The Kingmaker

Haven

Lion's paw, it bites,
Echoes of voices in night

Dragon weeps, owl's flight 

He is lost. The darkness is thick, almost tangible, swallowing every sound and smothering every hope. No matter how many times he circles this forsaken place, his eyes strain against the void, broken only by the gleam of a single full-length mirror. Its presence mocks him, stirring a deep-seated resentment he can't fully comprehend.

A door. That is all he wants. He wants to get out of here.

All you have to do, the voice says once again, is look in the mirror.

It would be a logical choice if he were being honest. There is nothing else to do but abide by the voice's advice. His pride, however, tells him otherwise.

The lion is proud, is what they all say, so why should he abandon it now?

A part of him wonders where he is. The other part somewhat knows what this is. It terrifies and angers him at the same time.

The smooth surface beneath him changes into a writhing mass of murky, sentient algae. An unseen force moves the verdant tendrils, causing them to rise and pirouette around his ankles. He struggles, but it's futile. The algae, with a life of their own, cinch tight and burrow into his flesh with searing intensity.

His mouth opens with a silent scream. The alga pulls him towards one direction only: the mirror. He crosses his arms over his face, covering as much of it as he can. At this speed, he will soon collide with the mirror, and it will shatter all around him.

To his surprise, alga gently brings him in front of the mirror, like a mother putting down her child. He grudgingly lets his eye feast on it, knowing he can no longer oppose the force in this unfamiliar room.

There is nothing at first, not even his reflection. In a second, a white mist with a tinge of light blue whirls in front of him. It's hypnotising in a way. It reminds him of the puppet performances he loved as a child. The puppeteers would always begin their stories with a puff of smoke, followed by a paper-mache dragon cutting through the fumes.

Now there is no entertainment but a spherical golden object floating before him. Different colours float around it. Yellow, like the boldest flower; blue, as dark as the night sky; green, like the forest; violet, like the lavender his mother used to plant; and red, as bloody as the colour of his eyes.

Why does it always thwart my plans? a voice says, and this time it comes from an unknown object. He cannot trust his voice. Somehow, he believes it is better to say nothing.

I will give you a choice, it says suddenly as if remembering that he is still here. I will make you see. It is up to you if you will save yourself or let yourself drown.

"I do not understand anything."

For a moment, the golden object is quiet. It then says, "I will make you see."

The darkness is gone, and he is now back in the Palace. But he is just a speculator, and he is still in the same room. It is as if he is inside a glass case. He can see everyone, but nobody can see him.

He watches the court ladies replace the red incense sticks, frowning as they brush off the remaining burnt ashes. Before he can wonder who has recently prayed in the temple, the scenery changes. His breath hitches as his father comes into view, sitting on his throne, sipping his rice wine, and losing himself as he watches his new favourite Dancer. Momoi Satsuki is her name, as far as he can recall.