In the perpetual dusk of Corax Asylum, the corridors stretch like veins of damp stone, pulsing with the relentless tick of mismatched clocks. Their hands jerk forward in discord, some racing ahead, others lagging behind, as if time itself recoils from the place. Mirrors line the walls, relentless sentinels that multiply every shadow, every hesitant step, until the lone wanderer becomes legion, a fractured army of their own terror.
Footfalls echo softly at first, then swell, bouncing off the glass until they sound like pursuit. One turns, expecting the ghoul Chives with his sagging flesh and dutiful limp, or perhaps Nicolas himself, tall hat cocked, cane tapping a sardonic rhythm. But there is nothing, only the reflection staring back, eyes wide, breath fogging the surface. The air hangs heavy, laced with the faint rot of unburied dead and the metallic tang of blood long dried. Somewhere distant, a scream rises, sharp and muffled, cut short by wet finality.
The mirrors play cruel tricks. In one, the corridor ends abruptly in a barred door, chains glinting coldly. In the next, it twists into infinity, doors lining both sides, each promising escape. Push one open, and it reveals a cell: a bed with straps, a rack of rusted tools, a figure strapped and twitching. Turn away, and the image lingers, superimposed over the next pane, where the figure now watches you, mouth gaping in silent accusation.
Clocks chime randomly, overlapping in a cacophony that drills into the skull. One strikes the hour too early, another too late, and for a moment, the watcher swears a face presses against the glass from the other side, green eyes flickering, lips curling in that perpetual half-smile. Nicolas? Or something worse, something born of the asylum’s endless hunger? The sensation crawls up the spine: eyes upon you, always, from every angle, every shard of reflection. No corner is private, no breath unheard.
Drip. Drip. Sewage weeps from a crack overhead, pooling at the feet. Step back, and the mirrors catch the ripple, distorting it into grasping hands. The walls seem to lean inward, the ceiling to lower, until the space constricts like a coffin. Laughter echoes faintly, or is it sobbing? The line blurs. In the glass ahead, a figure darts past, gone before the head turns. Heart hammers. Run, and the mirrors multiply the flight into panic, a dozen versions fleeing, pursued by a dozen more.
At the corridor’s heart, the grand mirror looms, floor to ceiling, flawless and black. Approach, and it reflects nothing. Stare long enough, and shapes stir within the void: faces, half-formed, mouthing words lost to the chime of clocks. Reach out, and cold glass meets the palm, unyielding. Behind it, something waits, patient, eternal. The Ad Sex Speculum watches not just the Immortalis, but all who dare walk these halls. In Corax, no one is ever truly alone. The eyes are always there, in the glass, in the stone, in the endless, murky stretch ahead.
Immortalis Book One August 2026