Chadwick Rye

The obsidian mirror hanging in the castle’s eastern tower has not been moved in three hundred and seven years. I would know—I have watched over it for every moment of that time, anchored to this realm by duty and ancient magic.

They call me the Sentinel now, though I once had a proper name. The mortals who hurry past rarely notice me, their eyes sliding over the space I occupy like water over smooth stone. Only those with a touch of the Sight pause, their breath catching as they sense the disturbance in the air where I stand eternal guard.

Tonight marks the turning of Blackstone Moon, when the veil between worlds grows thin enough for whispers to pass through. The mirror’s surface ripples slightly, no longer solid but fluid as midnight ink. The servants avoid this chamber on such nights, leaving offerings of salt and iron at the threshold before hurrying away, signs against ill fortune etched hastily in the air.

*Superstitious fools*, some would say.

*Wise beyond their knowing*, I would answer, if any could hear me.

The young queen enters now, her white nightgown a pale ghost against the tower’s shadows. She carries no candle—she knows this path by heart, having walked it every Blackstone Moon since her coronation. The moonlight catches in her hair, silvering the copper strands until she appears crowned twice over.

“Sentinel,” she whispers, acknowledging my presence though she cannot truly see me. “Is it time?”

I cannot answer with words, but the mirror responds to her question, its surface shimmering more intensely. She approaches without fear, this queen who understands the value of old bargains. From her pocket, she withdraws three items: a lock of infant hair, a pressed violet, and a thimble of sea water.

“For protection,” she explains, setting the hair before the mirror. “For prosperity,” she continues, placing the violet beside it. “For peace,” she finishes, carefully pouring the sea water in a perfect circle around both offerings.

The rituals of her ancestors, preserved through generations. Some would call it superstition—this belief that ancient pacts must be honored, that forgotten gods still listen from beyond obsidian gates. But I have watched nine dynasties rise and fall within these stone walls. Those who maintained the old ways prospered. Those who abandoned them…

The mirror drinks in her offerings, its surface consuming each item until no trace remains. The queen waits, patient as mountain stone, her breath forming delicate clouds in the suddenly chill air.

When it comes, the response is subtle—a brief constellation of lights dancing across the mirror’s surface, forming patterns only she has been taught to read. Her shoulders relax infinitesimally. The kingdom will endure another year.

“Thank you,” she whispers, to me or to what lies beyond the mirror, I cannot say.

As she turns to leave, her gaze almost—almost—meets mine. For a heartbeat, I remember the weight of mortal flesh, the warmth of blood coursing through veins instead of the cool ethereal essence that now comprises my being.

“Are you superstitious, Sentinel?” she asks suddenly, pausing at the doorway.

If I could smile, I would. After three centuries watching the pattern of cause and effect, of bargains made and kept, of consequences for broken promises… I have transcended superstition and arrived at certainty.

The mirror darkens completely, becoming a perfect void. From within its depths, a single word ripples outward, visible in the subtlest distortion of air:

*Always*.

The queen nods, satisfied, and seals the chamber door behind her. Dawn approaches, banishing the magic of Blackstone Moon for another cycle. I resume my vigil, watching as the mirror solidifies once more into unassuming obsidian.

Superstition implies belief without evidence. But I have been the evidence for three hundred and seven years, the consequence of a royal ancestor who thought herself too modern, too enlightened for ancient ways. Who removed the mirror from its sacred place, breaking a covenant older than the kingdom itself.

Who discovered, too late, that some traditions persist not from ignorance, but from hard-won wisdom.

I was that queen, before I became the Sentinel.

And I will remain until the final debt is paid.

Do you think ancient traditions hold real power, or are they just superstition? Share your thoughts in the comments!

If you like this little story please consider subscribing to my blog so that you don’t miss any new ones. Also you can check out other stories that I have written and are currently writing like Forbidden Bond, a tale about a human falling in love with a Half goblin while being hunted down by fallen angels and evil nobles. Or you can check out Chronicles of the Giantess and follow Valorie the Giantess as she adventures across the land of Calladan. Please feel free to leave me a comment. I would love to know what you think about any of the stories. Clink the link below and experience another great story.