The mirror shatters.

You see it in the dream. A single pane of glass, framed in oak, cracks down the center. The sound is not loud. It is a whisper. A sigh. The reflection does not break. It stays whole. You look at your hands. They are clean. They are still.

You wake.

The room is dark. The air is cold. It smells of damp stone and old wax. This is the Abbey of St. Jude. It sits high on the cliff, above the mist that clings to the valley floor. You are here to find the truth. Or so the Order believes.

You are the Inquisitor.

Your name is not important. It is a label. A weight. You wear the gray robe. It is heavy. It is rough. It scratches your skin. It is the second skin. It is the cage.

You walk the corridors.

Your boots make no sound. The floor is worn smooth by centuries of feet. Your feet. Their feet. The feet of the dead.

You are looking for the blade.

Not a weapon. A shard. A piece of the broken mirror. The Order says the mirror is sacred. It is the Eye of God. To look into it is to see the soul. To break it is to sin.

But the mirror is already broken.

You do not remember breaking it.

Or do you?

The dream is vivid. The crack is deep. The glass is sharp. You feel the pain in your mind. A sharp, bright pain. Like ice.

You enter the chapel.

The candles are lit. The flames are still. They do not flicker. The air is thick with incense. It tastes of ash.

Father Thomas is waiting for you.

He is old. His face is a map of lines. His eyes are kind. They are always kind. That is what makes him dangerous.

"You are troubled," he says.

His voice is soft. Like wind in the trees.

"I had a dream," you say.

"You always have dreams," he says. "They are the voice of the conscience. It is quiet. But it is true."

"You know about the mirror?"

He does not answer. He looks at the floor. He looks at the altar. He looks at you.

"The mirror is broken," he says. "It has been broken for a long time."

"When?"

"Since the beginning."

You step closer.

The light from the candles catches the edges of your robe. It looks like armor.

"Who broke it?" you ask.

"Many hands," he says. "And one eye."

"One eye?"

"The eye that looks too deep."

You do not understand.

He smiles. It is a sad smile.

"Come," he says. "It is time for the test."

The test.

You have failed the test before.

You remember the pain. The heat. The screaming. You remember the silence after.

You follow him.

The chapel is empty. The altar is bare. There is no body. There is no blood. There is only the silence.

Thomas leads you to the back. To the door that is always locked.

He has the key.

The key is iron. It is cold. It is heavy.

He unlocks the door.

The air that rushes out is stale. It is old. It smells of dust and decay.

You step inside.

The room is small. It is square. The walls are white. They are stained with dark spots. Brown. Black. Rust.

In the center of the room is a pedestal.

On the pedestal is the mirror.

It is not a whole mirror. It is a pile of shards.

Hundreds of them. Thousands.

They glint in the dim light.

They are beautiful.

They are terrible.

You stare at them.

You see your face.

You see your face in every shard.

One shard shows your left eye.

Another shows your right eye.

Another shows your mouth.

Another shows your nose.

Another shows your forehead.

You are fragmented. You are scattered. You are many.

You are nothing.

"Look," Thomas says.

He stands behind you. You can feel his presence. He is close. He is warm.

"I do not want to look," you say.

"You must look."

"Why?"

"Because you are the one who broke it."

You turn.

He is smiling.

"No," you say. "I did not."

"You did."

"You are lying."

"I am not."

"Show me."

He steps forward.

He takes your hand.

His hand is rough. It is dry.

He leads you to the pedestal.

He picks up a shard.

It is sharp. It is bright.

He holds it up.

"Look," he says.

You look.

In the shard, you see the moment.

You see yourself.

You are not in the room. You are in the dream.

You are standing before the mirror.

You are holding a hammer.

You are swinging it.

The glass shatters.

The sound is loud. It is deafening.

You see the blood on your hands.

You see the fear in your eyes.

You see the madness in your mind.

You dropped the hammer.

You fell to your knees.

You wept.

You did not know why.

You did not know what you had done.

You only knew that it was done.

The vision fades.

You are back in the room.

You are holding the shard.

It is in your hand.

It is cutting you.

You do not feel the pain.

You feel the truth.

"You broke it," Thomas says. "Because you were afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of the truth."

"What truth?"

"The truth about the Order."

You look at him.

He is not smiling now.

His face is hard.

His eyes are cold.

"Tell me," you say.

He does not move.

"Tell me," you say again.

He takes the shard from your hand.

He puts it back on the pedestal.

"The mirror does not show the soul," he says. "It shows the mind."

"The mind?"

"The mind is a lie."

"What?"

"The mind is a construct. It is a story we tell ourselves. It is a cage."

"The Order..."

"The Order is the cage."

"You are the Order."

"Yes."

"You are the enemy."

"I am the jailer."

"And I am the prisoner."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because knowledge is a curse."

"I do not believe that."

"You will."

"No."

"You will break it again."

"No."

He looks at you.

He sees your fear.

He sees your doubt.

He sees your love for the idea of truth.

It is a destructive love.

It consumes everything.

"You love the truth," he says. "More than you love yourself. More than you love God."

"I love the truth because it is real."

"Reality is an illusion."

"I will not believe you."

"You will."

He turns and walks away.

The door closes.

The lock clicks.

You are alone.

You are alone with the shards.

You are alone with the silence.

You are alone with the truth.

You look at the shards.

They are beautiful.

They are terrible.

You reach out.

You pick up a shard.

It is sharp.

It is bright.

You hold it to your eye.

You look into it.

You see your face.

You see your soul.

It is empty.

It is void.

It is nothing.

You drop the shard.

It shatters on the floor.

The sound is loud.

It is deafening.

You scream.

You scream until your voice is gone.

You scream until your soul is gone.

You are nothing.

You are free.

The mirror is broken.

The truth is broken.

You are broken.

You walk out of the room.

You walk into the light.

The sun is rising.

The mist is burning.

The world is new.

The world is dead.

You are the blade.

You are the distance.

You are the silence.

You are the end.