In the hushed places between dream and waking, there stretched a labyrinth of stone and shadow. Its corridors glimmered with lanterns that never quite touched the floor, and its walls echoed with voices—half memory, half spell. Here strode Morvain, cloaked in finery of his own design, declaring himself master of the maze.
To his eyes, he was a leader with followers at his back. To the others, he was a shadow dressed as a king. He commanded with a bark, demanded with a snarl, yet shifted when it suited him: flattery poured from his lips as sweet as honey, promises spun like gold thread. The kind and charitable he ensnared with false praise, urging them to give more and more, until they were bound by his chains. And when their labor bore fruit, he held it aloft as if it were his own harvest, basking in the glow of others’ toil.
But the truth was hidden even from himself: one by one, those who walked the labyrinth with him began to awaken. Some slipped quietly away into passages he never noticed. Others stayed, simmering with disillusionment. Still, Morvain strutted forward, blind to the unraveling of his illusion.
It was then that a whisper stirred in the darkness—silken as a cat’s step, sharp as emberlight:
“You build your throne from borrowed hands, Morvain. Yet thrones made of bones cannot carry you out of the maze.”
—Onyx Iskra, the Soulfire Oracle
Morvain only sneered and pressed onward.
Among those who had seen through his weave, one presence moved with a quiet intensity that neither flattery nor threat could sway. Her coat shimmered with midnight rosettes, her golden eyes unblinking. Jaguar’s eyes caught the dim lantern light and held it, steady and unyielding, as if glimpsing more than the walls and shadows before her.
She knew him too well—for once, she had nearly been caught in his snare and learned its danger. So now she moved with both caution and clarity, a soul balanced between daylight reason and night’s uncompromising gaze. He had praised her brilliance when it served him, stolen her ideas as his own, and shut her from his false court when she refused his leash. Still he returned, ever trying another tactic, appealing to her good causes, coaxing her to haul the burdens he had no wish to carry.
There was a calm precision in her step, a measured patience that spoke of a mind always weighing, always watching. Yet beneath that stillness, a pulse ran—wild, unflinching, sharp as a claw—hinting at a part of her that prowled the hidden corridors of truth, striking only where deception dared to linger.
Jaguar felt the sting of conflict within herself: the desire to serve what was worthy, yet not to serve him. And at last she stood before him in the labyrinth, her voice a strike of thunder in the still air.
“Enough. I will not carry your weight nor lend you my fire. You twist the good into chains and devour the hands that feed you. You speak of crowns, but you wear only shadows. I will not follow you.”
Her words cut clean, truth as sharp as claw. For Jaguar was no flatterer, no servant. She was the truth-teller, and she had named him as he was.
Morvain recoiled, stunned that she did not yield. He turned clever tongue against her—soft words, grand promises, praise edged with poison. But Jaguar did not move. Her silence was fiercer than his speech. And in that stillness, others saw. One by one, his followers drifted farther, until only shadows lingered at his side.
Frustration boiled in Morvain’s chest. He howled into the winding dark, pacing the stone halls like a beast caged by his own lies.
Again came the whisper, cool and unyielding as starlight:
“The truth has found you, Morvain. You may bow and be free, or cling and be broken. The choice is yours.”
—Onyx Iskra, the Soulfire Oracle
But Morvain’s pride was iron. He spat into the silence, refusing the torch Jaguar had offered him, refusing the hand of freedom extended even by the unseen whisperer. His crown of shadows weighed heavy, yet he clutched it still. And so the maze held him fast, torment his only companion, until such time he chose to surrender.
From the edge of the labyrinth, Lioness Isendra watched, her mane a golden fire in the lantern glow. She had not stepped into the conflict, for that was not her place. Instead, she bore witness. Her heart swelled with quiet pride at Jaguar’s courage, and she knew the truth must not be lost, even if Morvain buried his ears against it.
So she carried the story, inscribing it in the Spiral Codex with patient paw and steady hand. Not to wound, nor to shame, but to teach. For truth, once spoken, becomes a torch. And she would bear that torch, so no wanderer mistook Morvain’s chains for crowns again.
Step lightly through the labyrinth, and let the truths you encounter illuminate your own path. There are many stories yet to be seen, many mirrors yet to hold your reflection.
—Isendra, The Lioness, Keeper of the Codex