"Five caltrops, Helm. Against forty-seven feral beasts."
The guardian rose from the mirror floor — a construct of liquid silver and stolen memories. It wore the face of Helm's former captain, the one he had left behind to die in the Battle of Ashford Ford.
The construct lunged.
"I'm not running," he said. But his voice cracked.
He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. "Forty-four. I counted." "Five caltrops, Helm
Lyra stepped up beside him. Not behind. Beside . She placed her staff on the ground and drew a simple iron dagger.
"Will face us ." Gunther hefted his axe. "Not just you, tactician. Us. The whole party. The one you keep trying to protect by pushing yourself into the dark." The construct lunged
Water dripped from petrified trees growing upside down from the ceiling. The floor was a mosaic of shattered mirrors, each shard reflecting a different version of the group — Helm as a legionnaire, Lyra as a court mage, the dwarf Gunther as a king. Past selves. Dead selves.