Evariste peeled an eyelid open. Queen Faina, the mirror is affecting her.
Before dumping him in this ancient mirror, Liliane had harped on about a “target” that had managed to fight off their efforts.
It likely was Queen Faina—regent of Mullberg on behalf of Princess Snow White.
He hadn’t been able to see much—the mirror’s surface seemed to have a foggy film over it most of the time that made it difficult to see more than smeared shapes. But he had heard Princess Snow White voice concern for the queen’s health on several occasions.
Another wave of pain rolled through Evariste, striking so deeply he knew nothing but suffering—he couldn’t even think, the sensation was so intense.
He rolled onto his back and tried to breathe through his mouth to block out the smells, but he could practically taste the metallic tang of blood, and the smokey smell was so thick, it dried out his mouth and made his throat crack.
A few moments later, a muffled groan again pierced the cloudy fog of the mirror.
Evariste managed to boost himself to his feet and trudged up to the mirror’s surface. He had to lean against it for support, planting his forehead against it.
He couldn’t make out the queen through the haze of magic in which the mirror wrapped itself. But he recognized the blurred lines of her canopy bed, and he assumed the rumpled pile splayed upon it was her.
A pang of sympathy pulsed in Evariste’s previously-numb chest. She’s been fighting the mirror’s influence for so long. It’s only really since the mirror started feeding off my magic that it has made progress in crushing her.
Evariste panted in pain as he leaned his back against the mirror’s surface and slid down the smooth wall, his legs collapsing in on him.
“Do you think to help her? As if you could be the hero you once pretended to be when you are so weakened you cannot control your own body.”
The mirror whispered deep in Evariste’s mind, but he brushed it off again.
The sentient artifact was able to reach him no matter how he blocked it out. Neither clasping his hands over his ears or trying to talk over it did much. But Evariste had grown extraordinarily skilled at ignoring it.
It was easy to disregard when he was in so much pain he couldn’t breathe, after all.
“You may love another, but you’re not worthy of anything in return. How could you ever hope to match her with your petty pride and weak will?”
Evariste openly rolled his eyes and twisted his head uncomfortably so he could peer over his shoulder at the smudgy shapes of Queen Faina’s bedroom.
Angelique was a soft spot within him that the mirror had tried using against him before.
“Unfortunately for you, I already know she’s not in love with me.” Evariste’s voice was hoarse, and his throat felt grated. “Knowing that is hardly going to hurt my feelings. Now cry off—or evolve past goblin-level taunts.”
The mirror’s sulky whispers faded, blending into the queen’s pained groans.
The added pleasure of ignoring hissed whispers was that it seemed to displease the mirror. Evariste had learned when stuck in the cave the Chosen were holed up in to take his wins no matter how petty they were. He had even fewer chances of winning while slowly getting his magic sucked out of him. He felt as if his soul was slowly flaking away into nothing, so it was best to fully embrace the moments he did win.
Outside the mirror, Faina sucked in a pained breath, and Evariste was fairly certain the rattle to her gasp was because she was crying.
Evariste closed his eyes as all the pain made the brown-red innards of the mirror swirl in sickness-inducing patterns.
I am a Lord Enchanter—even though I’m stuck in a mirror. It will always be my duty to protect the innocent.
Evariste believed that with every inch of his heart. But guessing what would happen, he hesitated—only for a heartbeat—and then closed his eyes as he felt for his magic.
He smacked into the wall that cut him off from his own powers. Long ago, Liliane had placed a curse on him. It magically cut him off from his magic and could only be removed if he gave into the darkest desire of his heart.
Fortunately, his darkest desire was only to kiss the protests out of Angelique and tell her he loved her.
Unfortunately, that meant he couldn’t break the curse without her, and if he ever gave into the whim, she was likely to brain him upside the head and never speak to him again. His feelings could ruin her. If word got out that Lord Enchanter Evariste had flirted with his student, Angelique—always and unfairly in disgrace among magekind due to her incredibly powerful magic—would be the one to pay the price.
And she’d never forgive him—rightfully so.
But while Evariste couldn’t reach his magic, he’d learned—painfully so—in the past few weeks that he could at least make it more difficult for the mirror to drain him. And in doing that, it made it more difficult for the mirror to claw its way into Queen Faina’s mind.
He took a deep breath, swallowing down the burning sensation at the back of his throat, and then mentally leaned into the wall that cut him off from his powers. Using his mind, he blocked a portion of the wellspring of his magic, making it harder for the mirror to access.
The pain—which had already been beyond what he could endure—spiked, and Evariste wheezed as it relentlessly wracked through his body.
His muscles gave out, and he collapsed on the ground, his vision swimming and his ears ringing as the mirror ruthlessly dredged through his body, forcibly dragging the magic out of him.
But Evariste didn’t stop trying to hold his magic back. And as jagged pain shot up his limbs, he could only produce one fleeting thought: Please. Someone, please help me.
Chapter 3
That night Angelique slept better than she had in weeks, so she was feeling remarkably jolly as she prepared to return to Farset.
She grabbed another cloak from her bedroom wardrobe to cover her eye-catching dress and briefly considered changing outfits entirely. Somehow that felt like it may be giving up, so after using a spell to clean the gown, she put it back on.
She tossed her cloak over her shoulders and made her way to the staircase, making tracks for the sitting room (where she could crawl through the window, again), when she felt a pulse of portal magic ooze from Evariste’s room.
Frowning, Angelique backtracked and warily nudged the door open to Evariste’s bedroom, her silvery magic swirling at her feet.
A man with copper-colored hair and streaks of silver at his temples stood in Evariste’s room. His feet were braced on the gold frame of the only free-standing portal in Evariste’s quarters—the gate that led directly to his office in the Veneno Conclave—and he appeared to be trying to yank something through the portal, which flickered and shed a few sparks of magic.
Angelique relaxed, recognizing the tall man. “Lord Enchanter Clovicus?”
“I’ll be just a moment, Angelique.” Clovicus grunted and succeeded in dragging an arm into Evariste’s room. “The portal seems persnickety today.”
Magic crackled across the gateway, making it impossible to see Evariste’s office on the other side. Abruptly, a young man emerged from the gate, flopping into the house.
Clovicus dodged the young man, so the poor soul hit the wooden floor with an audible crack.