The Shards of Tomorrow #1
Episode 1: A Crack in the Future
The Dark Mirror
The dark mirror had a simple bronze frame. A smooth oval surface set upright on a sturdy stone pedestal in the village square. Sometimes it stood dormant for months, a cold dark slate. Other times, it stirred like a pool before a storm. And once every few years, it showed what hadn’t happened yet.
When the mirror darkened on a clear spring morning, the village gathered in haste. Chickens wandered loose. Loaves half-kneaded were left on floured boards. The smith came with his gloves still smoking.
The surface shifted.
First: a man coughing in the dust, sores blooming across his skin.
Second: wings beating against the sky. A storm of dragons swarming low.
Third: a firelit raid. Brigands laughing as they struck down anyone in their path.
Each vision struck the mirror like a hammer. By the time the stone went still, a jagged crack ran from top to base.
The Hero
They held a meeting that night. No shouting. No debate. The mirror had to be repaired.
Everyone turned to Cael.
He was young and reckless, yes. But brave. He’d once fought off a wildcat with nothing but a broom and a wooden chair. He’d climbed the old monastery cliff on a dare. When a cart lost a wheel and threatened to crush a child, it was Cael who jumped beneath and held the axle until help came.
He looked uneasy when the elders pressed the cracked mirror into his hands. It was cold to the touch, heavier than it should have been.
Three things they gave him to aid the journey:
A flask of healing potion, for sickness.
A packet of dried fruit and bread, for hunger.
A silver-hilted sword, forged long ago and laid to rest in case of need.
“Go to the Mirror-Maker in the mountains,” said the seer. “He is the only one who can mend what is cracked. We dare not look again until it is whole.”
Cael nodded. Not eagerly, but firmly.
At dawn, he set out.
Fever
The path rose quickly. Trees thinned. The air sharpened. Morning mists clung to the roots. Wind howled through the branches like something hunting.
Three days in, Cael passed a man collapsed beside the road.
He wore no shoes. His skin was gray, lips cracked, eyes wild with fever. Flies buzzed around him.
"Please..." the man rasped. "Help me."
Cael stepped back. The sores on the man’s arms looked like the ones in the mirror.
He gripped the potion at his belt.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I can’t risk it."
He walked on, faster than before.
Dragonlings
Two days later, in the crook of a narrow cliffside, he found a nest. Three dragonlings lay huddled inside. Barely more than hatchlings, thin as reeds, their ribs pressing sharp beneath shrunken bellies. Their wings flapped weakly, their cries more like coughing than roars.
One dragged itself forward, sniffing at his boots. The smell of food must have driven it mad with hope.
Cael crouched, eyes narrowing. He had enough for himself—barely. If he fed them, he might not make it to the mountain.
More than that, he thought: When they grow up, they'll be a threat. They’ll burn villages. Kill livestock. Better they die here than grow up to cause harm, he told himself. That would be worse.
He turned his back and walked away.
Brigands
On the seventh day, the trees fell away altogether. Jagged rocks jutted like broken teeth. Snow clung to the shadows. In a narrow ravine, smoke curled upward.
Below, three brigands surrounded a merchant cart. The merchant held a dagger in shaking hands. One brigand laughed and kicked it away.
Cael froze on the ridge above. The sword on his back almost seemed to whisper.
He gritted his teeth. This isn’t my fight. I’m not here to play rescuer. I have one task—reach the Mirror-Maker. If I die now, the mirror stays broken.
He crept past the ridge, heart pounding.
The Mirror-Maker
That night, the mountain loomed impossibly tall, its peak swallowed by clouds. Snow stung his face. His breath came in ragged clouds.
He found the passage by chance. A narrow cut in the rock, barely wide enough to slip through. The black stone glinted faintly, the same obsidian sheen as the mirror in his pack.
Inside, the air grew warmer. The path wound downward, deeper and deeper, torchless and silent. Cael walked for what felt like hours, led only by the pulse of something ancient in the earth.
The tunnel opened into a round chamber. No roof. The sky above was ink. Mist coiled across the floor like breath on cold glass. In the center stood a figure in pale robes, bent over a basin that glowed with liquid light.
The Mirror-Maker.
Cael stepped forward, each footstep echoing too loud.
He pulled the cracked mirror from his pack and laid it on the stone.
"Can you mend it?" he asked.
The Mirror-Maker looked up. His face was weathered, his beard streaked with silver. His eyes held the weight of centuries.
He touched the mirror gently.
"I remember this one," he murmured. "I made it long ago, when your people still believed that knowing the future could save them."
He ran his hand along the fracture.
"But knowing what’s to come means nothing," he said softly, "if no one dares to look inward."
He looked up at Cael, not unkindly.
"Yes," he said. "I can mend the mirror.
But I’m not sure it’s the mirror that needs mending."
To be continued in Episode 2...
Just fantastic going to read part two now since I am behind a day!
I can already see where this is going and I like it.
If he had shared the potion with the sick man, that threat would have been averted.
If he had fed the dragons, that thread could have been averted as well.
If he helped with the bandits, they'd be dead.
Yeah, so what's the use of a mirror when people don't pay attention.