Chapter 3: Riddles in the Mirror Hall
Chapter 3: Truths in the Hall of Mirrors
Along the zigzagging marble corridors, morning crept closer—a barely-there blush on the frost-laced windows. Yet inside the Museum’s ancient heart, time felt thin and frayed, as if it too was waiting for Elias to make a move. The map scraps pressed tight in his pocket, lantern still trembling in his grip, Elias and his companions finally paused before a set of weathered, tall doors set with fractured crystal and swirling brass.
“The Hall of Mirrors,” Chess Master announced, running a finger along an inscription. “A place designed not to flatter, but to confront. Beware the temptation to look only for what you wish to see.”
Fantom, drifting in his smoky coils, pulled an exaggeratedly solemn face and mimed brushing imaginary dust from his ghostly boots. “It’s not so bad, provided you don’t mind seeing your strangest haircut, your worst hiccup, or that time you called an ancient librarian ‘Granny Butterfingers’ by mistake.”
Elias pressed the door. It yielded with a sigh. Inside, a corridor unfurled, lined not with smooth glass as he’d expected, but with a mosaic of mirrors—some stained with smoky streaks, some gilded at the edges, others cracked to splinters. The air inside shimmered with the damp tang of old metal and the faintest scent of candle wax. Morning’s pale light fractured in a thousand directions. With every breath, Elias saw versions of himself—one taller, one smaller, each eyes wide, jacket too big or far too small. The effect was dizzying.
But what made him shiver was what moved within the glass. In each mirror, shapes shimmered in the corners—a crown gleaming, a hand reaching, or a glint of gold standing just out of reach. In one, the Golden Idol itself hovered. Elias darted forward, only to bump his nose on unyielding glass, his reflection doubling with every frown.
Chess Master stepped lightly, cane clicking in a rhythm that seemed to echo off the glass at strange, unpredictable intervals. Each pane reflected not only him, but also shadows of another figure—tall, proud, robes brighter, face turned away. With a hard swallow, the Chess Master squared his shoulders and moved on.
Fantom, at first brash, twirled in a lazy corkscrew near the ceiling. But a mirror on the left flickered, and suddenly Fantom froze. Its surface showed no jester’s grin but rather a speck—smaller, dimmer, fading into darkness. Fantom’s glow faltered. “Pfft! These old halls forget how to tell a proper joke,” he said, a single tremor in his voice.
Elias stared, trying not to blink, as the reflections folded and swirled. Every step altered the corridor: the idol flashed nearer or further, sometimes melting into his own reflection so neatly he couldn’t tell where desire ended and self began.
At the hall’s midpoint, a serpentine barrier slithered from ceiling to floor—curtained in mist, woven of vanishing glass. Etched into the central mirror in spidery script was a new riddle: ‘Reveal one truth never spoken, and walk the path unseen.’
Chess Master steeled himself. His right hand—usually so steady as it arranged pawns on the board—flexed, knuckles paling. “It should be me first,” he said quietly. “Long ago, a friend and rival entered this museum. We shared a love for riddles, for the old games. But I… I always had to win. I was blinded by pride—convinced I deserved the idol’s secret more. I let my ambition set a trap neither of us saw coming.”
Elias and Fantom listened, silent. On the mirror’s surface, behind Chess Master, the image of another man flickered—hair pale and wild, eyes kind. “We quarreled. I lost him—to the idol, to pride, to my own vanity. And I’ve never forgiven myself for failing our friendship in the labyrinth’s hour of need.” His words trembled on the cold air, honest as blood.
The mirror before him blinked: the prideful Chess Master melted away, replaced by the image of a gentler man, who gave back a bow, before dissolving into soft gold.
Fantom, uncharacteristically still, hovered by a misty pane. His usual bravado faded, replaced by flickering edges. “Cheesy as it sounds, I tell jokes, play tricks… not just for fun. I haunt this place because if I stop, if I… if no one notices, maybe I’ll finally, fully vanish. Who can remember a joke without a teller? I can’t stand the thought. I linger to be seen.” His whisper quivered, and on the glass, a smudgy, almost-invisible Fantom pressed longing hands up to the surface, as if pleading not to be lost.
Elias reached out instinctively, hand passing through Fantom’s shimmering torso, but the gesture was enough. The mirror shimmered, the half-faded figure swelling with renewed color—still ghostly, but ringed now with the faintest wink of silver light.
Both turned to Elias. The corridor’s light sharpened, refracting uncertainty into a thousand watchful eyes.
Elias hesitated, more exposed now than ever. Every reflection—every version of himself—watched, expectant. His usual words—quiet, careful—jammed in his throat, but at last, he forced them out:
“I keep thinking they’ll realize I’m not much of a Keeper. That I belong in the background, holding the lantern, not the story. The legends—every Keeper before me was bold, brilliant, loud. I’m…just Elias. Sometimes I pretend patience is enough. But the truth I never say is that I wish I were more—someone people notice and remember, not just someone who keeps things safe in the shadows.” His words spiraled into the air like tossed pennies.
For a heartbeat, all three fell silent. In the mirrors, Elias’s reflection finally smiled back—a smile that was real, honest, not borrowed from an imagined hero.
The riddle on the glass glowed. With a hushed shivering, the mirrors rearranged: panes slid aside, misaligned faces aligning into a clear, golden-lit pathway. Overhead, crystal dust spun in patterns and the idol’s glowing form flickered somewhere ahead, beckoning.
Fantom whooped, swirling triumphantly. The Chess Master clapped Elias gently on the shoulder. “None of the old Keepers faced nights like this,” he said simply. “Or if they did, they never admitted it. You’re forging a new legend.”
Their steps quickened, hope at last outpacing fear. They followed the shifting path as it wound tighter—mirrors growing smoky, showing only wobbly hints of their path behind until the corridor abruptly widened, opening into the idol’s true antechamber. Faint rays of pinkish dawn broke through a stained-glass dome overhead, painting the marble with blush and gold.
But as Elias reached for the next map piece, a harsh, metallic laugh shattered the sacred hush. From nowhere, the Bounty Hunter burst forward, blood-red scarf snapping behind, leather boots thudding loud and cruel. With swift precision, the Bounty Hunter snatched the patchwork map from Elias’s hand.
“Clever, clever, all of you,” the Bounty Hunter mocked, face half-shadowed, half-smiling like a fox. “But you’re playing the wrong game. The reflections lie, just as hearts do.”
The chamber convulsed—the mirrors swirling into a hall of confusion and light, a maze multiplying around them. With Fantom’s shout and Chess Master’s warning echoing off the glass, the Bounty Hunter vanished, map in hand.
“Split shadows!” Fantom gulped, peering in all directions. “We’re in a tangle! You’ll have to chase her, Elias. The maze bends for the honest, not the cunning. Trust what you’ve learned—look for what only you can see.”
Elias steadied himself, letting go of fear, trusting the lessons hard-won: say what’s real, act with patience—see beyond the dazzle. With one deep breath, he darted after the Bounty Hunter into the shifting labyrinth, his companions at his side, the fate of the idol flickering on the edge of every reflection.
And above them all, for the first time, the dawn’s golden rays seemed to cheer them on—a promise that beyond the glass and uncertainty, the real treasure would be found in what was spoken aloud, bravely and true.