Hatash was too stunned to say anything. Before he could get his senses back, the woman was gone.

He turned to look at the stranger, who stood there quietly.

“Why do you always watch me like that?” he asked in annoyance.

Sebharan said nothing.

Not that Hatash had expected him to talk. He never expected that anymore. If the last few hours had taught him anything, it was that he was on his own.

He stared at the key in his hand, then at the lock.

“Well, I suppose we should use this.”

As quietly as he could, he unlocked the door and swung it open. He peered down the hall in one direction, then the other. Voices still drifted to him from afar, but there was no one in sight. He slipped out of the cell and, following Mirelle’s instructions, made his way to a torch in a side tunnel. He grabbed it and pulled it down. Part of the wall pivoted and he slid through the opening, closing it behind him.

He started down the dark tunnel. There were torches here too, he noticed, but they were spread further apart. Their flames seemed dimmer, though they flickered just as hungrily when he went past them.

The woman’s words still fresh in his mind, he took every turn she had mentioned. He meant to kill no one, let alone a king, but this was his only chance to get out. Hopefully, he would find a way to leave the castle.

He stopped when he reached the large wooden panel Mirelle had mentioned. Feeling the surface around it, he found the hidden mechanism that would make it slide open.

It did.

He tiptoed into the room.

Despite the late hour—he could see the moon out the nearest window—there were lit candles burning set on a shelf. Books were spread on a table against the back wall. A red carpet covered the floor, and paintings hung on the wall.

There only was one door. It stood wide open, and Hatash could hear snoring from the other side.

He slowly made his way to the opening and glanced through it.

This was a much more spacious room, with a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and another small table with a mirror above it that made him recoil. He shook his head and looked away, toward the large bed across from him. There lay a man, sleeping on his side, his back turned to him.

Hatash saw two other doors and hoped one of them would lead to the hall.

He started toward one of them, but felt a hand grab his arm. Startled, he turned and saw Sebharan holding a sword in his free hand, which he held out to him.

Where had the blade come from? He’d never seen the stranger carry one.

“What is this?” he asked in a whisper.

“A sword.”

Hatash grunted. “I know that! But what would I do with it? I am no fighter.”

Sebharan’s eyes went to the sleeping man.

“To kill the king.”

Hatash shook his head. He was going to speak again when he saw the sword was now in his hand and the stranger took a step back.

What was this?

He was no killer. He was no hero, no savior. And was this truly the king? He glanced at the bed. The man looked so peaceful now. It could have been anyone. Not that it mattered, king or no king, he had no right to take anyone’s life. Who was he to do such a thing?

Without noticing, he had stepped closer to the bed. There was something about this sleeper that drew him. A sort of familiarity he could not explain. Or perhaps he just envied his peacefulness in this moment, or the simple fact that he was resting when he himself should have been in a bed as well.

What was he doing here?

The king moved and, without thinking, he placed the tip of the blade against the man’s throat.

The cold metal instantly woke the sleeper.

He slowly turned his head to look at Hatash.

Stolen story; please report.

And Hatash went cold.

Very, very cold.

There was no peace in those eyes.

Only a deep-seated hatred.

It was a hatred he recognized—as he did the face.

For he knew this man very well.

It was the face of a man despised by all who had known him.

It was the face of a man who had died decades ago.

It was the face of his grandfather.

***

The king’s eyes hardened.

“Well,” he said, “go on. Kill me. That’s what all you lot have wanted for years, isn’t it? Do it, then.”

Hatash would have liked to do something—anything—but he couldn’t. He was petrified, his hand shaking, breath caught in his throat. He could hear his heart beating fast.

“This is impossible,” he muttered. “You’re dead.”

“What’s that, boy?” asked the king. “I can’t hear you.”

“You’re dead!” screamed Hatash.

The king laughed. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

The door burst open and guards filed in.

The king lifted a hand to stop them.

“Hold it. I want to see if this one has a spine. If he kills me, let him go.”

One of his officers started to protest. “But, Your Highness—”

“You never told me how your grandfather died.”

Hatash recognized the stranger’s voice, though he did not hear it with his ears—it sounded in his head, as if the man spoke into his mind.

He cringed though he did not look back, still staring at the much too familiar face.

And Sebharan’s question wormed its way into him, eating at his soul.

Hathar, father of Hathor, grandfather of Hatash, had been found in his bed. Dead. Lying in a pool of blood. His throat had been slit while he slept.

The killer was never caught, though Hatash saw the look in his father’s eyes later that day. Then he had found the still bloodied dagger and had buried it in the forest, where he knew no one would ever find it. When he had turned, he had found his father staring at him. They had walked back to the village in silence and neither of them had ever spoken of Hathar again.

Unaware of what was going through the village chief’s head, the king turned to look at his man—despite the blade still inches from his throat—and cut him off, his voice cold.

“Have you not heard what I’ve said?”

The other gulped. Nodded. Took a step back and waited.

“Now,” said the king as he turned to look at Hatash again. “Are you going to do it or not?”

All the hatred, all the anger, all the fear suddenly washed out of him, replaced with a wave of calmness and resolve. Hatash lowered the sword and stepped back.

“No,” he said.

The king frowned. “What are you doing?”

Hatash dropped the sword. It clanked on the floor.

“You are an evil man, Hathar, but I refuse to be like you. I will not soil my hands, or my soul, with your blood. My father did, and it never left him. I saw it gnaw at his soul. The knowledge of what he had done. Just as it gnawed at mine, knowing how I’d covered it up. But no more. I will not be that man.”

The king sat up in his bed, anger marking his face.

“How dare you! You should be cowering before me, you pathetic—”

Hatash never heard the end of the sentence. He felt a hand grab his shoulder and everything around him changed.

He spun around and saw Sebharan standing next to him, a small smile on his lips. They were back in the circular room with all the mirrors.

“Well done, my friend. Well done!”

“What? I don’t understand...”

“You said you wanted wisdom, but you did not need wisdom. You already have it within you. Every path you took, every choice you made, always you did so wisely.”

Hatash stared at the man. Was he mad?

“What was the point of all this?” he asked angrily.

“I needed to know that you were pure.”

“Pure?”

The stranger nodded. “I have made many worlds, my friend, and all of them are broken. I—” He paused. Frowned. Pondered. “The mirror,” he started over slowly, “collects them. All the flawed worlds. They are stored here, until they eventually fade into nothingness. Only the one perfect place will survive. I had lost hope of finding it. But I think I have found it finally.”

Hatash scoffed. “You think my world is perfect? Are you nuts?” The stranger frowned. “You must be to think this. There is no such thing as perfection—”

“You have seen that place. You noticed the differences. The flaws.”

“Everything and everyone is flawed, Sebharan. Even me. Even you.”

The stranger scowled at this. “I’m not flawed!”

“Oh, but you are!” Hatash gestured at the mirrors lined up on the circular wall. “Didn’t you say yourself you made those other worlds? If you are so perfect, then shouldn’t everything you create be as well? The flaws you saw there are only reflections of your own.”

The stranger pursed his lips. “It matters little what you believe. I shall take you back to—”

“What will happen to those other places?”

“That is of no concern to you.”

“You said they would fade into nothingness?”

“Now that I’ve found the one true world, there is no need to keep the others. I shall unlink them and they will dissolve.”

Hatash clenched his fists. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“Who are you to decide whether people should live or die? Whether a world is flawed or not?”

“Who am I?” The stranger glared at him. “I am the Creator, that is who I am.”

Hatash stared at Sebharan.

“Very well. Then destroy me.”

“What?”

“Destroy me! I would rather be no more than to live in a world you perceived as unflawed.”

“You would give your life for... for what exactly?”

“For them.” Hatash pointed at the mirror-gates again. “For those worlds. All of them.”

“You can’t do that...”

“Why not? Oh, because I’m perfect, is that it? Do you think there is no murder in my world? No crime? My father killed my grandfather and I helped cover it up. Is this perfection to you?”

Sebharan seemed unhappy with how the conversation was going.

“You have no say in this matter.”

“Fine. As soon as I’m back home, I’ll burn my whole village down. And then I’ll kill myself.”

“You will do no such thing.”

Hatash’s eyes hardened. “I will. Unless you let them live.” He pointed again at the mirrors.

The two held each other’s gaze for a long time, until Sebharan finally sighed.

“Very well,” he said. “You win. Go back to your people, Hatash, and live your life in peace.”

Before he could say another word, Hatash found himself in the forest—a familiar one. He found the trail and made his way back home.

To the villagers, he had only been gone a few minutes. And no one seemed to remember the stranger. It was as if he had never existed at all.

Hatash often went back to the clearing where he had first seen the mirror, but there was nothing there, and he wondered if any of it had been real.

If it had been, had Sebharan kept his word? Did those other worlds still exist?

All he could do was look at the stars and hope.