6. The Fractured Mirror

The figure stood still, unmoving in the vast, empty whiteness. It felt as though the world had ceased to exist, and all that remained was this hollow expanse—and that shadow, waiting just out of reach. Viole took slow, deliberate steps toward it, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The air here was thick, heavy with the weight of unseen forces pressing down on him from all sides. He could feel their presence, whispering in his ear, reminding him of his fractured existence.

As he moved closer, the figure began to take form, its edges sharpening into something familiar. It was him, or rather, a twisted reflection of him—an image of Viole that seemed both right and wrong at the same time. The face was his, but the expression was different. Where Viole wore the hardened mask of survival, this version of him carried an unsettling calm, as if all emotion had been stripped away.

The figure's eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, the world felt like it had stopped. Viole's heart pounded in his chest, his pulse echoing in his ears, but he forced himself to keep moving. This… thing wasn't real. It couldn't be. It was just another trick—another test the academy had thrown at him. He had to remind himself of that.

But as he stepped closer, the reflection's lips parted, and a voice—his own voice, but colder—spoke.

"You don't belong here."

The words struck him like a physical blow, but Viole didn't falter. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them. "I'm not falling for this. Whatever this is—whatever you are—it's not real."

The reflection tilted its head, a small, unsettling smile forming on its lips. "Not real?" it repeated, the words dripping with mockery. "Everything here is real, Viole. This is you. Your true self. The one you've been running from."

Viole's jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "No. You're just another trick. Another voice trying to take control. I know who I am."

The reflection's smile widened, and for the first time, Viole noticed something dark and malevolent lurking behind those eyes. It wasn't just him standing there. The personalities were present too—each one of them, shifting behind his reflection like shadows, their presence intertwined with his own.

"Do you?" the reflection asked, taking a step forward. "You've been trying so hard to keep us all locked away, haven't you? But you can't run forever, Viole. You can't hide from us. We are you. We are your strength."

Viole shook his head, trying to block out the voice. He could feel them now, the personalities, pressing against the walls of his mind. Aamon's regal, commanding presence, cold and unyielding. Desmond's playful, chaotic energy, bubbling beneath the surface. Clark's dark, venomous whispers, filled with malice and cruelty. They were all there, waiting for their chance to take over, to consume him.

The reflection took another step forward, until it was close enough that Viole could feel its breath on his skin. "You're weak, Viole. You can't survive here. Not without us."

Viole's chest tightened, his breath coming faster as the reflection's words sank in. He wanted to fight back, to push them all away, but the weight of their presence was suffocating, overwhelming. He could feel his grip on reality slipping, the ground beneath him crumbling.

But then, something stirred deep within him—a small spark of defiance. This wasn't real. He couldn't let himself get lost in this place, in these voices. He had to keep moving, had to stay focused.

With a sudden burst of willpower, Viole raised his hand and shoved the reflection backward. The force of the blow sent the twisted image of himself reeling, the calm mask cracking as it stumbled. "I don't need you," Viole said through gritted teeth, his voice shaking with anger. "I'll survive without you."

The reflection's face twisted in fury, its eyes narrowing. "You think you can survive alone? Without us, you are nothing. You'll die."

Viole took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Maybe," he said, his voice quieter now, but filled with determination. "But I'll die on my own terms."

The reflection's expression darkened, and for a moment, the world seemed to tremble. But then, without warning, the image of Viole shattered into a thousand pieces, dissolving into the white void around him. The personalities retreated, their voices fading into the background.

The silence that followed was deafening. Viole stood alone in the empty expanse, his body trembling with exhaustion. He had won this battle, but he knew it wasn't over. The personalities weren't gone—they never would be. But for now, at least, he had regained control.

The world around him began to shift once more, the whiteness bleeding away as the cavern walls slowly reformed. The cold, hard stone underfoot replaced the formless expanse, and the oppressive energy lifted. Viole blinked, disoriented, as the dim light of the cavern came back into focus. He was back.

And he wasn't alone.

Toren and Seris stood a few feet away, their eyes wide with confusion and fear. The third boy—still silent, still watching—hadn't moved from his spot, his gaze fixed on Viole.

"What… what just happened?" Toren muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced around the cavern. "Did we all just… see that?"

Seris, ever composed, gave a sharp nod. "Yeah. We did." Her eyes flicked to Viole, something unreadable in her gaze. "Whatever that was, it wasn't part of the trial."

Viole took a deep breath, steadying himself. His body still felt heavy, the weight of the personalities lingering just beneath the surface. "It's over now," he said, though he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince them or himself. "Let's keep moving."

The others exchanged glances but said nothing as they resumed their journey deeper into the cavern. The silence between them was thick with unspoken tension, but no one dared break it. Whatever had happened back there, they all knew it had changed something—something fundamental. Viole could feel it too. The balance of power within him had shifted. The personalities had grown more restless, more determined to break free.

And as they moved through the shadows of the cavern, Viole knew one thing for certain: this trial wasn't about surviving the academy. It was about surviving himself.

The group pressed forward, the air growing colder and more oppressive with each step. The narrow tunnels twisted and turned, leading them deeper into the earth, and with every passing moment, the weight on Viole's shoulders grew heavier. The trial had changed him. The reflection had shown him a part of himself he wasn't ready to face—and the personalities knew it.

Toren led the way, his werewolf instincts guiding him through the darkness. Seris followed close behind, her eyes sharp and alert, while the silent boy—still an enigma—stayed at the rear, watching their backs. Viole stayed in the middle, his senses on high alert as the cavern seemed to close in around them.

The walls were closing in, both figuratively and literally. The space grew tighter as they descended, the path narrowing until they had to move single file, each step echoing in the silence. Viole's heart raced, the tension building with every passing moment.

Then, the tunnel opened up into a vast underground chamber, and Viole's breath caught in his throat.

The chamber was massive, its ceiling lost in the darkness above. Strange, glowing symbols were etched into the stone walls, pulsing with a faint, eerie light. And at the center of the room, a massive, black stone altar stood, towering over them like a monolith. Its surface was slick and gleamed faintly in the dim light, as if it had been polished with… something dark.

Viole's skin prickled as a cold shiver ran down his spine. There was something deeply wrong about this place, something ancient and powerful that lingered just beneath the surface. He could feel it, pressing against his mind like the weight of the personalities.

"This is it," Seris whispered, her voice barely audible. "The final part of the trial."

Toren growled low in his throat, his eyes scanning the chamber. "Doesn't feel right."

Viole didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the altar, his mind racing. Whatever this trial was, it wasn't about brute strength or magic. This was something else. Something more dangerous.

The personalities stirred within him, their presence growing stronger, more insistent. Aamon whispered promises of power, while Desmond giggled with excitement. And then there was Clark, watching from the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Viole swallowed hard, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. He couldn't let them take over. Not now.

"Stay alert," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "This isn't just a test. It's a trap."

The others didn't argue. They knew it too.

As they approached the altar, the symbols on the walls began to glow brighter, their light pulsating in time with the pounding of Viole's heart. The air grew thick with tension, the oppressive weight of ancient power pressing down on them.

And then, from the shadows, something moved.