Night descended gradually over the polished streets, turning each reflective surface into a soft swirl of moonlight. After enduring the unsettling reflections in the courtyard, the Wanderer pressed further into the city. At times, he passed structures whose walls curved like waves of metal, rippling with every step he took. Elsewhere, tall spires seemed to bend the moon’s glow into long, ghostly beams that danced across his path.

  Guided by faint, silvery lanterns strung along the main boulevard, he eventually emerged into a vast central square—the heart of the City of Mirrors. An ornate clock tower rose from the square’s center, its face a flawless disc of reflective glass. Around it stood numerous stalls, low walls, and polished benches that shimmered like illusions half-formed. Though the architecture was grand, the space felt eerily empty. Only a few figures moved in the moonlit plaza—shadows flitting at the corners of his vision, or perhaps reflections of himself in distant mirrors.

  In the midst of this open expanse sat an old storyteller on a simple wooden stool. Despite the city’s gleaming elegance, the figure looked like they had stepped from a humbler place: wrapped in threadbare robes, their white hair knotted in a long braid, they seemed oddly out of sync with their surroundings. A large, circular mirror stood beside them, angled upward as if capturing starlight. The faint glow of the Wanderer’s lantern seemed to draw the teller’s gaze.

  “Ah,” the old one called gently, voice echoing across the plaza. “You’ve come at last, bearer of the eternal flame.”

  The Wanderer paused, uncertain. Few had ever addressed him so directly. He noticed the mirror by the storyteller’s side reflecting his silhouette, distorting the lantern’s glow into a flicker of pale blue and gold. With measured steps, he crossed the square until he stood just a few paces away.

  “I don’t know you,” he said, gently but firmly.

  The storyteller smiled, revealing deep wrinkles around kind, watchful eyes. “We’ve never met,” they admitted. “But I’ve seen your reflection often enough, shimmering in the city’s many looking glasses. This place shows us all sides of ourselves—even those we’d rather hide.”

  He thought of the courtyard and the reflections that had confronted him there. “Are you the one who created this city?” he asked.

  “No, child,” the storyteller replied. “The city was raised by dreamers long gone. My task is only to watch— to learn the stories of those who pass through. Few stay for long; fewer still leave unchanged.”

  Something in the old one’s tone nudged a swirl of unease in the Wanderer’s mind, but also a flicker of hope. He stepped closer, gaze flicking to the large mirror beside the stool. It offered no unusual reflections this time—only the square behind him and the faint silhouette of his own body. “What do you know of me?”

  The storyteller pressed knotted fingers together. “I know you carry a lantern that never dies. I know you’ve walked many roads, searching for answers you can’t name. And I know you’ve begun to doubt the purpose of your journey.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes. Exhaustion weighed on him, and the city’s constant reflections had stirred a tide of memories he was unprepared to face. A sense of vulnerability crept through him, as if the old one’s words had peeled away his protective layers.

  “You must ask yourself,” the storyteller continued, “why you carry a light if you do not know what you seek. Do you cling to it in the hope it will lead you to some grand revelation, or do you fear halting your steps—afraid of what might happen if the journey ends?”

  Those questions felt like arrows shot with uncanny aim. The Wanderer swallowed hard, his voice coming out as a whisper. “If I stop searching… then what am I? Who am I?”

  For a moment, the plaza was silent, broken only by a distant murmur of wind slipping through narrow streets. The moonlight caught the reflection in the large mirror, painting the storyteller’s face in shifting pale tones.

  “Sometimes,” the old one said gently, “we walk not to find something, but to outrun something else—fears, regrets, truths we don’t wish to see.” Their gaze drifted to the Wanderer’s lantern. “This city has shown you pieces of yourself. Perhaps it is time to ask which piece you’re truly running from.”

  Before he could reply, a sudden draft swept across the square. It wasn’t strong, but it was enough to make the flame in his lantern flicker—something he had never witnessed before. The glow wavered, as if uncertain, dancing within the glass walls of the lantern. Alarmed, the Wanderer held it more tightly, a jolt of fear rushing through him. It’s never done that before.

  A knowing look passed over the old teller’s face. “Ah,” they murmured. “It reacts to your uncertainty, just as it brightens when you feel hope.”

  The Wanderer stared at the flame, heart pounding. The flicker steadied after a moment, returning to its usual unwavering glow. Still, the memory of that brief hesitation clung to him—a silent warning that nothing, not even the lantern’s light, was truly unassailable.

  He looked up, meeting the old one’s steady gaze. “I’ve carried this lantern for so long,” he said quietly. “I thought it was guiding me to a grand destiny. But now… I’m not sure if it’s leading me anywhere at all.”

  The old storyteller rose from the stool, the lines on their face deepening with compassion. “Perhaps your destiny is not something you find at the end of a road,” they said softly. “Perhaps it’s something you create with every step. The lantern can show you the way, but it cannot tell you where to go. That choice remains yours.”

  A hush fell between them, and the Wanderer felt the weight of those words settling on his shoulders. He glanced at the flickering shadows cast on the polished ground, at the silent reflections lingering in the mirror by the old one’s side. Could I truly choose my own path, rather than wait for the lantern to deliver me to one?

  At last, he mustered a small nod. Though uncertainty and doubt still clung to him, he sensed a shift in his heart—a faint glimmer of courage. He stepped back from the old teller, bowing his head in thanks. “I… I appreciate your guidance.”

  The old one’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Go, child. Trust that you have the strength to decide for yourself where your steps will lead you next.”

  With that, the storyteller lowered themselves onto the stool again, gaze slipping to the large mirror as though already following the next tale. The Wanderer gripped his lantern more firmly and turned away, moonlight shimmering across every surface of the grand square. As he made his way through the reflective streets, the echo of the old one’s words rang in his ears—an uneasy reassurance that perhaps the lantern’s light was not a burden or a destiny, but a tool to see his own choices more clearly.

  And so he left the City of Mirrors behind, both shaken and renewed, not entirely certain of what lay ahead—only that the first true flicker of his lantern had awakened a realization: if he was ever to find peace, it would not be in the final destination, but in the act of choosing which road to walk—and why.