Floor 38 was a blinding cathedral of light. The Crystal Labyrinth didn't just test a warrior’s strength; it tested their eyes and their sanity. Every wall was a mirror, and every mirror held a thousand versions of themselves, stretching into an infinite, jagged horizon.
The Knight’s Shadow
From the moment they stepped onto the floor, Alaric’s behavior shifted. He was no longer just the Mage-Prince; he was Seraphina’s silent, unwavering shadow.
While they marched through the corridors of singing glass, Alaric was constantly in motion. He stayed half a step behind her, his eyes scanning the reflections for the slightest ripple of movement. When they made camp, he didn't wait to be asked. He took Seraphina’s heavy claymore, sitting by the fire to hone the edge with a whetstone until the steel gleamed like a mirror itself.
"You don't have to do that, Alaric," Seraphina said, watching him work. She was leaning against a crystal pillar, her eyes tired from the constant glare. "You've already spent three hours enchanting the perimeter."
Alaric didn't look up, his hands steady as he polished the crossguard. "The Sentinel’s minions use light-based refraction. If your blade isn't perfectly smooth, the light will catch the notches and throw off your swing. I’m not letting a dull edge be the reason you take a hit."
Seraphina watched the firelight dance in his eyes. He was doing the "grunt work" that usually fell to squires or lower-ranks, but he did it with a quiet, intense devotion that made her throat feel tight.
Shattering the Past
As they deeper into the maze, the Labyrinth began to play its cruelest trick. The glass walls didn't just reflect the present; they began to pull from the dark corners of their minds.
A flicker of green light appeared in a mirror to their left. Seraphina froze, her hand flying to her hilt. In the glass, a reflection of Marek Packwood appeared, his bandaged face turning toward her, his mouth opening to whisper the old commands.
Before the image could even form a sound, a streak of white lightning tore through the air.
"Volt-Snap!"
Alaric’s hand was still outstretched as the mirror shattered into a million harmless shards. He didn't wait for a second image to appear. He moved through the corridor like a whirlwind of fire, incinerating any reflection that dared to show a hint of green or a shadow of a chain.
"Don't look at them," Alaric said, his voice low and fiercely protective. He stepped in front of Seraphina, physically blocking her view of the remaining mirrors. "I’ve got the flank. Keep your eyes on the path ahead, Seras. I won't let the past touch you here."
The Unspoken Weight
Seraphina looked at his broad shoulders, noticing the way he stood—braced, ready to take a blow for her at a moment’s notice. It wasn't just teamwork anymore. It was a desperate, silent vow.
Clara, walking a few paces behind, watched the exchange with a knowing, bittersweet smile. She saw the way Alaric’s hand trembled slightly after he broke the mirrors—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of his rage on their behalf.
"He's doing it again," Clara whispered to herself, seeing Alaric adjust the straps on Seraphina’s cloak so it wouldn't snag on the glass.
The Labyrinth was cold, but the heat radiating from Alaric’s devotion was starting to melt the ice around Seraphina’s heart. She reached out, her fingers briefly brushing his gauntlet as they moved deeper into the light.
"Thank you, Alaric," she whispered.
Alaric just nodded, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a sound louder to him than the clashing of any blade.
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