"I am ready. Give it your best shot!"

Rhysandor was the first to react, "Who are you talking to?"

Everyone looked around, they saw nothing and felt nothing. All they could think was that Nytherael had cracked under the heavy expectations on his shoulders and went mad.

Nytherael inhaled. Slowly. Steadily to ready himself for battle. That was when he noticed. The air had been still since they arrived. He lifted his head, examine closely the sky above.

A slight shift in the cloud allowed his mismatched eyes to catch a glimpse of the mirror behind the cloud which became hidden once again, almost immediately.

"My mirror?"

Dread pooled low in his stomach. The air vibrated with unease. Recognition flashed in his eyes.

His mirror, the mirror of illusions controlled by his power was unmatched in the fox realm. Only he could activate it or stop it once its in play. But he hadn’t activated the mirror, and he hadn’t even realised that it wasn’t in his possession until he saw it.

Casting his worries aside. He raised his hand, realised the essence unique only to him to summon to the mirror.

His body drenched in sweat. As first it felt like discomfort of using the energy in his body after along time of it being dormant but the ache persisted to his bones, and a slight pressure settled on his chest.

He withdrew his hand, agony exploding in his skin as if acid was seeping through his veins. His hands clawed at his arm, legs, his chest, anywhere to rid himself of the unseen torment, but there was nothing to grasp.

He looked around at his team to ask for help, only to find them had vanished. Fallen to their own version of the trap, he figured. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

His throat tightened. "Poor foxy... you sounded so confident a moment back. What of it now?" The same voice that had challenged him had taken a taunting tone. Clearly enjoying his misery.

Nytherael tried to scream. Knowing his voice would crack the mirror and set him free but to his amazement and horror, no sound came out.

A male voice slithered in his mind. It was cold and absolute. "When next he commands, obey."

The pain sharpened. Searing through his muscles like fire licking over raw flesh. Nytherael feel helplessly to the ground, his breath shallow.

"Fight him and there will be consequences!" The voice came again.

Nytherael gasped. His body trembling uncontrollably. Images flashed through his mind, glimpses of the violet-black eyes and molten amber-gold eyes burning with silent judgement. Of long black hair cascading over ink marked pale skin, of long purple hair flowing down like poisoned ink about scaled skin.

He caught images of Sseraphis and Aeltharion standing above him. Unshaken and untouchable by time or his betrayal.

He understood the meaning behind the trap. His defiance and rejection of the tri-soul bond was being brutakky punished. His very soul was being branded.

He curled into himself. Hands fitting the ground, his nails digging into his palm so hard they might break skin.

The torment felt endless. Stretching across eternity. Until, suddenly, it stopped.

The burning faded like smoke in the wind leaving him panting on the ground, his hair messy and dirty and his clothes were in no better condition.

He lay flat, looking at the clear blue sky, trying to make sense of what just happened. Then, slowly a realization settled on him.

’He wasn’t just being punished. Sseraphis was toying with him,’ he recalled the late night visit and the locks of his hair Sseraphis had pulled out.

At the time, his mind was solely occupied with his pain and watching his hair regrow that he didn’t stop to think. From the light shove he gave Sseraphis, no way the beast would’ve pulled out his hair unless Sseraphis had tampered with it first, making it easy to pull out.

He recalled Sseraphis threatening Rhysandor’s life and suddenly the pieces of the puzzle fit in their right places.

Sseraphis asking for permission to kill Rhysandor was the magic trick, keeping his focus one way while the true trick happened the other way.

It explained why Sseraphis had gained control of his mirror and why his powers weren’t working.

Sseraphis’ ninth head represented his mastery of soul locking. As long he has a piece of a person he can lock a piece of their soul in a living being and use it to control the person and use essence unique to said person.

His third head represented curse weaving, which no doubt explained the punishment while his eighth head represented pain amplification and that’s why his suffering felt endless and eternal even though it was only for a few minutes.

Sseraphis’ manipulation had touched him, just in a different way than he had deduced. The command didn’t force his body to move against his will, but if he resisted, it would break him from the inside.

Nytherael exhaled shakily. Pressing a trembling hand to his forehead. ’The game has just began and I’m already at a disadvantage. Not good. Not good.’

He got up with due struggle. Standing on his feet, the Vessharn before him looked more like the one he had visited in the past than the dead one they witnessed upon arrival.

"What surprises do you have in store for me, little truth?" He stepped forward, one foot after another until he reached the first house.

"Welcome kind folk," a serpent greeted. "The house is ready for you. Do have a good night and look for me shall you need anything."

"Night?"

Just then, darkness enveloped the sky, light vanishing. Nytherael sighed. He accepted the serpent’s kindness and walked into the house.

It was a single permanent house. Inside, there was one wooden bed, neatly spread, one wooden table and one wooden chair. It was simple and dreadful for a fox used to a life of luxuries.

’Do you wish to kill me through poverty?’ He asked, slightly feeling a little dead inside at the idea of spending and entire night there.

The night stretched in a suffocating silence but sleep never came to Nytherael. He kept expecting an attack and stayed alert and ready to combat any surprises his wife had for him.

He lay motionless. His body still raw from the pain, his mind struggling to grasp the cruelty that had developed in Sseraphis’ heart.

The male voice slipped into his mind again, "When next he commands, obey," it repeated like a chant.

Nytherael’s hands clenched. A shiver ran down his spine, not from fear but anger.

He swallowed hard. Forcing himself to sit up. His limbs trembled as if his own body had turned against him. And it might as well have since his powers were sealed in the trap. He was no less a folk with no beastly presence.

His skin felt hypersensitive as if an invisible fire had scorched it beyond repair. Without his beast, he couldn’t trigger self healing and could only bear with the pain.

He dragged a hand through his sweat-damped hair, his fingers clenching as he thought of Sseraphis watching his miserable state from the comfort of his home.

His delicate, ethereal nine-headed snake with a voice like silk and a presence full of poison was definitely mocking him. Feeling proud for reducing him to such a sorry state.

Nytherael exhaled. Pressing his knuckles against his forehead. He needed a plan, a way to break the illusion and charm his way into the snake’s favour.