Reinhardt retraced the route they took on the first trip through the East Wing. He made the promise to himself that he would come back here while the sun was up. The tapestries and paintings called to him more than ever, and he’d love to examine them at length. But, if the upper floor was anything like the ground floor, no part of the floor went more than a few hours without a patrol sweeping the area. Those patrols were more aggravating than they were dangerous. He couldn’t wait until he was strong enough to deal with them as the trivialities they were. He saw himself, in all charge, swinging his Or from the wall,” he thought, bizarrely. “?” He watched his future self easily dispatch a Even if it Ascends to , the shield won’t look like that.” No, he realised. The That’s not your body, that’s just armour, you need to have your body restored.” That thought screeched through the front of his brain as a discordant chord in a previously sweet sonata.

  He watched his future self sheath the black-and-platinum blade of the Gauntlet VambraceGauntlet. See? No body.” This is not the future he wanted at all! Over the Reinhardt in Glass?” He blinked and tried to focus. The afterimage of the radiant armour remained as he blinked, like catching an unexpected reflection of the sun. With an effort, he focused on the iron-grey Reinhardt, he could the image of sliding over his brain. “.” That unsettling feeling did more to dispel his mental fog than his brain telling him to reject this vision of his future self. As the bewitchment lost all grip on his mind, he found himself in front of a mirror.

  It loomed over him like a relic claimed from some ancient, forgotten cathedral. The frame was a tangle of shadows frozen into an elegant form. It had been carved from a dark, nearly black wood - ebony, or a type of mahogany so dark as to appear black. It rose in a sharp, sweeping arches reminiscent of the Gothic windows of the Castle. Interwoven throughout the frame were slender tendrils of carved thorn-vines, their barbs delicate, yet undeniably menacing. Clusters of roses appeared sporadically along the vines, their petals sculpted so finely they seemed on the verge of crumbling. Each bloom shone in the dim light, blood-red against the surrounding darkness. The mirror’s glass held a peculiar depth, as though the glass was pellucid, its surface not merely reflective but rather the barrier to a dark, endless tunnel. At the apex sat a single gargoyle’s head, its expression somewhere between a snarl and a silent warning. Its ape-like features were carved with exquisite precision: the ridges above its eyes, the curled sneer of its upper lip, and the faint impression of fangs just visible beneath.

  Reinhardt stared at the mirror, horrified. Of all the things he had seen thus far, this was the most dangerous. “.” He shuddered. As much as the Dungeon

  He was not the same man, boy really, who had walked into the DungeonInnate his head was effectively locked in time, but that didn’t change the fact he looked as though he was suffering from the early stages of a wasting disease. He scowled at his reflection. “.” Reinhardt doubted it. He also doubted he could interact with anyone with his visor up. Not without accusations of plague or lurgy. Something else to deal with. For right now, he didn’t know if time had flowed differently in the mirror illusion, but if it had, he may have to dodge a patrol any time now.

  He turned and set off at a trot. As he went, he considered the plan to duel the And a higher any injuries if he could manage it. The

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  He had been terrified - the thing had seemed too big to be real, too solid and immovable. Even now, the suit of armour seemed like a bulwark of neatly interlocking plates. But Reinhardt knew the enemy now, he had grown - forged in bitter experience. He analysed the immobile full plate not as an obstacle, but as a foe to be defeated. It appeared to be a variation of the Not ‘still,’ the party would have taken this route to avoid the patrol and the Armour.” Why, though? Otto had led them this way based on the K was operating on incomplete information. Surely they had a party run the Dungeon

  Reinhardt looked around the study. The bookshelves lining the south wall had several dozen books of various sizes and designs, broken up by marble busts. The large desk was intact - the group obviously carried a proper grapple, or other way to cross the distance to the other window. Upon the desk was a clutter of tools and instruments for measuring, ocular enhancement and most importantly, writing. He went to the bookshelf and began methodically going through the books. He opened each one at the quarter and again at the half way point. Each one he found had writing, a strange, alien script he had never seen - much like everything in the Dungeon

  He selected a large, thick book bound in a rich green leather. He didn’t need to, but he wanted to match his shield. Placing it on the desk, he sat on the slightly creaky chair. Taking the quill in his unfeeling gauntlet was a strange sensation - if only the quill was Magical, or even the book. But instead he was left watching as his “fingers” moved, holding the quill gently. Once he had it in place, he locked his fingers in place. He opened his book and began to write. “Scarecrow, the new Enveloper variant they had come up against. He left the rest of the quarter-filled third page blank, in case he remembered something or encountered something interesting on the way out. He detailed the occurrences within the Dark Forest, and the behaviour and tactics of the Wolves. It was a shorter entry, so he left the opposing page blank so he could add something else if needed.

  On the sixth page, he described the Castle Gardens in a brief overview, explaining the strategy in exacting detail - the path they had taken had resulted in the best knot of Statues, tying them up and hindering their advance. He was about to get started on the trek through the Castle when he heard the approach of the “shunk, shunk, shunk” signalling the heavy footfalls of the patrol. If his math was correct, it was the nine p.m patrol sweep. He glanced back over his account. He had had the foresight to practice writing on the half-blank book until he managed to coordinate what he was seeing with what he was feeling, or not feeling. Once he did, he was thankful he had taken the

  The armour waited patiently for him to emerge, staring at him as he crossed the corridor. “” He imagined the

  He clapped down his visor, drew his left foot, sliding its right hand up and reaching across with the left, bringing the spear around to thrust at the charging Reinhardt.

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