The Millionth and Fifth were taken to the other side of the Golden Gate where lush grasslands and sapphire streams stretched for miles in all directions. Like a TARDIS, the Stronghold appeared even bigger on the inside than it did on the outside.

In the distance, peeking out over the hills was a lavish palace straddling both sides of a deep-blue river. The land beyond the gate was clustered with towns, many of which dwelt within the shadow of Midnah-Dogu’s walls. Thick forests bridged the gaps between the towns, parting only to give way to the acres of grasslands surrounding the palace.

They were driven down a perfectly straight, marble road stretching all the way to the palace walls, surrounded by Moonlamps, front and back. Shem and Avana held Dawit between them. Avana was a lot stronger than she looked. Kai hobbled on the staff Shem had forged earlier, Keon supporting him on the other side. His neck was bruising from the vice like grip of Dout’s claws, causing him to habitually rub at it every few minutes.

“You alright there, bro?” said Kai.

“Am I alright?” croaked Keon, eyeing Kai’s foot.

“Hey! I was tryna to be nice. Don’t be a mug about it.”

Keon nodded, huffing a smile.

“He showed you things, didn’t he?”

“Is that what that was?”

Kai leaned in closer, careful not to draw too much attention.

“When he grabs you, he can look into your heart and see your doubts. Then he pulls them out and uses them to craft new Mynds. He can do even more damage if he gets his hands on a Codex,” he said, nodding at Keon’s.

His back prickled with shame.

“Another one of Shem’s hacks?” said Kai, eyes narrowed.

Keon’s face fell to the floor.

“Not exactly…”

He’d tried to justify it in his mind. That Shem shouldn’t have belittled him in front of the others. He’d spent half an hour just trying to decipher Shem’s notes. The shape and design of the weapons was pretty straight forward, as were the steps to build them. It was the ‘materials’ part that had baffled him. There were these cross-references to other sections of the Codex, but every time he turned to those pages, all he found was poetry. Some of it seemed eerily familiar, other parts random or highly symbolic. Most of it was addressed to the King, which was odd. He’d heard of paying homage to royalty, but this had bordered on obsessive. In the end, he’d figured he’d just copy what sounded cool and dangerous and hope for the best. Clearly, he’d gone wrong somewhere. He’d followed the steps to the letter, but by the time he reached Dout, the sword had gone limp as a boneless fish!

Noticing Kai was watching him, he decided to change the subject.

“Who are these guys, anyway?”

“They’re Moonlamps.”

“I thought they were all Moonlamps?”

“Not like these guys. They’re fanatics. Part of the Wall Guard by the looks of it.”

After a twenty-minute walk, they passed through the towering gates of the palace into a large courtyard. A fountain lay at its centre, identical to the one they’d seen earlier inside the Golden Gate; only, rather than children frolicking around the water, it was guarded, north, south, east and west by Moonlamps. Like the square, the courtyard was framed by a marble path.

As it turned out, the palace wasn’t a single building at all, but rather a complex of pavilions, gardens, villas and apartments. They slowed to a stop as they approached the pavilion on the other side of the courtyard. The Moonlamp leader was met by a man in long, white robes who whispered something in his ear. He nodded and turned to his companions.

“Take them to the barracks and wait for my word.”

* * *

Aslan Koyun entered the opulent marble portico of the pavilion. The Rayiys would be waiting for him in the council hall, beyond the giant cedar doors. He bristled with apprehension. Turning to one of the side rooms, he found his attendant waiting for him with a black kameez folded over one arm. Exchanging his fatigues for the kameez, he straightened the collar, dusted himself down and headed for the hall.

It was sparsely furnished, save for a large red couch and matching carpet emblazoned with the seal of the House of Safya. The idea was to humble the Rayiys, that he not presume to see himself as ruler. That title was reserved for only one: the mighty Almuluk; King of Underland. Even so, this was no easy feat given the prestige of the noble House of Safya; custodians of the palace for seven generations. Aslan glanced up at the recent addition the Rayiys had made to commemorate the continuance of the House. Hanging from the ceiling like a glistening glass octopus was a crystal chandelier.

The Rayiys sat, fist pressed against his cheek, other hand heavy on his knee; clad in a crimson kaftan and cream skullcap. His dogged eyes dug into Aslan’s soul, but he wouldn’t look away. He couldn’t show weakness.

“When word reached my ears that you were bringing them here, I thought, ‘Surely not. Surely my firstborn would have more sense than to defile these grounds…’” drawled the Rayiys.

“Baba…”

One terse look from the Rayiys cut him short. He swallowed, catching himself.

“My lord bashi…Some of them required medical attention…”

The Rayiys thumped the sofa.

“They brought a Mental Mynd into our city!”

Aslan fought to keep his eyes level with the Rayiys.

“Isn’t it within our remit to show compassion and provide aid?”

“To traitors?”

“To people, Baba.”

“ENEMIES OF ALMULUK!” he bellowed, launching himself from the couch. His entire frame seemed to shudder for a second. He caught his composure and smoothed out his kaftan before clasping his arms behind his back. Taking a breath, he approached Aslan, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“My son…as the heir of Safya, one day you will become Rayiys, and it will be your responsibility to not only defend the Walls, but to oversee the administration of this palace. You must show fortitude. Resolve. The men follow you now because your arm is strong. They won’t tomorrow if your heart is weak.”

He paced forward, leaving Aslan standing in his wake.

“How is it my daughter has more sagacity than my son?” he murmured.

Aslan’s skin tightened as his cheeks flushed with heat. He clenched his fists until his fingernails bit into the flesh of his palms.

“They’re spies. I want them interrogated. Find out why they breached our walls and what they’re after.”

“And then?”

The Rayiys turned and stared at him blankly.

The rest went without saying.

* * *

The Millionth and Fifth were led to a rectangular structure with twin, narrow stairs winding up a golden framed porch embedded in its side. Indoors was unlike any prison Keon had ever seen—or imagined. It looked more like a banqueting hall than a dungeon, complete with diamond chandeliers, gold-plated filigree on the walls and tall windows wrapped in long, heavy drapes.

The Millionth and Fifth, relieved of their shawls, were forced to the centre of the hall and made to sit down. Keon caught sight of Dawit further down to his left, slumped forward and breathing heavily. A pool of sweat was rapidly forming on the wooden floor before him. The Moonlamps eyed it with disdain. Avana rubbed his back like a concerned mother hen. It was the most emotion Keon had seen from her other than irritation. To his right, Kai leaned heavily against him, lifting up his shawl to examine his leg. Mercifully, the swelling had gone down, but it still looked like an elephant’s foot.

A commotion to the right signalled the arrival of the young Moonlamp leader who barged into the hall. He approached the centre of the room without looking at them, took a deep breath, then turned to stare them down, hands clasped behind his back.

Another Moonlamp approached and handed him one of the shawls. It was Shem’s, judging by the blue and white tassels. The Moonlamp leader took it, scrutinising the Torchbearer seal with his thumb.

“You brought a Mental into our city.”

“That wasn’t…our intention,” huffed Dawit.

“What were your intentions?”

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Dawit glanced at Shem whose sphinx-like countenance remained firm and forward facing.

“We were just passing through,” he continued.

“In disguise?” said Aslan, holding up the shawl, “Did you have something to hide?”

“Careful with that. It’s a family heirloom,” said Shem.

Aslan scoffed, tossing the shawl into the middle of the floor like garbage.

“Are we your prisoners now?” snapped Avana, her contempt for Moonlamps scarcely concealed.

He stopped, turning with a smile to his companions.

“She’s pretty, this one.”

“Back off, mate,” said Shem.

Aslan turned to him like a predatory hawk.

“And if I don’t, how’re you planning to stop me?”

Before he could answer, Aslan flickered forward and kicked him square in the chest with the flat of his foot, shoving Shem unnaturally hard to the ground.

Keon sprang to his feet, stopping short only when two Moonlamps blocked his path, hands on the clasps of their codices.

“Whoa, man! What’s your problem?!”

Shem groaned, writhing on the wooden floor, groping to push himself up with one palm.

“Why help us if you’re just gonna attack us?!”

Aslan skulked towards Keon.

“It’s not the first time we’ve had to clean up one of your messes, Torchbearer!”

“Well, I ain’t a Torchbearer,” he said defiantly.

He felt the eyes of the others pin on him, and a pang of guilt stabbed at his heart.

Aslan stared him up and down for a few seconds, then turned, walking over to the pile of shawls lying against the wall. Rifling through them, he found Keon’s and held it up, thumbing the insignia. It didn’t shimmer in the light like the others and the lamp wasn’t lit. He turned back, awed.

“You really have no allegiance…”

He crumpled the insignia between his fist.

“Take him to my private quarters,” he said. “Secure the rest below.”

* * *

Keon was taken to an opulent apartment reminiscent of another banqueting hall, lined with deep maroon sofas and fully carpeted. Multiple doors led to equally massive adjoining chambers. He’d been led to sit on an oversized, but incredibly comfortable, armchair. The windows were open, but he wasn’t sure how high up he was. He could probably use the drapes to make some kind of rope, like he always saw people do on TV, but he’d have to figure out how to deal with the guards first. They were huge, watching his every twitch with unwavering scrutiny.

After several silent minutes, the twin cedar doors to the chamber opened and the young Moonlamp sauntered in. He was carrying a tray full of cups, a pot, what Keon could only assume was milk and a small plate of sugar cubes. Setting it down on a small table, he began pouring two cups of steaming black coffee. Keon’s nose sizzled at the scent. It was Mum who’d introduced him to coffee at age twelve, and he’d never looked back.

“No hard feelings about before, yeah?” the Moonlamp said with a smile.

The hairs on Keon’s back stood taught. He frowned, for the first time noting his accent.

“You’re from East…”

“Tower Hamlets. And you?”

Keon sat, unyielding.

“There’s no postcode beef here, bro. It’s cool.”

When Keon still wouldn’t budge, he shrugged.

“Fair enough,” he said, extending a hand. “Aslan.”

“As in, Narnia?”

“As in, Turkish.”

Keon looked at the outstretched hand, then back at him. Aslan let his hand drop to his knee as he took a seat. He picked four golden-brown sugar cubes off the top of the pile.

“Sugar?”

“I don’t care, man.”

“You look like a sugar guy to me,” he said, dropping three cubes into the other cup. “As for myself,” he held up a single cube between his finger and thumb. “Sweet enough as it is.”

Keon rolled his eyes, scanning the room in disinterest.

“So,” said Aslan, lifting the cup to his lips. “What did they tell you about us?”

Keon shrugged.

“That you serve a different king.”

“And what do you think?”

“I dunno what to think.”

“That’s good. You still have questions.”

Keon’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t believe something just ‘cause someone tells me to.”

“I know exactly what you mean…” said Aslan, leaning forward.

“Really? ‘Cause that applies to you too.”

Aslan chuckled, nodded, then returned the cup to the tray, pressing his fingertips together.

“Have any of them ever seen the King?”

Keon’s eyes roamed as if he were tracking a fly.

“They’ve spoken to him…apparently.”

Aslan laughed. Keon was glad someone found all this amusing, because he sure didn’t.

“No one’s seen the King and no one’s had the honour of speaking with him since the Intermediary.”

“So, take it up with them then. Why you talking to me about it?”

“‘Cause you haven’t been corrupted by their lies yet. You still seek the truth.”

“Oh yeah” said Keon with a nod of his chin, “And what’s that?”

“The Kalimat Mithali.”

Keon scoffed.

“You mean that big, stone book you all seem to worship?”

Aslan smiled, impressed.

“The King’s Codex. Unquestionable. Undeniable. Unassailable.”

“How do you know it’s the King’s if no one’s ever seen him?”

“For many years, the Intermediary—our founder—served in his court as the royal scribe. Every word the King ever spoke, he recorded in a book. That book became the Kalimat Mithali. Just look around you. This entire palace was forged from its pages.”

Keon scanned the room once more. It was magnificent, but there was nothing particularly unique about the architecture. Then he caught a fleeting hint of it; almost imperceptible. A flowing script embossed into every brick, every stone, every beam of wood. Even the carpets. Just as he’d seen at the King’s Table and on Zahara’s sword.

“What’s this supposed to prove?”

Aslan leaned back in his chair.

“The weight of Almuluk’s words. There’s nothing like this palace in all of Underland.”

Keon shook his head.

“It all sounds a bit fruity to me.”

Aslan was right about one thing though; he hadn’t seen anything like it so far. As if reading his thoughts, Aslan continued.

“Think about it. They claim to follow the King, but they have no cities, no fortresses, no order. They’re this scattered horde; hiding in the wild like animals. Does that sound like a kingdom to you?”

Keon shrugged.

“Sounds like a rebellion.”

Aslan gestured with a ‘well, there you go.’

“Ain’t nothing wrong with a little rebellion,” said Keon with a smirk.

The corner of Aslan’s mouth seemed to twitch as his eyes incrementally narrowed.

“What did you think of the city?” he said, glancing out the window. The Golden Gate was just visible from his vantage point.

Keon bobbed his head from side to side, lips pursed.

“The food looked nice.”

“Yeah?”

Aslan snapped his fingers and his attendant brought in another tray, teeming with a variety of steaming meats, salads, roasted vegetables and newly baked bread.

“Aww, come on man…” he exhaled.

“What, you’re not hungry?”

Keon huffed and shook his head, smiling.

“They told me not to eat anything.”

“Why?”

His smile evaporated.

“‘Cause they said you’d want something in return—like my name—and you’d probably sell it to the Mysts.”

Aslan shrugged.

“Bit of an oversimplification…”

“So, do you trade with them or not?”

Aslan’s eyes held his.

“Not all Mysts are malevolent. But I bet that’s what they told you…”

“Nah. Experience taught me that.”

Aslan picked a smattering of various delicacies, laying himself a plate.

“Truth is, they’re not that different from you or me; or anyone else actually. Flawed. Complicated. Shades of grey, rather than black or white. But like all subjects of the King, they were born with a choice. They either chose to accept his guidance, or they rejected it. Those who accepted it joined Alkabila, the Tribe, and are welcome in the Walls. Those who didn’t remain outside in kargasha, confusion. Just like all who roam outside.”

“What are you all so afraid of?”

“It ain’t a matter of fear, bro. It’s wisdom. Out there’s a world full of lies. I’m sure you’ve seen the wild Mynds.”

Keon’s eyes roamed, processing.

“So, yeah—we trade with Mysts, but only to set people free.”

Keon’s brow bent.

“What do you mean?”

Aslan stood, rolling back the sleeves on his kameez to reveal thick, golden chained bracelets wrapped around the wrists. There was a similar chain around his neck and two more bound around his ankles. Aslan traced his fingers over the links, then pulled as though yanking something taut that Keon couldn’t see. For a fleeting moment, another gold chain appeared to catch the light, flashing between his hands and vanishing a split-second later. The jingle of the metal reverberated round the room, ringing in Keon’s ears. Then, like a creeping evening shadow, a figure started to emerge from Aslan’s back wearing an identical kameez.

It was another Aslan!

A whole other Aslan.

One more tug on the invisible chain and the other Aslan stopped. His countenance was cold; a shadow seemed to hang over it, with silvery, moon-shine eyes piercing ferociously through the darkness. He seemed to flicker and dance on the spot as though desperate to move but pinned to the spot.

Keon gripped the armrests of his chair, trying to distract his body from the panic boiling over his bones. He’d seen those eyes before. That dull, desaturated skin.

“That’s a Mirror...” he said, trying to hide the shakiness in his voice.

“My Mirror,” said Aslan with a sliver of pride.

He raised an arm and the Mirror followed suit; then another. Finally, he let both arms fall to his sides and the Mirror mirrored his movements.

Keon eye’s blinked wide as he leaned forward in the oversized armchair, the throb of his pulse slowing to a dull thud.

“How’re you doing that?”

“We Masabih follow the principle of the Five Links,” he said, pointing to each chain in sequence, starting with the neck. “The Creed, the Wall, the Balance, the Focus, and the Foundation. By holding to the Five Links,” he gripped the invisible bands of gold between both hands, “We bind our Mirrors to the Chain.”

“You can control them?”

“With the Chain, yes.”

Keon’s stare settled over the golden bands around Aslan’s wrists; elaborately decorated in silver with the same calligraphy that lined the walls. Aslan calmly took his seat, whilst his Mirror took a spot standing behind him.

“I bet they told you, you had to ‘face your Mirror’, or some crap, init? How’d that work out for you?”

Keon shuffled in his seat, as though it had suddenly grown too small for him.

“It didn’t.”

“‘Cause it doesn’t. It’s mad.”

“So, why do they do it then?”

“Because they believe in a myth…the myth of the Perfect Mirror.”

“The what?”

Aslan leaned back in his chair, smoothing his trousers.

“Torchbearers say there was once a man born in Underland who had the power to control his Mirror. Perfectly. They called him the ‘Coming King of Underland.’ But no one’s born in Underland, they’re summoned. And there is no ‘Coming King.’ There’s only one King; Almuluk.”

“Is that why you’re beefing them? Over who’s throne it is?”

“They’re traitors to the Throne! They’d rather take some pretender as their lord than serve the true King!”

“Alright Prince Caspian…”

“D’you think you’re funny, bruv?”

Keon shrugged in tickled triumph.

“I think I’m hilarious…”

“This ain’t a joke, bro. What happens here matters!”

At this, Keon recomposed himself, suddenly remembering his dad.

“Alright, and this ‘Perfect Mirror’, you’re saying no one can control a Mirror without this Chain?”

Aslan nodded, slowly. He took hold of the invisible chain, wrapping it around his hand before pulling like he was stringing up a stray animal. His Mirror stood ridged, orbed eyes fixed on Keon.

“They’re beasts…but like all beasts, you can put ‘em on a leash. What Torchbearers call ‘freedom’? That’s madness, bruv; setting these things loose to run wild, thinking they can ‘tame’ them. Almuluk showed us how to bind the beast.”

Keon looked Aslan up and down.

“So, what are you saying?”

Aslan released the chain and leant back in his chair, an air of triumph settling over him.

“I’m saying, we can help you.”

Keon’s eyebrows flickered with a frown.

“Mysts traffic in Mirrors and we trade with Mysts for Mirrors. We can find yours, give you a Chain, and you’ll never have to fear the beast again.”

“What makes you think I’m afraid?”

Aslan creaked forward.

“‘Cause if you’re not, you’re a fool…and you don’t look like a fool to me.”