Night Triumphant

CHAPTER SIX: THE PRICE OF REMEMBERING

Trigger warning: Torture; thoughts of death.

The darkness closed in around them, a smothering weight that pressed against The Girl's skin like clammy hands.

It offered no shape, no depth, only an endless expanse of cold nothingness. Yet, even in the void, she wasn't alone. Rhysand's hand in hers remained a solid anchor; his starlit form beside her, a defiant beacon. His whispered promise echoed in her mind, a mantra against the terror: No one will harm you—not ever again.

With each labored step, a chilling shift occurred. The oppressive stillness shattered – not with light, but with sound. Disjointed whispers drifted through the heavy air, words in a language she couldn't grasp, fragments of forgotten conversations. A scream, sharp as splintering glass, tore through the whispers, then faded into a chilling silence. And beneath it all, a mournful melody seeped through, a haunting tune that felt etched into her very bones.

She saw it register on Rhysand's face. His grip on her tightened as if recognizing the sound as well. Then, the darkness yielded to a new kind of horror. Mirrors materialized from the inky blackness. Their smooth surfaces held no reflection, not her own shimmering form nor Rhysand's dark presence beside her. Instead, they shimmered with a depth that felt...wrong. As if each empty pane was a portal.

But portals to where? To what horror? It was hard to tell.

"This doesn't feel right," Rhys murmured, a tremor of unease running through his voice. "I've never encountered this before."

A ripple of fear snaked down her spine. If Rhys, with all his power and experience, was unsettled, the true danger they faced became terrifyingly clear.  "What...what does it usually look like?" she managed, curiosity battling that gnawing fear.

A sigh, heavy with unspoken thoughts, escaped him. She sensed his hesitation, as if this was a topic he'd rather avoid. "There's structure," he began, as if the words themselves were unwelcome relics of his own past. "Memories appear as doors, sometimes whole rooms filled with echoes of a life. Not this..." he gestured towards the sea of mirrors.

Her gaze flickered across those dark panes. Was madness mirrored in their depths? "So, there is something wrong with me?" The words tasted like bitter ash in her mouth.

Rhysand's grip tightened, a flash of protective fury rippling through their connection. "There is nothing wrong with you. You're different. But I've seen broken minds before, more than I'd care to admit. And this is not it."

Hope warred with despair within her. "We can't turn back," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "There have to be answers here—for you...for the other High Lords."

"I don't care about any of that," Rhys countered. He turned, and the starlight in those violet eyes burned with an intensity she'd never seen before. "This is for you. If you want to search for what was stolen from you, we'll keep going. But if you wish to turn back, we can. The choice is entirely yours."

He meant it. A wave of gratitude mixed with shame washed over her. Her gaze drifted back to the mirrors. "I...I want answers, too," she admitted.

"Alright," Rhysand replied quietly. "Where do you want to begin?"

Her gaze fell upon the shifting mirrors. Even empty, their surfaces held a menacing allure. Then, those phantom whispers intensified, drawing her towards one in particular. Phrases in the fractured language snaked around her, unintelligible yet somehow insistent. Before she could process what she was doing, she reached out.

"Wait!" Rhysand's warning came a heartbeat too late.

Her fingers brushed the smooth, empty surface. And instantly, the world vanished. The whispers fell silent, replaced by a disorienting rush, a sense of falling, twisting, the darkness swirling around them like a living vortex.