The abandoned gallery stood in the heart of the Whisperwood, its windows like blind eyes staring into the dusk. Kael, a grizzled human fighter with scarred hands and a weathered sword, pushed open the wrought-iron gate while his companions fanned out behind him. Mireth, a sharp-eyed half-elf rogue with twin daggers at her hip, moved along the gallery wall, testing windows. Behind them, Thorne—a tiefling warlock whose violet skin seemed to glow in the fading light—hummed an incantation under his breath. Beside him walked Lystra, a dwarf cleric of the Mountain God, her holy symbol gleaming silver at her chest.
The invitation they’d found in the tavern had been elegant, unsettling: “View my collection. Collectors always appreciate other collectors.” Signed only: Issador.
The gallery’s interior took their breath away. Hundreds of paintings lined every wall—not generic landscapes or noble portraits, but portraits of people. Real people. Each canvas rippled slightly, as if the figures inside were breathing. Kael’s hand went to his sword hilt. That’s when they heard the voice, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.
“Ah, I was hoping you’d come.”
The merchant materialized from the shadows—a figure almost too beautiful to look at directly, with porcelain skin and eyes that shifted between every color imaginable. He wore clothing from a dozen centuries, all at once. Fey, Lystra realized instantly. Very old fey.
“You collect something,” Issador purred, circling them. “Everyone collects something. Memories, gold, power, faces. These are faces I’ve collected. Mortals, mostly. They stepped into my gallery of their own will—seeking adventure, wealth, fame. All they had to do was make a bargain. One small thing: let me paint them. Keep their essence. Preserve their beauty forever.”
Mireth’s eyes widened. “They’re alive. You’ve trapped their souls in those paintings.”
“Trapped is such an ugly word,” Issador said softly. “Preserved. Perfected. They no longer age, hunger, or suffer. What could be more merciful?”
But then something remarkable happened. One of the paintings—a young woman with auburn hair—caught Mireth’s eye. The rogue saw it: the painting was moving, its figure pressing against the canvas from within, mouth opening in a silent scream. Lystra began to glow, her holy power sensing the abomination. And Kael realized the truth that made his blood run cold: their own reflection in a massive mirror across the room was grinning, independent of their movements.
“You see now,” Issador whispered. “The bargain. Every mortal carries a reflection. A shadow self. I collect them too. The paintings are simply where the shadows go when I claim them. And now…” He raised his hands. “Now I collect yours.”
The paintings shattered. The shadows stepped out—twisted, dark mirror-images of the heroes themselves, each a perfect negative, each burning with stolen rage. The paintings’ inhabitants cried out from inside their frames, their forms pressing desperately against the canvas, not attacking but pleading. Thorne realized in a flash of terror what Issador truly was: not a collector, but a chrysalis. The hundreds of stolen faces weren’t just prisoners—they were power. Each one fed the thing wearing the merchant’s form, preparing it for some terrible transformation.
The battle erupted between shadows and steel, between holy light and arcane fire. But the true horror unfolded as the paintings began to crack. Each one split down the middle—and the captured souls pulled backward into the dark. In order to defeat the shadow-selves, the heroes would have to enter the paintings themselves, dive into the darkness, and rescue the souls from the void where Issador truly lived. It was a prison, yes. But it was also a trap with teeth.
As Kael’s shadow raised a mirror-sword, his real hand brushed one of the paintings, and he felt it—a terrible cold calling him inward. Lystra began to cast, her light burning against the encroaching dark. Mireth moved between the shadows with lethal grace. And Thorne saw, for just a moment, the true face beneath Issador’s mask: something ancient, something hungry, something that had been alone in the dark for far, far too long.
💬 What would you have done in Kael’s place—trusted your shadow to fight itself, or stepped into the unknown paintings to save the captured souls? How do you save someone when the only path leads into darkness? 👇