The Veritas Heir

4. THE ROOM OF?

The manor was too quiet. Zane Veil sat by the tall window in the library, watching fog crawl over the hills. Morning hadn’t broken yet, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Not after what he saw last night.

His face was everywhere now. "Orphan Janitor Inherits Empire. Is He a Fraud? Veritas Heir: Mistake or Miracle?"

The news crawled through every screen like a virus. And then, the shadowed man. The one who said: “Zane Veil has awoken. Let the hunters prepare.” 

Zane didn’t know who that voice belonged to. But it felt like a warning.

…

At 5:00 a.m., a knock came at his door. Not hard. Not loud. Just steady. As if the one knocking already knew Zane was awake.

He opened the door and found her standing there. Sylra. No hood now. No weapons. She wore a black coat and carried two things: a folder and a cup of coffee.

Zane raised an eyebrow. “You brought peace offerings?”

“I brought what you need,” she said simply, pushing past him.

He shut the door behind her. She dropped the folder on his desk and set the coffee beside it.

Zane didn’t sit. “What now?” he asked.

Sylra opened the folder. Inside were pictures. Names. Notes. Some he recognized. Most he didn’t.

“These are your threats,” she said. “The ones who will test you in Trial Two.”

Zane frowned. “I thought the maze was the first test.”

“It was,” she said. “Physical. Straightforward.”

She looked up, her eyes cold and sharp. “But the next trial? It’s different. This time, the danger isn’t steel or smoke. It’s you.”

…

Zane followed Sylra down another staircase. This one curled down like a serpent, deeper than the one leading to the maze. The air changed. Colder. Damp. Silent.

When they reached the bottom, they stood before a plain steel door. No markings. No windows.

Sylra pulled a small remote from her pocket. She tapped a code. The door slid open with a long hiss. “Inside,” she said.

Zane paused. “What happens there?”

Sylra didn’t smile. “Trial Two: The Mirror Room.” He entered and the door closed behind him.

…

The space was circular. Empty. Every wall was made of dark glass, smooth and black like ink. The floor reflected his image. The ceiling was so high it vanished into shadow.

No cameras. No lights. No sound. Zane turned in place. Then a whisper broke the silence. “Why do you run from yourself?”

He spun around. No one was there. But then the mirrors changed and Zane wasn’t alone.

A figure stood in the mirror to his left. Small. Thin. Dirty clothes. Bare feet. It was him. At age eight.

The version that lived in the back of the shelter. The one who stole food from bins and slept under tables. The boy looked up. “You left me.”

Zane shook his head. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“You forgot me.”

“No,” Zane whispered.

But the mirror changed again. Now the boy was crying. Alone. Cold. Blood on his lip. The memory of his first real fight. The memory of losing.

…

Another mirror lit up. This time, it showed Layla. Her hair tied in a bun. Her arms crossed. Eyes full of hate. “You let me rot,” her reflection said.

Zane stepped closer. “You chose Harlan. You walked away.”

“Because you were weak,” she snapped. “Poor. Lost. And you’ll always be those things, Zane. Money doesn’t change it.” Zane’s fists clenched. He turned away, but another mirror lit up.

…

Now it showed his mother. Her face, soft, kind. Crying as she handed him to a foster agent. “I’m doing this to protect you,” she said in the memory.

But the mirror twisted her voice. “You were a burden. That’s why I left.”

Zane shouted, “Stop!”

But the room didn’t stop. The voices came faster now. “You are a mistake. You never earned this. You will burn it all down. You're not an heir. You're a janitor with luck.”

The voices echoed until Zane dropped to his knees. Hands over his ears. Then, a new voice broke through. Quiet. Male. Calm. “Do you want the truth, Zane?”

He looked up.xA figure stood in the center of the room now. Where there had been nothing a moment ago.

The man was tall. Dressed in a black suit. His face was hidden in the shadows. “Who are you?” Zane asked.

“I am the last one who took this test,” the man said. “Your father.”

Zane stood up fast. “No. He’s dead.”

“Yes,” the man said. “But the room remembers everything. Even him.”

Zane's chest tightened. He stepped closer. “Why did you abandon me?”

The man paused. “Because I knew you would either die young or become greater than me.”

Zane’s voice cracked. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

The man didn’t blink. “You’re not here for goodbye, Zane. You’re here to decide what kind of man you want to become.”

…

The room changed. Suddenly, Zane was no longer alone. All the reflections stepped out of the glass. The boy. Layla. His mother. His enemies. Even himself, dressed in black like a king, cold and cruel.

They circled him. Each one held something. A knife. A chain. A mask. A crown. One by one, they spoke. “Pick one. Be who you are. Choose.”

Zane backed away. “No. I’m not you. I’m not any of you.”

But the black-suited version of himself stepped forward. “You will be. If you’re not careful.”

The boy in rags whispered, “Or you’ll be nothing.”

Zane turned in a slow circle. He had never felt so many things at once. Anger. Grief. Shame. Pride. Then he closed his eyes, and breathed.

…

Zane opened his eyes and stepped forward. He didn’t pick the knife. Or the chain. Or the crown.

He picked up a small mirror. Cracked down the center. He held it up to his face, and saw both versions of himself at once.

The broken boy. The rising man. And for the first time, he didn’t feel ashamed. “I am both,” he said aloud.

The others around him froze. The black-suited double stepped back. “You accept that?”

Zane nodded. “You want me to choose what to become. But I already have.”

He dropped the mirror. It shattered. The room fell silent, then, light exploded from every mirror wall.

The illusions vanished. Only one voice remained. “Trial Two complete. Heir verified.”

…

When the steel door opened again, Sylra stood there waiting. She said nothing for a long moment as Zane stepped out, drenched in sweat, his eyes dark and deep.

Finally, she asked, “What did you see?”

Zane didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Myself.”

She gave a small nod. “Then you're ready for what's next.”

Zane looked at her. “What is next?”

Sylra’s face changed. A flicker of concern. “The enemies outside this manor. They’re not waiting anymore.”

…

That night, Zane stood alone on the west balcony. He watched the stars come out. His name now filled the world. People celebrated. Others plotted.

He knew a storm was coming. Then, a red light hit his chest. A sniper scope.

He ducked. CRACK! The bullet slammed into the stone rail beside him, sending dust into his face.

Guards shouted. Sirens blared. Sylra rushed out, weapon drawn. But Zane just stared at the broken stone and whispered, “They’re not coming for me tomorrow.”

He looked out into the dark. “They’re already here.”