The Drommala Pact (Book One of The Mirrorwalkers Chronicles cycle)

Author: The Witch of Ukraine

Prologue

Recovered from the Great Council Archives

Year of the Seventh Reflection

Excerpt from The Chronicles of Mireth, Book III, Page 112

In the beginning, the countless worlds of Mireth were as one, joined by breath, by memory, and by light. Then came the Silence, and the great unity was broken. Each realm drifted away like shards of glass cast upon a dark sea.

For many ages the mirrors stood still and empty. No light stirred within them, and none knew they could be crossed. In those days, Steamhollow was one of the scattered worlds of Mireth, proud, inventive, and alone; cut off from all others by the silence of its mirrors.

There lived in Steamhollow a scholar named Alara Venn, whose heart was filled with curiosity and doubt. She studied the nature of reflection, seeking meaning in the stillness of glass. One day she laid her hand upon the mirror’s surface, and passed through her own reflection. In that moment she awakened the power that had long slept within her blood, and so became the first Mirrorwalker. With her step began the age of passage between worlds.

Those who came after were born of her line, each carrying the same quiet gift: the call of glass and silver. Among them, a few were blessed with deeper sight: they could read the hidden speech of reflection and hear what the mirrors remembered. These were called the Reflectors.

In the early days, the Mirrorwalkers brought wonder and hope, reuniting the sundered lands. But envy grows where wonder dwells, and fear soon followed. Thus came the Mirror Wars: a hundred years of broken glass and burning skies. When the fires at last faded, the survivors gathered in sorrow and swore an oath of peace.

So was founded the Great Council of Mireth: keepers of balance, watchers of the mirrors, and guardians of the fragile harmony between worlds.

Remember this, traveller: the mirrors forget nothing, not even those who wish to be forgotten.

Chapter 1

Dorian swore. Dirty, but still quite elegant, keeping his good manners up to Steamhollow nobility standards. “My tutors should be quite proud of me,” he murmured to himself, trying to fold and pack his Lucky, a handmade brass-and-steam flying motorbike, into a storage capsule. It didn’t fit, and one of its wings stuck outside, making the capsule shake and showing a warning message on its small monitor with his every attempt:

Error in resizing the item. Please try again.

After several tries, Dorian gave up, extracting the Lucky from the capsule’s compression field and restoring its size. His thoughts were too far from the problem, so he stopped fighting it. He left the Lucky behind and pushed open the door to The Suite of Discreet Delights, one of the dozens of brothels in Brassville, Steamhollow’s rusty capital.

He liked this place; compared to others, it was somehow cosy and lacked “the splendour and misery.” His dear friend Coyote once described The Suite of Discreet Delights as “just like a friendly neighbour’s house.” Dorian grinned. Exactly like that.

He stepped inside the dark hall of the brothel, and the smells of expensive cigars, cheap perfumes, and machine oil wrapped him from head to toe. Strangely enough, it was quiet inside; only the muffled sounds of birds’ theatrical moans mixed with their clients’ panting behind doors to private rooms could be heard.

He needed to clear his head, and this place usually worked perfectly. The envelope from the Great Council was still sealed and lay in his pocket. Procrastination wasn’t something Dorian was proud of, but that was exactly what he was doing now.

Ruby and Jun, just two of Madam Vox's dozen birds, stood at the doors to the hall at the end of the corridor like forgotten goddesses guarding the gates to a particularly disappointing heaven. Dorian nodded to both of them; they nodded back to him, as if he were right on schedule.

When Ruby and Jun were pulling him along to the private room, Dorian noticed Madam, who was sitting on the sofa in the hall. He bowed to her, and Madam smiled slightly at him, as though she were approving his choice. Her skin glowed in the dim light; a gold wave of her hair flowed over her shoulders; her gorgeous, voluptuous body looked so tempting tonight. Dorian regretted that Madam was retired.

Madam looked no older than her birds. Either desire preserved her, or wealth did. Possibly both, working overtime.

Ruby and Jun gently pushed Dorian inside a dark room with low, hushed light. The door slammed shut behind them.

The room smelled of sandalwood incense and industrial-grade disinfectant. Holographic fish swam lazily across the ceiling, casting ripples of blue light over the antique furniture, all reproduction pieces from Old Mireth's forgotten dynasties. The smell of cigars was quite strong here because of Jun. She elegantly picked up a long cigarette holder of amber with her bionic arm. She exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke that curled around her black shiny hair.

Expensive taste, Dorian thought.

Red-haired Ruby set the timer, a neat little brass box with numbers blinking on a narrow display, and gave Dorian a kind of predatory smile.

One hour.

He shrugged off his coat and dropped onto the bed with all the enthusiasm of a man attending his own funeral. The old, questionably clean bed sheets were semi-white and sharp at the edges. Sterilised for your protection, no doubt.

The birds undressed him with professional precision, the result of years of experience. Ruby slipped on her latex gloves with the clinical efficiency of someone about to perform surgery rather than intimacy and went to work. Jun put her cigarette holder away and leaned back on the mattress. She was slowly unbuttoning her silk shirt, revealing a pair of the heavy boobies. Her breasts were remarkable, perfect add-ons to Ruby’s skilful hands and lips.

But Dorian's body, apparently having more sense than its owner, refused to cooperate with the evening's planned activities. The Mirrorwalker Dorian Corvell, defeated by the most basic of human functions. How terribly poetic. Nothing could lift his penis, not even Jun’s amazing milky-white soft boobies smothering his body.

I cannot believe that a bloody envelope could cost me my erection.

Ruby’s hands paused. She tilted her head with a touch of kindness, a sincere one, at least he wanted to believe it.

“Lost in thought, love?”

Dorian straightened and gave a strained smile.

“You were beyond all praise.” His knuckles whitened as he buttoned his shirt and jacket with brisk efficiency. “But nothing enhances an evening like an invitation from the Great Council. Should I bring a cake, or is showing up with my face enough?” He delivered it flat and metallic, and the words hung there.

He deposited his gearwallet on the dresser. Credits pulsed, ghost-blue, an afterimage of payment still in transit. No negotiations, no regrets. He doubled the rate, as always, the city’s only honest generosity.

He moved to the bar, walking as a man who had just failed to get an erection in a brothel.

Navigating the corridor, he reached the bar and collapsed onto a stool, propped his elbows against wood sticky with the tears of disappointed men, and gestured at the house bottle because, clearly, more alcohol was the solution to his problems. He wished he had some bud instead, but his gearwallet was too slim at the moment. This month he had only managed to complete a couple of commercial Walks. He wasn’t broke. Not yet. But close to that point with every passing day.

A gloomy, tight-lipped bartender with little sense of hospitality poured a measure of what they called here ‘whiskey’. Dorian caught it reflexively and sipped.

He retrieved the envelope from his inner pocket, where it had been burning against his chest all day. The Council’s polished emblem caught the bar's flickering light and reflected it back with smug authority. Dorian's fingers hesitated at the seal before breaking it with a quick, decisive snap.

The words in the letter swam before him with bureaucratic indifference:

To Dorian Corvell
Client: House Of The Great Sun
Initial Location: Veyr Sol, Steppe Loteri Lands
Request: Mirrorwalker/Reflector
Mission: Drommala
Compensation: 10,000 Credits

In case of accepting the offer, inform the great council office within 24 hours of receiving this envelope.
Failure to comply will result in immediate withdrawal of the offer.

Dorian checked his wristwatch, the mechanical one, not the digital implant.

Three hours left.

The Council, never late, never early; always at that one perfect moment when a man found himself flinching.

He folded the letter with care and placed it on the table in front of him. He didn’t let the first flicker of relief fool him. He really needed to think about it first, but the timer’s relentless ticking drowned out his thoughts.

Coyote found Dorian sipping whiskey at the corner table. Coyote’s pupils were still dilated from whatever chemical cocktail he'd shared with the birds upstairs; his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a leather harness beneath it.

“Corvell, mate. Is it really you? Or your freaking hologram?” Coyote was in a suspiciously good mood, to the point that he couldn’t contain it.

“Probably I should have chosen his birds instead,” Dorian thought wistfully.

Dorian slid an envelope to Coyote. He examined the text with surgical precision, as if he expected a trick but found none.

"Ten thousand," Coyote whistled low, returning the envelope to Dorian. "Plus whatever the Steppe Loteri throw in. Those prairie mystics practically bleed gratitude when a Mirrorwalker shows up." He leaned forward, the scent of sex and expensive cologne still clinging to his collar. "They'll give you their firstborn if you fix whatever's wrong with their precious Drommala."

Dorian swirled the unclear liquid, watching light struggling to refract through the glass. "I don't need a child. I need a reason."

"Money isn't reason enough?" Coyote's laugh was sharp. "Since when did you become so philosophical about Council work?"

“Since I started wondering if any of it matters,” Dorian thought, but he let it drift away, dissolving into the smoke between them.

Coyote produced an identical envelope and slid it across the table. “For Ophelia Rialt,” he said, smirking.

Dorian frowned. “She got the same offer?”

“Yes. She showed me the envelope proudly. Thought it meant they wanted her to prove she’s still got her spiritual mirror nonsense in working order. She actually believes they care.”

Dorian pictured Ophelia. Sharp laughter, sharper mind. The only woman in Steamhollow who could outdrink the nobility and still quote philosophy between rounds. Ironically, he found her spirituality and purity more appealing than the cynicism of most Mirrorwalkers.

“She never mentioned the Council mistreats her…”

“She did,” Coyote interrupted. “You were too busy trying to drown entropy in whiskey.”
He paused, looking at Dorian in slight disbelief. “Mate, really? How is it possible to disagree with the Great Council to the point that they banned you from government contracts for several months? Blew my mind.”

Dorian stared into his glass. The whiskey stared back, unimpressed. Let’s pretend I didn’t hear your last remark. Not the right place or time to discuss it.

“However. But why isn’t she running this one?”

“Because she’s missing,” Coyote said, voice low and almost unwilling. The words struck the air like glass hitting stone, and the silence that followed cracked wide open. Dorian looked at him in surprise. He couldn’t remember when Coyote actually cared about someone except himself that much.

Then Dorian’s voice sharpened. “How’d you get her letter?”

“She crashed at my place for a while. Debts, bad luck, the usual. She’s too pure for this city.” Coyote shrugged, but his grin faltered. “Don’t give me that look. You’re not exactly the moral compass of Brassville. Yes, I went through her things. She never left for the Loteri Lands. Her backpack is still in my apartment. I was worried, alright? She’s my friend.”

He leaned back, the mask slipping just enough to show the raw edge of panic beneath. “The Council wants you now. If they can’t find Ophelia, they’ll take the next available lunatic.”

A short, bitter laugh escaped Dorian. “So I’m the understudy to a ghost.”

“Congratulations,” Coyote said. “If you’re serious about taking this job, talk to the Keeper. That old mirror-hound knows more about the Drommala and maybe Ophelia.”

Dorian drummed his fingers against the table, tracing a faint scratch. “The Drommala,” he muttered, his voice slipping between irony and curiosity. “Still the same old tale? Sacred creature of the Steppe Loteri? He leaned back. “I’ve never met one. I’ve dealt with smaller things, fluffy, adorable, and generally edible, but not the legendary one. I’ve seen a real Drommala once in my life; the Loteri didn’t even let a fly near it without their permission.”

The letter to Ophelia lay sprawled between them like a challenge.

“Did you read it?” Dorian asked, though Coyote’s smirk answered for him.

He got Ophelia’s letter from its envelope with the delicacy of a man handling stolen evidence. Same pompous heading, same bureaucratic vagueness, different only in name and deadline.

“Forty-eight hours,” Dorian murmured, tracing the number with his thumb. “And I got twenty-four. Actually…” He checked his watch, mechanical hands slicing his future into fractions. “…make those two hours left to decide.” His gaze sharpened. “Why the rush? What aren’t they telling me?”

Coyote’s grin faded. “The rumour is, Loteri’s Drommala is extremely sick. Maybe already dead. Steppe and Desert Loteri are panicking. No Drommala means no water, no crops, no mercy.”

Dorian exhaled, the sound halfway between a sigh and a curse. A Reflector’s job then: to converse with a dying god. He finished his drink and braced for whatever insult destiny had queued next.

Before leaving, Coyote threw out the words, “You know the deal. I can pay you for Loteri artifacts far better than the Council.”

Dorian pulled on his coat, shoulders heavy, and pushed through the brothel’s murky hallway. The air outside was a mixture of fog and something burning. He found his stubborn motorbike exactly where he’d left it. He reached into his coat, fingers brushing the envelope. Ten thousand credits.

For Dorian Corvell, that almost qualified as hope.