Some lies are told with words. Others are told with faces. But the worst ones… the ones that break you… are the lies you wear.
We left the forest behind, but it never really left us.
The sky above the trees had dimmed, even though it was only late afternoon. The sun was pale, the clouds sluggish. It felt like time was stretching, bending, following its own strange rhythm — like it wanted to hold us here longer.
Alice didn't speak much. She just walked ahead, always one step ahead, like she already knew the path. Maybe she did. She never once checked the journal, the book, or the map. She just knew.
The terrain changed fast. Trees gave way to ruined streets, half-eaten by moss and cracked by roots. We crossed an old road with a sunken school bus on its side, its windows fogged with age. A broken sign read:
ROSEVALE CHILDREN'S THEATRE
Arisa stopped. "This is it."
James raised an eyebrow. "The Mirror Court?"
"The book said it was buried beneath a theatre. Ash and dust. Candles. Lies."
We moved cautiously toward the theater's shell. Its facade was shattered stone and crumbled brick, swallowed by ivy. The doors hung open on rusted hinges. Inside, the air smelled like paper and ghosts.
The stage was still there — warped wood and torn curtains. Rows of half-collapsed seats faced it like silent watchers. On the stage, a single candle flickered in a brass holder.
Alice walked straight toward it.
No hesitation.
Arisa grabbed my arm. "That candle… It's burning backwards."
She was right. The flame leaned downward, and the wax unmelted up the side of the candle. Like time was rewinding in this place.
James pointed to the far wall behind the stage. "There's a trapdoor."
We moved together, careful, hearts pounding. I could feel the Aurumglass pulsing in my pack like it was warning me. Down wasn't safe.
But we went anyway.
The trapdoor groaned open to reveal a narrow staircase, spiraling deep into the dark.
At the bottom, the air was thick with dust and something else — something old. The walls were lined with broken mirrors, and as we passed, each one whispered just loud enough to notice.
They whispered us.
Our names.
Our fears.
The lies we told ourselves to keep going.
James stumbled as we reached a round chamber lit by floating candles. At the center was a pedestal. And on it… the second stone.
Mimicite.
Dark as onyx. Faceted. It didn't shimmer like Aurumglass. It absorbed light. Refused to reflect.
But when I reached for it, it changed.
The surface shifted — turned into a face.
Mine.
But not just mine.
A twisted, false version. Smiling when I wasn't. Crying when I held still. It moved when I didn't.
Then it spoke.
"Which mask will you wear when they see who you are?"
I couldn't breathe.
Arisa shouted, but the sound felt distant.
The room spun, the candles flaring. And I saw everything.
Me, lying to James.
Me, pretending not to care when Arisa cried.
Me, laughing with people I hated just to stay liked.
It showed me every mask I'd ever worn.
And then it shattered.
Not the stone.
Me.
I hit the floor on my knees, choking back a sob. The stone pulsed in my hand.
Cold. Heavy. Honest.
James knelt beside me, hand on my back. "You okay?"
"No," I whispered. "But I will be."
Alice didn't come near. She just stood at the edge, watching.
When we climbed back to the theatre above, the candle had gone out.
And the mirrors?
They were all broken.
We had the second stone.
But we'd lost something, too.
The truth doesn't always set you free.
Sometimes it buries you deeper.