The Obsidian Mirror
January 19, 2025
The market square buzzed with the lively chaos of a midsummer festival. Stalls overflowed with colorful wares, the air thick with the aroma of roasted meat and sweet pastries. In the midst of the revelry, Rowan’s attention was drawn to a quiet corner, where an old woman sat behind a stall of peculiar, shadowed objects.
Curiosity tugged at him. The woman’s goods were unlike the bright trinkets of the other merchants. Her table was draped in black velvet, scattered with artifacts that seemed to hum with an eerie energy. At the center was a mirror—round, framed in intricate obsidian carvings that writhed like living tendrils.
“See something you fancy, young man?” the old woman croaked, her voice raspy but oddly melodic.
Rowan hesitated. “That mirror… What’s its price?”
The woman’s grin revealed teeth too sharp to be comforting. “This is no ordinary mirror. It doesn’t reflect what you are—it shows what you’re meant to become. But beware, for the truth can be dangerous.”
Rowan’s pulse quickened. He had spent his life feeling ordinary, bound to the quiet life of a blacksmith’s apprentice. The promise of something greater stirred in his chest.
“I’ll take it,” he said, fishing a handful of coins from his pouch.
The woman’s eyes glittered as she handed him the mirror. “A choice made cannot be undone,” she murmured cryptically.
Back in his small room above the forge, Rowan placed the mirror on a wooden stand. Its surface shimmered, dark as the void, showing no reflection.
“What am I meant to become?” he whispered.
The mirror’s surface rippled, and an image began to form. Rowan leaned closer, his breath catching as he saw himself—older, cloaked in a black mantle, a sword gleaming in one hand and fire swirling in the other. Around him, a city burned, and figures knelt in submission. His face was cold, hard, unrecognizable.
“No,” Rowan muttered, pulling back. “That’s not me.”
The mirror pulsed, the tendrils of its frame glowing faintly. A voice, soft but commanding, resonated in his mind. “It is your destiny. You cannot escape it.”
Rowan stumbled away, heart pounding. The image lingered in his mind—a vision of power, destruction, and fear. He didn’t want to believe it, but the weight of the mirror’s certainty pressed on him.
Days turned into weeks, but Rowan couldn’t shake the mirror’s hold. He avoided it at first, but curiosity—and fear—drew him back. Each time he looked, the vision grew clearer, more detailed. He saw battles, crowns, betrayal. And always, the same dark version of himself.
One night, as a storm raged outside, Rowan stood before the mirror, anger bubbling within him. “I won’t become that!” he shouted. “I choose my own path!”
The mirror’s voice responded, calm and unyielding. “You cannot change what is written.”
With a roar, Rowan grabbed a hammer and swung it at the mirror. The impact sent shards flying, and the obsidian frame cracked. But instead of shattering, the fragments hovered in the air, glowing with a sinister light. The room filled with a deafening hum as the shards reassembled, forming a doorway of swirling darkness.
Rowan stared in horror as a figure stepped through—a perfect replica of himself, cloaked in black, eyes burning with fire.
“You should not have done that,” the double said, his voice cold as the grave. “Now, you’ve made it inevitable.”
Rowan reached for the hammer, but the dark version of himself was faster. The last thing he saw was the glow of fire and the gleam of steel.
In the market square, the old woman sat behind her stall, the obsidian mirror once again whole and resting in its place. A new figure approached, drawn by its dark allure.
“See something you fancy?” she asked, her sharp teeth glinting in a knowing smile.