The Cursed Mirror

After the battle, the party took a moment to regroup. Aika carefully cleaned the ichor from her katana, her expression a mask of stoic grief as she examined the deep pitting along the blade. The creature's touch was like a spreading plague. Where its essence splattered the flawless steel, a black, granular corrosion erupted, not just on the surface, but eating through the blade's heart. The katana didn't rust; it unmade itself. The legendary Sakamoto blade, from tip to halfway up the tang, was nearly dissolved, its remnants spilling out into a pile of dark, metallic sand that scattered at Aika's feet with a sound like falling ash.

"This place, the scores of arms and armor here," Aika lamented to herself. "The creature grew large... potent."

With a soft sigh, she unbuckled the saya from her obi and laid the damaged weapon gently on a relatively clean patch of floor. "I am sorry, old friend," she whispered.

Lumen approached Aika, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Your strength does not come from the blade, child," she comforted. "But from the hands that wield it."

"It is not my strength I am concerned with, Lumen," Aika retorted. "But my honor." She picked up the crude spear she used to finish the monster, testing its weight. It would have to do.

Inch was scavenging through the debris, kicking aside rusted helms and broken sword hilts. "Useless, useless, all of it's rusted to crap," she muttered. Her eyes, however, are sharp. A rogue's instinct for hidden value never sleeps. She spotted a glint of something that wasn't rust-brown or steel-gray beneath a collapsed wooden weapon rack.

"Hey, check this out!" she called, her voice echoing slightly in the vast hall. She knelt and started pulling away splintered wood and chunks of mortar. After a minute of digging, she pulled free a small, rectangular object. She blew dust off it, revealing a handheld vanity mirror.

The mirror itself was cracked and cloudy with age, but its frame was exquisite. It was made of what appeared to be solid gold, intricately worked with swirling, almost hypnotic patterns that seemed to move if you stared at them too long. Small, dark gemstones—onyx or perhaps jet—were set at the corners.

"Ooh, shiny," Inch said, her eyes lighting up with avarice. She held it up for the others to see. "Look at this! Real gold, I bet. The gems might be worth something too, even if the glass is busted."

Gabriel, who had been using a strip of cloth from his tunic to bind his shield arm where a spike had grazed him, looked over with a frown. "Inch, we don't have time for looting trinkets. The Overseer's throne room is miles above us, metaphorically and literally."

"It's not a trinket, it's an investment!" Inch retorted, walking over to him. "Here, you're the fancy half-elf with the noble dad. You tell me if this is real." She thrusted the mirror toward him.

Gabriel sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a leader dealing with a mischievous child. He took the mirror from her. The moment his fingers closed around the cold metal frame, a jolt ran up his arm—a feeling of profound wrongness, like holding a sliver of ice that burns. The ornate patterns on the frame seemed to writhe under his touch.

"This is… it's not right," he said, his voice low. He tried to look at his reflection in the cloudy glass, but his own face looked distorted, shadowed. A deep sense of unease settled in his gut. "Put it back, Inch. Now."

"What? Why? It's just a mirror—"

"I said put it back!" Gabriel's command was sharp, uncharacteristically tense. He tried to hand it back to her, to get the cursed thing away from him, but his movement was too abrupt. The mirror slipped from his grasp.

Instinctively, he tried to catch it. His right hand darted out, and the very tip of his index finger brushed against the edge of the broken glass pane still held in the frame.

There was a sharp, clean pain. A single, perfect droplet of crimson blood welled up on his fingertip.

The mirror hit the stone floor with a sound like a sigh and shattered into a dozen pieces. The gold frame bent, the dark gems scattered like dead insects.

"Oops," Inch said, wincing. "Sorry, boss. My bad."

Gabriel ignored her, staring at his finger. The cut was tiny, barely more than a papercut. He put it to his mouth, sucking away the blood. The coppery taste was normal. He pulled his finger away, expecting to see the wound already closing. It wasn't.

A fresh bead of blood formed and rolled down his finger, dripping onto the dusty floor with a soft pat.

"Huh," he grunted. He wrapped the cloth from his shield arm around the tip, applying pressure. After a minute, he unwrapped it. The bleeding hadn't stopped. It was a slow, steady seep, like a faucet with a worn washer. The cloth was stained a bright red.

Lumen approached, her violet eyes filled with concern. "Let me see, child." She took his hand in hers. Her skin was cool and dry. She examined the minuscule wound, her brow furrowed. "This is no ordinary cut. There is a… a lingering malice in it."

She raised her wooden staff, closing her eyes. "Divine Darkness, cleanse this wound." A soft, dark aura emanated from her hands, enveloping Gabriel's finger. Instead of healing, however, the moment the dark energy touched the cut, Gabriel jerked his hand back with a sharp hiss of pain.

The tiny wound now looked angry and inflamed. The slow drip of blood became slightly faster.

"By the Dark Form…" Lumen whispered, horrified. "It rejects the healing. It feeds on it."

"Okay, my turn!" Inch said, trying to sound cheerful. She rummaged in a small pouch on her belt and pulled out a wad of dried green leaves. "Got this from a swamp witch in Newcolm. Stops bleeding, she said." She crushed the leaves, releasing a pungent, herbal smell, and pressed the pulp against Gabriel's finger.

They waited. The herbal scent filled the air, but when Inch removes the pulp, the blood was still flowing, now mixing with the green plant matter to create a foul-looking paste.

Gabriel pulled his hand away, wiping the mess on his pants. He looked at his party—Aika's worried frown, Inch's guilty expression, Lumen's grave concern. He **** his trademark composure back onto his face.

"It's a scratch," he said, his voice steady and dismissive. "It'll clot. It just needs time. We're wasting daylight, or… whatever passes for it in this floating rock." He tore a fresh, cleaner strip from the bottom of his tunic and wrapped his fingertip tightly, creating a small, red-tipped bundle. "See? Problem solved. Let's find a door and keep moving."

He turned and began walking toward the far end of the armory, his stride confident. But every few steps, a new crimson spot darkened the white cloth on his finger.