Six of Ruin (Heirs of Irenwell #1) ✔

Chapter 4: Man in the Mirror

I burst through the wooden door, snow gathered on the doormat, cold ate through the skin. Everything burned. My limbs were sluggish and weakened.

My hands were male.

And I knew this was just one of the visions that pulled me out of my peaceful slumber. This one was different, though, more real.

I – or he – stumbled inside the room, a regular cottage, with a bed and a table. The floor was full of weapons. The fire was lit.

A wave of warmth burned more than the biting snow. The air was hard to breathe in.

Those fucking bastards. Angry thoughts coursed through my mind, filled with tangible hatred. If I see them again, I will rip their fucking throats out with my teeth.

I – he – went for the dresser by the wall. He pulled out some gauzes and shredded his clothes off. Waves of pain crashed through him, and me. I felt his teeth grit, metallic taste in his mouth. The other drawer had a bottle of see-through liquid inside. The man lifted his head and, after a moment of reluctance, poured the liquor all over his face.

Impossibly strong burning gripped my limbs and my heart. The air disappeared; the pathways to my lungs turned impenetrable. I – he – let out a roar, painful and terrible.

But the pain subsided after a few seconds, leaving quiet, dormant burning behind. Some of the liquor ended in my – his – mouth. It was a strong alcoholic beverage, nothing that existed in the south. The man gripped the edges of the dresser with both his hands and lifted his gaze towards the mirror.

It was the first time I've ever seen him. For a moment, I was fixated. For the first time, I've managed to distinguish between him and me. The brief feeling of awe belonged solely to me.

Cuts, some deep, others shallow, covered most of his face, neck and chest. Blood poured out, washing down the dirt, revealing his pale skin. His hair was almost entirely covered in mud, but I noticed glimpses of black underneath the brown.

He looked at himself. And it felt like he was looking at me.

His eyes were golden, leaning to the yellower side, with flecks of orange around irises. Pain gave them a darker shade.

Feeling a bit voyeuristic, I glanced at his tensed arms and his torso. He was lean, but apparently, all muscle. Bruises and cuts covered his entire body. In the left corner of his abdomen, a blade stuck out.

As if the wound finally reached me, a dull, protruding pain made me let out another scream. The man's face twisted, beams of sweat formed on his forehead and tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. He grabbed the blade and held the dresser with another hand.

And he pulled the blade out. A disgusting sound, accompanied with the intense sensation of stretching and pulling at the skin, made me feel dizzy.

Pain mixed into weakness. A wave flooded my mind and for a moment, it felt like we might lose consciousness. But we stood there, our eyes closed, the pain throbbing through our body.

The man dug through the drawer, looking for something. A needle and a thread. With shaky fingers, he threaded the lumen.

His eyes landed on the mirror again. My heart skipped a beat. His eyes penetrated through the mirror, seemingly noticing me behind the lens, staring, waiting.

A painful, humourless smile decorated his lips, "I doubt you'd want to stay for this."

Sheer panic pulled me out of the vision. My heart hammered in my chest as I returned to the darkness of my room, my eyes open wide, the pain slowly leaving my body.