Banisterre Gorronda closed the door behind him. The music immediately faded, the sound of drums and electronic trance beats muffled to a distant thunder, and the cacophony of voices muted. The headache pulsing behind his temples remained, however, and Banisterre pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply as he attempted to dull the pain. He hated these parties his father threw. He hated his father, too, but that was neither here nor there. The parties, he was told, were a necessity. Something about playing politics and showing off wealth so Lord Gorronda could maintain his tenuous grip on power and importance. 

And then pass it off to his son when he inevitably kicked the bucket, Banisterre thought bitterly.

The young noble pushed off from the door and crossed the bathroom to the sink set against the wall. It was an elegant thing, even this minor cloakroom decorated befittingly enough for the nobles that used it. The sink itself was purple marble threaded with lines of gold and grey. It was carved into the shape of a scalloped shell, the edges of which were trimmed with gold inlay to match the faucet and drain. The shell was set upon a countertop of more marble, the colour of bone and laced with darker strands that matched the stained hardwood cabinet underneath.

Banisterre turned the faucet on and let the sound of running water further distance himself from the party outside as he stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the sink.

‘Don’t you look a fright,’ he muttered to himself. Banisterre pushed his dark hair up and away from his face. His complexion was pale, almost sallow, in the sterile light of the lumin globes affixed above the mirror. He turned his head to one side and pulled the skin beneath his eye down, checking his sclera. 

‘A fright,’ he repeated, before reaching into his coat pocket and retrieving a pill caddy. He dumped the pills out onto his palm. They were of all shapes, sizes, and colours. Banisterre moved them around with his finger until he found one that was pale blue and shaped like a hexagon. He popped the pill into his mouth and held it there while he filled a small cup with water. Then he swallowed the pill and water together.

Banisterre sighed, sliding the caddy back into his pocket before leaning on the sink with both hands. As the pill worked its magic, he closed his eyes. A weightlessness filled him, and the techno beat of the party faded, replaced by the sound of blood pumping through his veins. His headache slowly receded. 

This pretentious showing is not real power. 

The muscles in Banisterre’s shoulders tensed. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard the voice. It was a side effect of the drugs, or so he told himself. But the more he came to rely on the drugs, the louder and clearer the voice became. Now it echoed in his head as surely as if spoken by someone standing by his shoulder.

You detest it, as you should. Your father would not know what to do with true power.

‘No,’ Banisterre said begrudgingly through clenched teeth. He did not like communicating with the voice, but ignoring it was something else that grew more difficult with each instance. ‘He would not.’

But you would.

‘Yes.’ Banisterre shut his eyes tighter and shook his head. ‘No, I mean… maybe.’

You would.

‘I would.’

Banisterre forced himself to relax, letting the tension in his muscles bleed away. His shoulders went slack, and he opened his eyes, staring down into the sink.

Let me show you what it would be like. Look into the mirror.

Something inside Banisterre told him not to look, but he did. He looked up from the porcelain and into the mirror’s silver-backed glass. His image stared back. Banisterre blinked. His reflection did not.

The man staring back at him was Banisterre, but it was also not Banisterre. The man was healthy and hale. His skin was perfectly tanned, and his eyes were bright. His lips were full and curled in a smile that radiated confidence and self-assuredness that stopped before the line of arrogance. His hair was thick and lucious, combed back in regal fashion. He wore his family’s traditional uniform, his breast decorated with medals and awards from a dozen different military campaigns and civic institutions. Atop his head was a crown of thin silver shaped in the image of twisting olive branches.

Behind him, where there should have been the reflection of a water closet, was the Onyx Court where his father held sway. The image was blurred and fuzzy, as if seen through water, but Banisterre could still identify the tell-tale black marble columns that lined the circumference of the circular chamber. The Throne Gorronda was there as well, made from the same black marble as the columns. Lined with veins of gold, the throne had been the seat of the very first Lord Gorronda upon the merchant house’s founding so many millennia ago.

Do you like what you see?

Banisterre’s reflection spoke, its lips moving in time with the words. The voice was an eerie overlay of his own and the deep growl of the disembodied voice he had come to know. It was jarring and caused him to flinch slightly.

The multi-voice laughed.

I could show you more.

Banisterre could not deny that more was enticing. He looked at his reflection again, admiring the poise and demeanour it presented him with. Everything he wished he was. Banisterre squinted. Something on the reflection’s shoulder caught his attention, an indistinct shape that looked like a shadowy hand. But whoever it belonged to was off to the side and not visible in the mirror. The hand suddenly retracted, as if sensing Banisterre’s gaze.

You want this. You know you do.

‘Yes,’ Banisterre said.

The voice laughed.

Good. Here is what you must do.