The room being surprisingly empty is … something to be expected, but frustrating. Hunter had spent the greater part of an hour convincing his crow to angle the picking tools just right – and to be fair, for an avian, it's particularly intelligent! It was to the group’s dismay, then, that the room lay empty after such hard work.

The group spreads out in a sweeping motion – still, there isn’t much to even try and search over. Thaumiel can tell just by the fact that Oriana and her dog both seem utterly disinterested. It wasn’t as though every room in these ruins contained something, but to contain nothing is odd in and of itself.

Thaumiel sweeps his lantern across the empty chamber, only fully turning once a glint catches his eye – something in the corner.

The lantern light is reflected back at him in the great mirror, the heraldic courser slowing as he approaches.

Arcturus isn’t far behind – as he always is. “What did you find?” His gaze moves from Thaumiel to the mirror. “Oh.”

Staring back at the two of them are two young foals. One, white and gold, looks giddy and triumphant with a toy sword and his mane all done up pretty. The other’s pelt is mostly dark, spotted with stars, and doesn’t look all too different from the one looking at it in kind, other than the fact that his long mane cascades down his neck and shoulders, wild and unkempt. He doesn’t look unpleasant about it.

He waits for Thaumiel to break the silence, but it doesn’t come. 

“You were a cute kid,” he tries. “Always wanted to be a Knight?”

Thaumiel nods, slowly, and it’s mirrored by the colt in the reflection. His gaze flickers but doesn’t falter. He hasn’t yet realized that he can’t look away.

“And you?”

“Me?”

Thaumiel nods. Arcturus gazes upon his younger self. Thaumiel’s probably wrapped up in the wide little eyes and prideful expression on the colt’s face. He won’t notice the skin stretched between his ribs, or the dark shadow he casts underneath him.

“Well? What do you see?”

“You barely look like you’ve changed.”

Arcturus hums at that. It’s a pleased tone. Some of it is a facade.

“Maybe I’m just perfectly content as I am.”

Arcturus steps back as a small fracture forms in the glass – a thin spider web line that crosses across his forehead. The courser’s expression turns sour, and his mirage fades. It still doesn’t show Arcturus as himself. 

He hates that.

“Come on, now.” Arcturus nudges Thaumiel’s flank, which causes him to blink and lift a hoof. The movement can’t be reciprocated by the mirror, and the illusion breaks. There’s a bitterness that comes along with that – a little mourning. “Let’s move on.”

“Yeah … yes.” Thaumiel nods. He forgot about this place. The tricks it can play. “Let’s.”