Cedric—or rather, the Fae Lord of Mirrors wearing his face—watched as Garrick took his first true steps toward betrayal.
It was a delicate process, the slow unwinding of loyalty.
Mirrors knew that men did not break all at once.
They cracked.
They doubted.
They hesitated.
And once they hesitated long enough, the decision was already made.
The rest was simply letting them believe it was their choice.
---
Garrick was useful.
A soldier respected by his peers. A man with influence but without the burden of leadership.
Not ambitious enough to reach for power himself, but practical enough to take it if handed to him.
He had been perfectly positioned to become the fault line of Ironveil’s forces.
And so, Mirrors had become Cedric.
He had stepped into the role of a friend. A whisperer. A voice of reason in a sea of uncertainty.
And now, the work was almost done.
---
The barracks had settled into an uneasy quiet.
Men who had once moved with certainty now exchanged glances. Some held onto their weapons a little tighter. Others sat together in hushed conversation, their words slipping between concern and doubt.
It was slow.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
But Mirrors knew how this would end.
A single spark.
A moment of weakness.
And then, it would all collapse.
---
Garrick sat beside him, his helmet resting between his hands.
“You ever wonder if this world is testing us?” he muttered.
Mirrors turned his borrowed eyes toward him, careful, attentive.
Garrick continued.
“Like, not just a fight for survival. Not just war. But… something bigger.”
Mirrors tilted his head, his expression thoughtful.
“A Trial.”
Garrick exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”
The System had made its announcement.
The Trial of Kings was coming.
And Garrick, like the others, had begun to wonder what it truly meant.
“Maybe that’s why we’re here,” Garrick muttered. “To see if we’re worthy.”
Mirrors leaned back.
“And do you think Blackwell is?”
Silence.
Garrick’s fingers tightened around his helmet.
And that silence was answer enough.
---
Over the next few days, the division spread.
A group of men, once steadfast, now uncertain.
Conversations turned to whispers.
Whispers turned to doubts.
And doubts turned to decisions.
Mirrors had planted every word carefully.
But he did not command.
He did not push.
He simply let them break themselves.
And they did.
---
By the end of the fifth night, it was no longer just quiet conversations.
It was a movement.
Small, but growing.
Men who had once marched without question now hesitated when orders were given.
Patrols were sloppier.
Guards were distracted.
And Blackwell?
He hadn’t noticed.
Not yet.
But he would.
And by the time he did, it would already be too late.
---
Mirrors watched, listened, learned.
He moved through Ironveil unnoticed, his borrowed face giving him access to every conversation, every shift in morale.
He had seen men crumble before.
Had watched them fall to doubt, to greed, to fear.
But what was happening in Ironveil was something else.
Something precise.
This was not a coup.
Not a rebellion.
This was a controlled demolition.
A foundation being chipped away brick by brick.
And once it collapsed, Selene would walk into the ruins and claim what was left.
---
Mirrors returned to the barracks, where Garrick was standing over a map, eyes narrowed in thought.
“You’re thinking of moving soon,” Mirrors said.
Garrick nodded, exhaling slowly. “If we wait too long, Blackwell will catch on.”
Mirrors smiled.
That was exactly what he wanted.
Garrick turned toward him, his voice lower now.
“You’re sure about this?”
Mirrors—Cedric—gave him a steady look.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
Garrick nodded, his jaw tightening.
“Then we make our move soon.”
He exhaled.
“We take Ironveil for ourselves.”
Mirrors smiled.
Because Garrick believed he had made this choice.
But he hadn’t.
He had simply followed the path that had been laid before him.
And when the moment came, he would realize too late that the path only led in one direction.
To Selene.
