A HENRY STORY 2: Trials Of The Fallen Prince

II. Curse

It was not crystal that glittered on the walls, but it almost seemed so. Sparkling and brimming with myriads of colors.

Henry had no idea for how long he had wandered the odd cave, mesmerized by the glimmering walls, when their shade suddenly shifted. The brightness, which seemed to have no source, dimmed. Henry turned to discover why . . . and found himself face to face with a smooth wall, covered in the shimmering substance.

It was . . . a mirror, he realized, brushing his hand against the smooth surface. Back at him stared his own face, the way it should be. Not the face of the Prince of Regalia, but the face of the competent, confident outcast warrior that he had been for one fleeting moment—with his infectious, self-assured grin and that gleam of life in his eyes. These were the eyes of a man who could do anything.

Henry raised his hand to graze the surface, but his reflection followed not his movement. Instead, it produced a sword. Henry froze, his fingertips hovering over the surface . . . in horror.

Before his very gaze, the man's charming grin became cold and wicked. In one swift move, he raised the sword and pierced the mirror. A deafening crash rang in Henry's ears, and sharp, cold pain bloomed in his chest . . . as though it had not been a mirror but a door, as though the man with the sword were not a reflection.

But . . . he wasn't a reflection. He was not Henry. The man yanked his sword back, and before he could process that he had stabbed not only the mirror but also Henry's own chest, water gushed out of the crack in the opening.

Henry staggered back. Hot wetness seeped out of him, but he barely felt it. He looked down at his hands . . . there was a sword in his hand too, and the blade, just like his hands, was red with blood.

The water rose relentlessly. Henry released the sword so that it clanked against the floor and retreated, but he could only do that for so long because the tunnel was suddenly a cave and there was no way out. He wanted to run . . . to fight. But he couldn't do any of it. The water rose steadily until it finally swallowed him. Henry meant to scream, but out of his mouth came no sound. Invisible chains had locked around his neck, not allowing him a single breath.

He couldn't even open his mouth.

Henry could do nothing but let the tide carry him. His vision sparked, and his chest ached. The water was red . . . no, white. There was white above him. A white . . . window? Henry's head broke the surface of the water, and he reached up, realizing it was the same substance that the man who hadn't been his reflection had appeared out of.

His hand placed down on it, and the white was stained with red. To his astonishment, it was . . . cold.

Then, a shadow appeared behind the surface, and Henry's heart skipped a beat when he made out Thanatos on the other side of the odd substance this time. His flier gazed down at him, and Henry's mouth widened into a smile.

Death!

He attempted to scream, but it was like he had lost the ability to control his vocal cords. His mouth opened and closed, yet he did not produce sounds.

His bond stared down with an unreadable expression, and Henry felt a swell of irritation. He closed his hand into a fist and banged it against the oddly cold substance.

Death?

But his bond did not move. Did not even emote. The longer he remained idle, the more of Henry's confusion turned into panic.

Death!

With each passing second, it became harder and harder to remain on the surface, not least because the pain in his chest increased. Blood surged out of him, staining his hands and clothes.