require in bringing the matter to a close.”

“It’s a mirror. You planning to help me sweep up the broken pieces after I smash it?”

Daine Orban, newly appointed Knight of the Road, was feeling a touch underwhelmed by her early experiences on Tour. Apart from a rather one-sided brawl with some unwise bandits, there had been precious little to exercise her sword arm thus far. That said, she was barely three months into her first ten-year Tour and had just arrived at the town of Droughton-on-the-Water.

There was still time for things to become interesting.

However, she did not like this Priestess. She did not like her Order, dedicated as it was to the worship of the unruly children of the Goddess. She did not like her huge green eyes, artfully enhanced by elaborate black lines. She did not like her flawless, golden skin. She did not like her long black hair tied up with a pretty pink bow. She did not like the breathy quality to her voice: she should see a Healer if she had such trouble successfully filling her lungs. And she did not like how … huge she felt standing beside her.

Jealousy is an unworthy emotion, the Goddess gently admonished. You have other qualities beyond the aesthetic.

“My lady is very droll.” Bayran tossed her hair in a careless manner that nearly earned her a summary decapitation. “Archbishop Jerule would like the matter resolved and is concerned enough to have despatched me, a Priestess of the Inner Temple, with all haste, to beg your assistance in the matter. That alone should convince you of the significance of the matter being viewed.”

Not quite with all haste, thought Daine. You managed to pack quite the wardrobe.

“Tell me more about this mirror.”

“I am barely more informed than you at this point, my Lady. If I may, can I suggest we seek first-hand experience of the artefact and then decide on a course of action?” Bayan’s voice was coated with enough faux sincerity to stun a charging boar.

Daine looked past the Priestess at the long line of supplicants presenting their concerns to her. If recent experiences were anything to go by, she would hear complaints about noisy neighbours, land disputes and egregious taxation demands for the next few hours. She doubted there would be much interest for the Goddess here, but denying the people their chance for justice would be wrong: however minor the crime may be.

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The mirror can wait; justice needs to be done. It needs to be seen to be done.

Accepting the Goddess’ guidance, Daine gestured for Bayran to step aside. “As you can see, I have duties here and cannot abandon my post so easily. However, once the people’s concerns have been heard and addressed, I will be happy to accompany you to deal with the danger that has so alarmed your Archbishop.”

Bayran possessed just enough survival instinct not to roll her eyes at a being capable of raising the town without drawing sweat. But, Lords, give her a Knight on their second, even their third Tour: they at least understood how the world really worked. But, unfortunately, this child still had all her delusions about justice to be knocked out of her.

“I stand poised to leap into action the moment you are ready, my Lady. Tell me when you feel enough local justice has been dispensed to be able to address a soul-eating mirror.” And she curtsied with such grace, beauty and precision that Daine had to force her hands to unclench.

Just because no one present would question her crushing the skull of a Priestess of the Lords of Misrule was not a good enough reason to do it. Whilst the admiration of the common folk was not part of her motivation in becoming a Knight of the Road, she would be lying if she did not think about how she would like some of the songs to be written about her to go. It seemed unlikely that straight-up murdering an unarmed Priestess for being impertinent would make for a catchy number.

“Thank you. Until this evening, then.” She felt the Goddess smile indulgently at the unspoken ‘you bitch’ in her words.

The Priestess held her low curtsey, clearly planning to stay in that position until Daine was finished.

Well, two of us can play at that game. “Now, my good sir,” she turned her attention to the Farmer, anxiously twisting his hat in his hands, “please tell me more about your oxen. Leave no detail, no matter how insignificant, unspoken. I have all day.”

*

A little distance from where a Priestess and a Knight warred for supremacy, a mirror hung on a nondescript wall in an unheralded house, an oddly menacing presence amidst a dimly lit room.

Its frame, wrought from blackened iron, twisted and contorted like a gnarled hand reaching out from the depths of the abyss. Jagged edges and wicked spikes adorned its periphery, casting eerie shadows that danced and flickered in the meagre light. To look on it was to feel, in some manner, unclean. As if just looking upon that frame inflicted violence upon the observer.

And, to be perfectly clear, it did.

Nevertheless, it was the glass that truly commanded attention. Not entirely transparent, and yet neither was it wholly opaque. Its slick and oily surface seemed to shift and writhe as if a maleficent force lurked just beneath, waiting for unsuspecting prey. It looked for all the world like a pond under which lay a terrifying predator.

To gaze on it was to see a portal into a world of unspeakable horrors. This was no ordinary mirror, for it thirsted for the essence of life, an insatiable hunger that knew no bounds.

Daine’s confidence that such glass would break at contact was destined to be, potentially fatally, incorrect.

Once, this mirror had been nothing more than a vessel of reflection, a tool to observe one's own visage. But in recent weeks and months, it had transformed into a conduit of damnation, an instrument of wickedness. Dark energies swirled within its depths, a maelstrom threatening to consume all who dared to peer into its cursed glass.

Those who had succumbed to their curiosity and gazed upon the mirror found themselves ensnared, their souls bound to the whims of its insidious power. With each passing moment, their life force drained away, sucked into the mirror's unholy abyss. Eyes once filled with vitality grew dull and lifeless, their essence seeping into the dark recesses of the glass.

That an Archbishop of the Lords of Misrule had heard about this artefact was unsurprising. His gods, as indifferent as they generally were to the lives of mortals, could not fail to find such a force of negative energy abhorrent.

But the mirror cared nought for the views of gods. Instead, it revelled in its regular feasts, a ravenous predator savouring the essence of its victims. It grew more robust with each soul devoured, its power intensifying as it amassed a legion of stolen life forces. The air around it grew heavy, suffused with an otherworldly aura that twisted the senses and left one's skin crawling with unease.

The unfortunate souls trapped within the mirror's clutches were condemned to an existence of eternal torment. Their consciousness melded with the force that permeated the glass, trapped in a perpetual state of suffering. Their screams echoed through the ethereal plane, a haunting chorus that served as a warning to all who dared approach.

The Lords of Misrule had whispered to the Archbishop of the mirror's creation, a pact forged with a demon of unimaginable power. A foolish woman who sacrificed her own soul to bind the demon within the mirror's embrace. In doing so, she had unleashed a curse upon the world that would continue to consume the souls of the unwary.

Until someone stopped it.

And so, the mirror stood, pulling soul after soul into its maw. Its dark allure drew the desperate and the curious, ensnaring them in its web of despair. It thirsted for souls, a hunger that could never be quenched. The mirror, a gateway to oblivion, served as a chilling reminder of the depths to which humanity could sink and the price paid for such ambition.

“A mirror that eats people,” Bayran had said. Would the truth have been anything so simple.