Rowan Edevane had never considered himself particularly lucky.
He'd been born magicless, bullied for years, mocked by the gifted, and cursed with a stomachache that came with something not unlike a system menu.
But standing in front of the sealed obsidian door marked with a sigil that pulsed in response to his aura…
He felt lucky now.
This was the Black Mirror Room, one of the hidden chambers granted to Initiates of the Veiled Path.
Faye stood beside him, her silver mask pushed to the side, revealing sharp features and eyes that rarely blinked.
"You're about to meet her," she said. "She's… not normal."
Rowan smirked. "Is anyone in this organization normal?"
"Point taken," Faye said. "But still—don't touch anything in the room unless she says so. Especially not the mirror."
He nodded.
The door opened with a sound like whispered regrets.
Inside, the air was cold, laced with burnt cinnamon and something metallic.
The room itself was circular, walls made of shadowed glass. Strange runes glowed softly in the stone, and in the center stood a desk made of dragonbone, covered in scrolls, bone-ink quills, cursed wax, and…
A teacup shaped like a cat.
And behind the desk was her.
A girl—not much older than Rowan—with jet-black hair tied in twin spirals and gloves covered in magic sigils.
She didn't look up when he entered.
"You're late," she said.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. "We didn't set a time."
"You're still late. Time bends around me."
Faye rolled her eyes. "Rowan, meet Lilith Mournveil. Curse specialist. Resident chaos alchemist. She'll be crafting with you from now on."
Lilith finally looked up. Her eyes were mismatched—one gold, one stitched shut.
She smiled slowly.
"You smell like narrative disruption."
"I… try," Rowan said.
---
Lilith tossed him a parchment.
On it was a list of curses.
Curse of Muddled Names: Target forgets everyone's name, including their own.
Itchy Ghost Skin: Causes a false sensation of being covered in cobwebs.
Fool's Crown: Makes target believe they are secretly royalty.
"I want to try something divine," Rowan said.
Lilith raised an eyebrow.
"Oh? Thinking of mass manipulation again?"
"I want to anchor belief," Rowan explained. "Something subtle. Not flashy like the founders' stunt. More… spiritual. Something they'll carry with them."
Lilith tapped her fingers.
"Then we need a soul-binder. You'll need to channel through a cursed object. What do you have?"
Rowan thought. Reached into his bag.
He pulled out a small silver coin. An academy token once awarded to students of excellence.
"I earned this once," he said.
Lilith touched it and hissed.
"Oh, it remembers betrayal. Perfect."
She began her work.
---
For the next three hours, Rowan watched as Lilith mixed powdered regret with blackened ink, folded malice into a rune circle, and whispered curses into bone wax.
The coin changed—first color, then texture, then weight. It pulsed now, as though breathing.
She handed it back.
[Item Created: Coin of False Grace]
> Any target who holds this coin will believe they've been blessed by a forgotten god. May cause minor miracles to appear (via illusion) based on belief level.
Rowan turned it in his palm.
"This is brilliant."
"It's dangerous," Lilith corrected. "If belief gets too strong, it might anchor into the astral network. Then it's no longer a lie—it's faith."
He pocketed it.
"Exactly what I want."
---
Later that night, Faye escorted him to the Room of Silent Tongues.
It was a library—but not of books. Only blank tomes filled the shelves.
And yet, when Rowan touched one, it whispered secrets directly into his mind.
He stumbled back.
Faye caught him. "They're written in thought. Only those with Joker interference can read them."
"What was that?"
"A prophecy," Faye said. "One that doesn't exist yet."
Rowan's head ached.
But the final gift was waiting.
She led him to a final hallway—a single chamber that held a mirror tall as a tower door, cracked down the center.
Lilith stood waiting, arms folded.
"This," she said, "is the Mirror of Misbelief."
Rowan stared into it.
It didn't show his reflection.
Instead, it showed versions of himself he'd never been: a noble, a god, a corpse, a tyrant, a child.
"All the selves people might believe you are," Lilith said softly.
"Pick one," Faye instructed. "That will be your Path Title."
Rowan hesitated.
He touched the glass.
And chose the version of himself that smiled like a jester, dressed in ceremonial robes and a crown made of broken rules.
"I'll be the Herald of Contradiction," he said.
The mirror glowed.
[PATH TITLE ACQUIRED: HERALD OF CONTRADICTION]
> All narrative spells gain +10% effect. You now radiate paradox energy.
Lilith clapped once.
Faye just nodded.
The room pulsed with power.
And the world shifted.
Somewhere, a cult felt their god tremble.
Somewhere else, a priest saw Rowan in a dream.
And across the school, Darian Voss shivered in his sleep.
The room was dark, but the laughter didn't stop.
It echoed from every corner, soft and cruel. Darian sat up in bed, drenched in sweat.
He lit a candle with shaking fingers, but the flame flickered in unnatural rhythms.
On the wall, shadowed words began to appear:
"The Fool becomes the Truth."
"No," Darian whispered. "He's just a trickster. A joke."
The candle blew itself out.
From under the bed came a sound like cards shuffling. A whisper followed:
"He's coming."
Darian screamed.
But the Academy remained asleep..
END OF CHAPTER 8