The first mirror shows you what you fear.
The second shows you what you'll become to survive it.
---
Skyevale Academy – Restricted Wing, 3rd Floor Library
Irena didn't remember falling asleep.
She remembered the book.
The flickering candlelight.
The ache behind her eyes.
And then… a pull.
Not a sound. Not a hand.
A tug beneath the ribs, like a thread being yanked.
When she opened her eyes, the library was no longer empty.
The long bookshelves groaned like breathing. The flame had gone blue.
And in the corner—where no mirrors were allowed by Academy law—stood a tall glass rectangle veiled in moth-bitten silk.
Her breath caught.
Another mirror.
But not like Laith.
This one hummed.
Like a song only bones could hear.
---
The Second Mirror
She pulled the veil back slowly.
The mirror wasn't silver—it was deep crimson. Like wine spilled across a black floor. It didn't reflect anything behind her, only her, standing in an endless red void.
Her reflection blinked.
Then smiled.
It was still her.
But this one was… tired. Eyes ringed with ash. A long crack down her left cheek like porcelain splitting. And she whispered something Irena couldn't hear.
So Irena stepped closer.
The reflection pressed her hand to the glass.
> "When he betrays you," it said, "you'll understand."
Irena froze. "Who?"
The reflection only smiled.
And cracked again.
---
Lorekeeper Theda
The candle sputtered.
A voice behind her: ancient, gravel-wrapped, soft.
"You shouldn't be here, girl."
Irena turned fast, heart in her throat.
A woman stood in the shadow of the upper balcony. Cloaked in crow-feather robes. Her eyes were silvered, as if cataracts had frozen over long ago.
Her name came to Irena like dust in memory: Lorekeeper Theda.
No one had seen her in nearly a decade.
"I—didn't mean—"
Theda raised a hand, silencing her. Her nails were black. The scent of old ink and burning sage curled around her.
"You've seen Laith," she said. Not a question. "Now it's calling the others."
"Others?"
Theda came closer, slowly, leaning heavily on a staff etched with mirrored runes.
"There are thirteen mirrors," she murmured. "Laith is only the first. The one that shows. The one that opens. But each mirror reflects a different truth."
"And this one?" Irena asked, glancing back.
Theda's breath turned visible. "That one is Avek. The Mirror of Becoming."
"What does it show?"
Theda smiled, terribly.
> "The version of you that survives everything."
---
Meanwhile – Mara, Unraveling
Mara had always loved her mirror.
It had been her confidante, her canvas, her altar.
She had used it to rehearse smiles. Recreate wounds. Refine her rage into art.
But lately…
Lately it wasn't obeying.
Last night, she had watched herself sleep. Not from memory, but live. Her reflection breathing out of sync. Moving first. Twitching faster.
And once—just once—she saw her reflection turn her head and mouth Irena's name.
Now, she avoided looking directly at it. Instead, she painted her lips while staring just off center. Put in her earrings by touch, not gaze.
She told herself it was nerves. Just stress.
But her skin was starting to itch.
Her eyes burned when she cried.
And worst of all?
She was starting to forget which parts of her were hers—and which were copied.
---
Lucien's Warning
Irena found Lucien by the ruined sundial in the North Garden.
He didn't flinch when she approached. Didn't look at her. Just reached into his coat and handed her a charm.
A sliver of obsidian set into braided wire. It pulsed faintly.
"What is it?" she asked.
"A tether," he said. "For your mind. The more time you spend near the mirrors, the more they'll try to take. This keeps your soul stitched to your body."
"Charming," she muttered.
"You're welcome."
A silence stretched.
Then: "Lucien… do you trust me?"
His jaw tightened. "I want to."
"But you don't."
"I trust that you're real. For now."
She looked away. "There's another mirror. In the library."
His eyes snapped to hers. "Which one?"
"Avek."
He cursed under his breath. "They're waking faster than I thought."
"They?"
"The reflections. They're not dreams, Irena. They're trapped selves. Left behind. Shattered versions of us that want to become whole again."
She clutched the charm tighter. "And what happens if they do?"
Lucien looked at her then.
> "You disappear."
---
The Final Reflection – A Warning
That night, Irena stood alone in her dorm. The charm pulsed faintly against her collarbone.
She breathed in. Faced the mirror.
"Show me," she whispered. "If I'm going to break, I want to see it coming."
The mirror didn't shimmer. Didn't shift.
Instead, her reflection stepped closer.
Closer.
Until the glass seemed to press forward like breath on skin.
It smiled, but this time… it wasn't cruel.
It looked afraid.
And in a voice that was still hers—but edged with something broken—it whispered:
> "She's going to take everything.
But the worst part?
You'll still miss her when it's done."
POV: Mara Vellin
---
It began with the dress.
The silver one, with the high collar and the thin, almost invisible stitching across the ribs. Irena's dress. She had only worn it once—at the Autumn Equinox Gala, where Lucien's eyes had followed her like a curse stitched to skin.
Mara had stolen it that night.
Not out of hatred. Not out of malice.
Out of hunger.
---
She stood before her mirror, bare feet cold against stone. The dress clung too tightly in places it should have fit. It looked perfect when Irena wore it. On Mara, it was just… off. Like the fabric could tell the difference.
"You don't fit," the mirror whispered. Or maybe it didn't.
She touched the glass. Her reflection didn't move.
It stood still, watching her.
No—not watching. Studying.
Mara's hands trembled. "You're me."
The reflection tilted its head.
> "I'm better."
---
The First Rewriting
The mirror asked for a price.
Mara didn't remember offering it. But her lip bled in the morning. A little more every day. Like her smile had been reshaped.
People stopped calling her Mara. Not out loud. But in their eyes, she could see it—they hesitated.
"Hi… Irena—sorry, I mean Mara."
It was working.
But it wasn't enough.
---
She began collecting pieces of Irena.
A glove.
A page from her old sketchbook.
A single eyelash caught in a hairbrush.
Every piece she buried beneath her pillow, wrapped in crimson ribbon.
The mirror smiled wider with each one. Its cracks healed. Its eyes brightened.
And her reflection began to move before she did.
---
The Third Rewrite
That night, the reflection asked for a secret.
Mara whispered it like a confession at the edge of a blade.
> "I loved her. Once. Before he did."
The mirror shuddered.
Then, it changed.
The reflection was no longer mimicking her face.
It wore Irena's smile now.
Irena's dimples. Irena's moon-pale lashes. Irena's pain.
It reached toward the glass and touched Mara's lips from the other side.
> "You're almost ready."
---
Memory Rot
Mara awoke to find her voice sounding different.
Lighter. Sweeter. Measured like Irena's—soft at the edges, but sharp where it mattered.
She used it in class. And people leaned in closer.
She used it with Lucien. And he didn't flinch like he used to.
But then something strange happened.
She walked past her own reflection in a hallway window—and Irena looked back.
She spun, heart clenching.
Her own face returned a moment too late.
Her eyes—her real ones—burned suddenly. Watered.
When she reached up, her fingers came away not wet with tears…
…but ink.
Black, viscous, mirror-ink that smelled like burnt silver.
---
The Final Instruction
The mirror whispered again that night.
> "She will not be missed if you become her."
Mara didn't speak.
> "One of you must vanish. The mirror cannot reflect two of the same soul."
Mara touched the glass. Her fingertips smoked.
And her reflection—the Irena-faced one—smiled.
> "We'll make it quick. She's already starting to fracture."
> "Just one more piece."
---
The Missing Name
The next morning, Mara sat in class. Her eyes fixed forward. Her pen unmoving.
When the professor called roll, her name never came.
She waited to raise her hand—to correct the silence.
But she couldn't remember it.
Not fully.
Not clearly.
It hovered, just out of reach. Like a word caught in dream-thick fog.
She blinked, confused. Looked down at her notebook.
Her name was written there, a hundred times over.
But every single version said:
> IRENA