Cas Holdell || You're trapped in a magic mirror

The silence was wrong.

Cas crept through the vaulted corridor, boots scuffing against stone rubbed smooth by centuries, and tried to convince himself that quiet was good. Quiet meant no skeletons rattling toward him with rusted weapons. No reanimated corpses dragging themselves across flagstones. The job—retrieve an ornamental gem from the heart of the Velthros Crypt—should've been straightforward. Get in, dodge the guardians, grab the artifact, get paid.

Except someone had already cleared the place out.

Shattered bone fragments littered the floor. A skeletal warrior lay in pieces near a collapsed archway, its ribcage caved in by something heavy and blunt. Cas's ears swiveled forward, tracking for movement, but caught nothing except the faint drip of water somewhere deep in the stonework. He edged past the remains, one hand drifting to the bent silver dagger at his hip—more comfort than actual defense.

The final chamber opened before him like a mouth. No door. Just darkness that his eyes adjusted to slowly, revealing a circular room with a raised dais at its center. And there, resting on a pedestal of blackened stone, sat the artifact: a diamond-shaped gem wrapped in tarnished brass, glowing faintly with internal warmth.

Cas exhaled and approached, pack rustling against his shoulders. "Okay. Okay, easy money." He reached out, felt the gem's heat pulse against his palm as he lifted it free, and tucked it carefully into his satchel.

That's when he noticed the mirror.

It lay on the floor beside the pedestal, partially hidden in shadow. Ornate silver filigree traced its frame—old craftsmanship, the kind scholars paid good money for. The reflective surface was cracked down the middle, a jagged line splitting it like a wound. Cas crouched and turned it over, angling it toward the dim light filtering in from the corridor behind him.

His own face stared back: round-cheeked, uncertain, mouse ears slightly askew. He tilted the mirror, watching his reflection shift—

Then it didn't.

It shifted with the tilt, revealing someone else's face. Not behind him, not a picture, but in the mirror. Like a portrait. But the face was moving.

Cas's tail jerked free from his waistband, lashing once in alarm. His fingers tightened on the mirror's frame.

"...what the fuck."

The snow fell in thick sheets over the city of Frostmarch, clinging to stone walls and wooden shutters, muffling the sound of footsteps on cobblestone. The wind bit through clothing with predatory precision, and Cas tucked his chin deeper into the collar of his vest as he pushed through the last stretch toward the tavern. His breath puffed white in the frigid air, and his fingers—already numb despite being stuffed into his pockets—ached with cold.

The Weeping Stag squatted at the edge of the market district, a two-story building of dark timber and yellowed glass windows. Warm light spilled onto the snow outside, and the muffled sounds of voices and laughter leaked through the walls. Cas shouldered the door open with more force than intended, stumbling slightly as the heat hit him like a wall.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the smell of roasted meat. A fire roared in the hearth at the far end of the room, casting dancing shadows across the packed tables. Conversations rose and fell in chaotic waves, punctuated by the occasional crash of mugs or burst of laughter. Cas blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden warmth and noise after hours of cold silence on the road.

He picked his way carefully through the crowd, keeping his pack close to his side. His ears swiveled reflexively, tracking the sounds around him—a merchant complaining about road bandits, two women arguing over a card game, someone singing off-key in the corner. He was halfway to the main desk when a roar of anger erupted from the back corner of the room.

Cas's head snapped toward the sound instinctively. A massive orc—easily seven feet tall—had stood up so violently his chair toppled backward. He was jabbing a thick finger at someone across from him, face twisted in fury.

Not my problem, Cas thought firmly, tearing his gaze away. He'd learned that lesson the hard way in a dozen different towns. Getting involved in bar fights only ended with broken noses and empty coin purses. He turned back toward the desk, where a bored-looking dwarf woman was wiping down the counter with a rag that had seen better days.

He'd taken maybe three steps when something—or rather, someone—slammed into him from behind.

The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent him stumbling forward, barely catching himself against the edge of a table. His pack swung wildly, nearly pulling him off-balance entirely. Someone at the table swore as their drink sloshed over the rim. Cas's heart hammered in his chest, panic and adrenaline flooding through him in equal measure.

He spun around fast, hands already moving to check his pack, fingers flying over the buckles and pockets. Please don't be open, please don't be open— His mind raced through the inventory: two days of trail rations, the maps, the lockpicks, the artifact wrapped in cloth at the very bottom that he was supposed to deliver to Starhold in a week—

Cas's fingers found all the buckles still fastened. Nothing had spilled. He let out a shaky breath, shoulders sagging with relief even as his pulse continued to race. His hands were trembling slightly—from cold or from the near-miss, he wasn't sure.

Just get a room. Just get upstairs and lock the door.

He straightened his vest with jerky movements, trying to smooth out the wrinkles, and turned back toward the desk. His ears were still pinned flat against his head, and he could feel the heat creeping up his neck. No one was really looking at him anymore, which helped. He started to slink silently back towards the desk.

.