Dawn had long rent a path across the sky, casting spires of light over the hilly grasslands of Meshech. This place was different in a way that was almost tangible. The light seemed dimmer, the air thicker. What’s more, there wasn’t a dragonblood tree in sight. Keon had grown used to seeing them everywhere, dotting the horizon and towering over the hills. But here, there was nothing.

As they worked their way across the landscape, he couldn’t help but look back periodically as though Helel would pop up out of the ground at a moment’s notice or the Moonlamps would resume their pursuit. He wondered what Aslan was thinking right now, knowing his sister—his twin sister—had gone with them? If what Asya said about Aslan’s Mirror was true, he’d hate to see what he’d do if he ever caught her. Not that he’d let anything happen to her. He’d fight him if he had to. Sure, Aslan made short work of Dout and Dout had succinctly handed Keon his own backside. But that was before. He’d be ready for him next time.

Looking up from his brooding, he homed in on Wellworn’s back. He hadn’t answered his question; he’d simply smiled and walked away. But seriously, who was he? Helel called him ‘Dawn-Son.’ There was something eerily familiar about the term and it was nagging at him. But more to the point, Helel ibn Shakar was intimidated by him. By a tiny gnat of a guy with a sword!

The others had just walked off, of course, following Wellworn as though they were all in on the secret (which, to be fair, they probably were). Or perhaps—something told him—it was an invitation. He’d felt the urge to rebel suddenly surge within him, but he’d suppressed it. He wanted answers, right? His Codex had seemed to shudder in response.

Picking up the pace, he drew alongside Wellworn, staring up at his broad shoulders. His brown locks peaked out over the lion’s mane hood of his jacket.

“You never use a Codex,” said Keon, an eyebrow raised.

“Hmm?” Wellworn replied.

“A Codex. That’s twice now I haven’t seen you use one.”

Wellworn smiled without turning or breaking his stride.

“And you’re the only person I’ve seen with a real sword. Everyone else Forges.”

“You have a good eye,” he said.

Emboldened by the compliment, Keon skipped to catch up, stepping in front of him.

“Where’d you get it, and how d’you keep all those blades hidden under your jacket?”

He hadn’t seen any scabbards. Any sheathes. Any obvious sign of where Wellworn stored all that weaponry. He was like a magician pulling an endless string of handkerchiefs from his sleeve.

“I’m Captain of the King’s armies,” said Wellworn.

Keon scoffed.

“That ain’t an answer.”

Wellworn chuckled.

“Maybe not the one you expect, but an answer nonetheless.”

Keon slowed his stride as Wellworn passed, processing. Screw it. He had to ask.

“At the Eastern Monument…is that where I’ll learn Mirror Mastery?”

The Millionth and Fifth suddenly ground to a halt, and for a second, he wondered whether he’d said something wrong. All eyes had fallen on him.

“Where’d you ‘ear about that?” said Shem.

“From me,” said Asya, stepping forward with a flick of her chin. “It’s the reason I helped you all escape in the first place. I wanna know if it’s real.”

Wellworn gently approached her, a slight smile creasing his scarred face.

“And where did you learn of Mirror Mastery, child? It’s not a precept of the Masabih.”

Keon frowned. He didn’t call them Moonlamps like the others.

Asya shrugged her shoulders, looking around at the Millionth and Fifth.

“When you live in a place like the palace, you hear a lot of talk. Soldiers mostly, boasting about their encounters with Torchbearers or mocking the ‘Coming King.’ All of us were taught the Myth of the Perfect Mirror, but every now and then, you’d hear rumours. That there were other Torchbearers out there who could control their Mirrors—without a Chain—and that they called it ‘Mirror Mastery.’ I figured if Mirror Mastery was true—maybe the Myth of the Perfect Mirror was true too.”

The Millionth and Fifth exchanged looks.

“For as long as I can remember, I’d always had a Chain,” she said, staring at the ground in remembrance. “But the older I got, the more it felt like I wasn’t the one in control of my Mirror— but that it was the one controlling me. Like—whatever it wanted, I couldn’t resist. And the more I did what it wanted, the stronger it became.

“I thought maybe it was just me; that something was wrong with me. But then I saw it in my brother too. Sometimes, there was this look in his eyes; like his Mirror was there staring back at me. Then, I realised it wasn’t just him. It was my parents too. It was the soldiers. Everywhere I looked, it was like their Mirrors were just waiting for a chance to take over,” she reached for the folds of her hood near her neck, tugging and pulling it down to reveal her chainless neckline.

“I wanted to get mine out of me as fast I could. So, I did. I broke the Chain and it left. And that’s when I decided: if I ever met a Torchbearer, I’d find out if the Myth of the Perfect Mirror was true, and if it was…I’d learn Mirror Mastery. I’d set everyone free.”

Silence descended, broken only by Wellworn’s heavy footsteps as he neared Asya.

“Asya…it’s important that you understand what you are risking by coming with us. If you choose to stay and come to the Eastern Monument, you may never be able to return to Midnah-Dogu. You will be leaving everyone and everything you have ever loved behind, and there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to save them,” he said with a slow shake of the head.

Her widened eyes flickered in thought.

“Why?”

“Because, in order to learn Mirror Mastery, you must first pledge your allegiance to the King.”

Her brow furrowed and Keon scowled. Of course, there was a catch.

“But...I’ve pledged everything to Almuluk!” she said.

Wellworn, slowly shook his head, solemn.

“You pledged your allegiance to a usurper. The Masabih teach that there is no Coming King. Thus, if he exists, he cannot be Almuluk.”

Her eyes darted, looking for the sense in what he was saying.

“The Coming King is the only one who can unlock Mirror Mastery. But don’t let the name fool you. It doesn’t guarantee the full mastery of one’s Mirror; rather, it is the power to subdue it and to wield it,” he said.

“But it is real?” said Asya, pleadingly.

“All who bear the seal of a Torchbearer are bestowed with the ability, but few have the self-discipline required to wield it,” he turned suddenly to Keon, “Your father was one of the few.”

Keon’s jaw gaped.

“My dad knew Mirror Mastery?”

“Wait,” said Shem, stepping forward with his palm out for a pause, “Are you serious?!”

Wellworn nodded and murmurs rippled through the group.

Asya leaned in towards Keon.

“Your dad?” she whispered, “Is that why you’re here?”

“Yeah—just don’t tell your brother,” he winked.

She stifled a chuckle.

“Forgive me, Captain,” said Avana. “This isn’t a question of your leadership, but I’m sure we’ve all been wondering…Just who is his father?”

Wellworn turned to Keon with a warmth he hadn’t felt directed his way before.

“The Knight.”

Kai gripped the back of his bushy head as Dawit stared with a wide-eyed grin. Shem spun round as though the very words had knocked him sideways.

“Are you kidding me?!”

“Noooo!” said Kai. “Your dad’s the Knight, bro?! How’d he get captured if he’s the Knight?!”

There was a pause as the wind seemed to swell between them.

“He was betrayed—by his Mirror,” said Wellworn.

A chill ran up the small of Keon’s back and caught in his throat.

“What?”

“Wait,” said Kai, frowning. “You just said he was one of the best.”

Wellworn glanced in his direction.

“I also said that it does not guarantee the full mastery of one’s Mirror. That control can be broken,” he turned back to Keon. “When your father freed your Mirror from its Stronghold—and glimpsed the state of your heart—he was consumed by doubt.”

Keon froze inside.

“His Mirror took advantage of that doubt to break free from his control. He seized him and handed him over to the Mental Mynd.”

“He was stricken?” said Keon.

His thoughts turned to that night. To their fight about the fight.

“I—I think I know where he is,” said Keon, his voice cracking as he stepped forward. “We can go right now! We can help him!”

“Yes,” nodded Wellworn, “But you’re not ready.”

“For what?!”

The warmth that, moments ago, had seemed to enshroud him suddenly dissipated. Wellworn’s eyes grew narrow, dark and firm.

“The truth,” he said.

Keon flung his arms wide.

“What truth?!”

“That Underland is a mirror to the soul and the shards of that glass pierce deep. They cut past the lies you tell yourself to show the truth of who you are. Your Mirror is not just a thing for you to control—it is everything you refuse to admit about yourself.”

Keon stared, the wind in his sails stolen.

“Until you can do that, you will be of no use to your father.”

He turned and continued walking, calling over his shoulder.

“We make for the Eastern Monument!”

* * *

In the days that followed, they rarely stopped to forage. That didn’t mean there was nothing to eat, though. They would make camp and Wellworn would vanish into the forest or go trekking through some deep valley before returning with the ingredients to a delectable feast. Maybe he was pulling those out of his jacket too. As always, it was delicious, and Keon hated that. He hated the fact that this guy’s cooking was on another level; it made him like him even more. He hated the fact that—twice now—he’d been there to save his neck. That meant he owed him. Sure, he was grateful, but he didn’t want to owe anyone anything. ‘Owe no man anything.’ That’s what Dad always used to say. He was sure there was another part to that saying, but he couldn’t remember it.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Night had fallen and they were camped on the edge of a cliff beneath a ridge of rock that curled overhead like a tidal wave. Their position gave them a wide berth of the view over Meshech, the land lit by the pulsating mini cosmos. There they sat, warming themselves by the campfire. As had become usual, Asya sat on the fringes, unsure of whether to join them until either Keon or Wellworn offered her a seat. She was wrestling as much with what Wellworn had told her as he was. Did she go with them and find a way to free her family—even if it meant becoming an outcast—or did she go home and risk everyone staying enslaved to their Mirrors?

Avana had warmed to her somewhat since their escape, making sure she always cleared her plate. Kai and Dawit were satisfied to keep her around if Wellworn was. Shem, on the other hand, kept what Keon had learnt was his version of a ‘healthy distance’; which meant staying away from everyone, not just Asya. That reminded him; he needed to clear the air with Shem. Jonas, as usual, stood guard over everything and everyone, whilst Zahara was taking a leaf out of Shem’s book by keeping herself to herself.

At the first opportunity, Keon excused himself from Asya’s company and snuck up on Shem. He should’ve known better. His ‘pssst!’ was almost rewarded with a bloody lip.

“Flippin’ ‘eck, mate! Don’t do that!”

“Sorry!”

“Oh! Remembered how to say that ‘ave you?”

“What? I did!”

“You didn’t. You said you ‘didn’t mean for’ whatever. You never actually apologised.”

Keon shuffled with shameful discomfort. He hadn’t given much thought to a formal apology since their escape from Midnah-Dogu. He just wanted to make sure they were cool.

“Well…I am sorry. I mean…” he leaned in closer, “I didn’t tell anyone if that’s what you think.”

Shem looked around, double-checking no one else was within earshot before leaning in too.

“No one?”

Keon shook his head and Shem eyed him for a second as if trying to read him.

“Not sayin’ I trust you…but I’m trusting you, mate.”

Keon wasn’t sure that made sense, but he’d take it. The tension he’d been holding between his shoulders finally seemed to ease. He shuffled a little bit closer.

“So, are you gonna tell ‘em?”

“Tell who what?”

“Come on, man. Y’know,” he pointed with his head and Shem slapped it.

“Don’t do that you mug! Someone’ll see you!”

“Ow!”

“Sorry.”

“But seriously…”

“Nah.”

“Why not?” Keon said, flapping his arms in protest.

“That ain’t gonna work, mate. You’ve seen ‘ow it is,” he said, stuffing his hands in his armpits.

Keon leant back, dejected.

“I mean…life’s too short, man.”

“And some things ain’t meant to be. You’ll learn that when you grow up a bit.”

“What makes you think I don’t know now?” Keon said, flicking his chin.

Shem raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“How old are you, twelve?”

Keon’s eyes narrowed.

“Fourteen.”

“See? Way too young.”

“And having a beard don’t make you a man,” scoffed Keon.

Shem slowly turned, glaring at him with murderous intent until he averted his eyes.

“I mean…it’s just…something my dad used to say...”

Still Shem stared, sipping from his flask. Then he shrugged.

“Well, he ain’t wrong.”

Their cackles echoed out over the cliffs.

“Did you know him? My dad?” said Keon, hopeful.

Shem shook his head in awe and took a swig from the flask.

“Let’s just say, it makes sense why you’re with us rather’n his battalion.”

“Wait…he has his own battalion?! Why aren’t they the ones helping him then?”

“It ain’t that simple,” he said, lowering the flask. “Your dad’s been ensnared and taken by Dout, and—like it or not—that’s got something to do with you. Likelihood is you ‘ave something that’s key to breaking him out. It ain’t about numbers or brute force. It’s about what’s in ‘ere,” he said, tapping his temple, “And ‘ere,” he said, poking at Keon’s chest. “You’d know that if you waited to learn instead of jumping the gun.”

Keon looked down, fiddling with the grass between his legs. He felt the words practically prodding at his chest.

“I, uh…I still have a lot to learn.”

“Not used to that are you? Admitting you’re wrong.”

Keon shrugged with a roguish grin.

“I mean, I’m usually the smartest guy in the room.”

Shem’s shoulders shook as he looked around, arms outstretched, “I don’t see any rooms ‘ere, mate.”

Keon took a beat, his face growing serious.

“What did I do wrong?”

“You mean, other’n stealin’?” Shem reached beneath his shawl and spun his Codex out. “You remember what I told you about the sections?”

Keon nodded as Shem flipped his Codex open, scooting closer.

“Forging only works when we draw passages from Knowledge, Beliefs, Truth and Hopes. We Forge from what we know and believe to be true. So, you may know it, but if the same passage isn’t also written in Beliefs and Truths, then you don’t really believe it. Now, tell me what you did.”

“I copied the steps into Knowledge,” said Keon, pointing.

“That’s what I thought,” said Shem, shaking his head. “You know it now, yeah. But you don’t really believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“What it says,” said Shem, tapping the page with his finger.

Keon scoffed.

“You mean all that stuff about the King?”

Shem shrugged with a ‘well, there you go,’ then flicked rapidly through the pages.

“You could form the shape of the weapon, but you lacked strong materials.”

Keon’s eyes narrowed. That’s the part that had baffled him before, ‘materials.’

“The content of the text forms the nature of the materials. The strongest Forges combine material from either ‘Knowledge, Beliefs and Truth’ or ‘Knowledge, Hopes and Truth.’ You copied the materials out into Knowledge, but you didn’t believe or hope in what you wrote, so the materials were weak. You were just parroting someone else’s beliefs; there’s no power in that.”

Keon’s eyes roamed the pages before looking up.

“So, what if I just Forge from what I believe then?”

Shem shook his head.

“What d’you think Strongholds are made of mate? Or Mynds? That’s people deciding what’s true for themselves, whether it’s true or not.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Keon scoffed. “You sayin’ there’s only one truth?”

Shem sniffed a chuckle.

“Only one that counts. That’s one thing you learn in Underland, mate: all ‘truths’ ain’t valid. Take your girl for example,” he said, nodding to Asya.

“She’s not…”

Shem rolled his eyes.

“Figure of speech. What happened when she fought the Mysts?”

“Nothing… the blade sailed right through ‘em,” he said, slashing with his hand.

“Right,” Shem nodded. “‘Cause all ‘truths’ ain’t valid.”

Keon’s face was smeared with bewilderment, so Shem continued.

“Look, Moonlamps are strong, yeah and they can do all sorts of crazy things; but when it comes to fighting the real enemy, they’re powerless. That’s why they stay inside the walls.”

“The real enemy? What, Moonlamps aren’t the enemy?”

Shem glanced round, then leaned in closer, lowering his voice.

“When you realise what this place really is and how it’s connected to our world, that’s when you’ll have the power to overcome the enemy. That’s when you’ll know what the real fight is.”

* * *

Keon had shuffled over to a spot by himself near the edge of the camp. He’d heard enough about ‘truth’ to last two lifetimes and was still mulling over Shem’s words when Zahara approached. Finally. He was pretty sure she’d been avoiding him since Midnah-Dogu. Since the hug. Or maybe she’d been waiting for the right moment. Her company was comforting, and he’d missed it the last few days. She swept her shawl behind her back and gently took a seat beside him.

“You two’ve been spending a lot of time together,” she said, nodding her chin towards Asya. “Could hardly get a word in.”

Keon sniffed a chuckle. Well, that was a relief. At least she’d been trying to get a moment with him.

“She’s curious. Wants to know everything,” he said, poking the ground with a stick.

“Well, you’re the wrong person to ask then,” she said with a grin.

He convulsed with laughter.

“Just tryna’ help her settle in. Same way you guys did with me.”

She shrugged both eyebrows, looking into the distance.

“It could all be an act y’know.”

“You don’t trust her?”

She turned to him, her frown telling him that was a stupid question.

“After all that?” he said, gesturing towards the other night.

She looked away, back at the horizon.

“People aren’t always what they seem, Keon.”

Sinking further onto her backside, she reached beneath her gambeson and pulled out the golden chain, caressing the pendant between her finger and thumb.

“D’you know what this is?” she said, holding it out for him to see.

He flicked an eyebrow as he took a swig from his canteen. He’d been waiting for this.

“That’s the Arevakhach. National symbol of Armenia. I’m guessing that makes you Armenian,” he said with a wink.

She smiled so deeply her cheekbones almost rolled over her eyes. He’d actually cared enough to look that up. She didn’t know what to think. As for him, if he could have captured that smile, he would have—in fact, he would probably look it up later in his Codex.

She held the pendant close to her face, staring into the unseen memories it held.

“It belonged to my great-grandmother. She gave it to my grandmother, who gave it to my mother, who gave it to me…” she unhooked it and placed it in his palm. He turned it over between his finger and thumb, relishing the chance to finally see it up close. “She was left on a mountainside to die because she couldn’t make the march from Angora to Aleppo.”

“Angora?” he said, eyes processing. “Isn’t that…”

“Ankara. Which would be about fifty miles that way back home,” she said pointing. “And who do you think marched her from her home to die?”

He exhaled, realisation settling in.

“The Ottomans…”

Zahara stared ahead, lips clenched.

“I hear you, but…wasn’t that literally a hundred years ago?” he said, gently handing it back.

She rolled her eyes, clipping it back on.

“So, if someone told you, ‘Didn’t slavery end like, two hundred years ago?’…”

“Zahara, look at me,” he said, palms to his chest. “Half my ancestors literally oppressed the other half. It’s complicated enough for me as it is.”

She spluttered, jamming the back of her wrist against her nose to stop it from spraying.

“Stop it! You’re not supposed to make me laugh right now!”

“Sorry, but…nah, I get it. I just…she didn’t do that to your family,” he said, imploringly.

“No…but how do I know they won’t do it again? The government won’t even admit it happened.”

He frowned further.

“So, what; is she supposed to pay for that or something?”

“No! Just…don’t expect me to like her, ok?”

Keon huffed a chuckle, leaning back.

“I didn’t say you had to like her…”

“Well, clearly you like her, so…”

He blinked and she faltered, eyes wide.

She shoved herself hastily off the ground without bothering to dust herself off.

“Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

Keon watched her go as she peeled past Kai and Dawit and disappeared into the darkness. He stared at them aghast.

‘What the hell was that?’ mouthed Kai.

Keon shrugged, round eyes like twin moons, ‘I have no idea!’ He mouthed back.

* * *

The next few days were relatively quiet. Save for one day. They’d turned south a couple of days after camping at the cliff. Towards the west, seven huge ridges protruded from the horizon like the bows of seven giant ships rising out of the ocean. It was as if seven mountains had been ripped up by the roots and tipped on their sides. As if that wasn’t weird enough, something about the place was foreboding and lifeless, and everyone seemed to feel it. Shem, Dawit, Kai, Avana. All of them eyed the spectacle with a kind of wistful melancholy. Jonas stared straight ahead as if to avoid it and Zahara fiddled with her shawl. Every now and then though, he caught her glancing at it.

“Why do you all keep staring at it? What is this place?” he said.

Wellworn stopped. He hadn’t been watching but he knew what they were looking at all the same. Slowly he turned to face the horizon and took a few steps towards it. For a moment, he said nothing, his face pained.

“They were once the Seven Great Lampstands of Meshech. Beacons of light,” he said.

He held his gaze for a few precious seconds, then turned and walked away. The rest got the message and followed. Keon wasn’t ready though, turning this way and that in silent protest. Like it did any good.

Dawit paused alongside him and leaned in, nodding to the seven ridges.

“Now, they’re Moonlamp Strongholds,” he said.

Keon stood a moment longer, frowning into the distance.

* * *

This one was by far the biggest. No. Biggest was an understatement. He’d been in Underland for a minute. He’d seen a lot of these dragonblood trees. Never up close, mind you; their paths always seemed to weave around them. But now that he was this close, there was no doubt. This one was by far the biggest.

They were still several miles off from the trunk, and yet the outer fringes of its crown were already overshadowing them. It was like a ten-mile-wide, wooden flying saucer hovering over their heads. Its sheer size reminded Keon of a huge, flattened mushroom or the terrifying blast of the Tsar Bomba. Even this far back, they were treading past some of its thick roots, breaking out of the ground like giant serpents twisting through the grass. But the weirdest thing was the ridge, like the seven he’d seen the other day. Close up, it looked like a dragonblood tree that had fallen. Half of the crown was sticking up out of the ground forming the ridge. It must have been there for centuries. He could see the long, twisted shafts of the branches underneath it. Thick forests and foliage had grown up along the slopes of its underside and a dilapidated city had built up around it. Half of it went up the top of the ridge, the other half sheltered underneath it. The skin on his back tightened and a chill ran through his stomach. If what Dawit said the other day was true, they might be walking into a Moonlamp Stronghold.

As they neared the city, a few stragglers came out of their battered homes to watch. Though the city was sizeable, it was quiet; its people appeared weary and dishevelled. They didn’t look like Moonlamps. Or Torchbearers. But what they all had in common were dark hooded shawls to match their cloudy visages.

“Wayfinders,” whispered Dawit, almost reading his thoughts. “Descendants of the Nihra.”

The Millionth and Fifth entered a wide main street that cut a path through the city, leading directly towards the gargantuan dragonblood tree. Suddenly, there was a commotion. A man was tracking alongside them, scrambling over upturned market stools and tripping over baskets, kicking and screaming at the top of his lungs. The rest of the people, old and young, men, women, and children, glowered at them as they passed. The man’s voice was shrill. If he screamed anymore, he’d likely lose it. Then came the rock. It missed but skimmed past Wellworn’s nose. He stopped but didn’t turn to look.

The guy was screaming in a foreign language, and Keon was certain Shem understood it. His trembling hand was hovering over his harness. If he gritted his teeth anymore, he’d probably grind them to powder. At another yell from the man, Shem whipped round and surged forward. He pulled on the harness, swinging his Codex round. Two scarred, brazen arms hooked him underneath his armpits, crossing his chest and pinning him fast.

“Shem!” said Wellworn, speaking directly into his ear, “He doesn’t know what he’s doing…and neither do you!”

Shem flinched as if to make another attempt, his mouth now clamped shut. After a few seconds, his trembled ceased. The raging waters of his countenance calmed, and his hand moved away from the harness.

Wellworn released him.

He turned, looked up at Wellworn, then quickly cast his gaze away; ashamed to meet his eyes.

“‘M Sorry,” he said.

He wiped his nose with the back of his bracer and stomped off. Keon skipped to catch up with him, watching the maniacal man as they went.

“The heck did he say?!” he hissed.

Shem didn’t answer. Not at first.

“‘They killed us because of you…Harlot-Son.’”

That’s when Keon realised.

The man had been speaking Hebrew.