POV: Irena Vale
---
The mirror didn't break when she stepped through it.
It unfolded.
Like a page turned backward, like water parting around something holy—or unholy. There was no sound, only the sensation of teeth unclenching somewhere behind her ribs.
And then she was gone.
---
A World of Fractures
The Mirror Realm smelled like iron and lilies.
The sky was the color of bruised porcelain, and the trees bled ink instead of sap. Their branches reached downward, as if bowing to some unseen queen. The ground under her bare feet cracked with each step, revealing shards of memory buried beneath—her first ballet recital, Lucien's fingers brushing her wrist, the smell of her mother's hair after rain.
Everything here remembered her.
But nothing belonged to her anymore.
> "This is where the lost selves go," Theda had warned before they crossed.
> "This is where names get unbraided."
Now, Lucien was behind her, whispering spells under his breath, his coat dragging ash across the mirrored soil.
Theda walked ahead, eyes unreadable.
And the wind carried a voice.
> "Irena Vale…"
> "You came home too late."
---
Reflections in the Flesh
The first creature they saw wore her face.
But not like a mimic. Not like a trick.
It wore her—like skin stretched over something more ancient.
This Irena had no whites in her eyes, only black glass. She wept flowers. Thorns bloomed from her spine like wings. And when she smiled, her teeth flickered like candlelight reflected on blades.
Lucien reached for his blade.
Theda stopped him.
"That's not her enemy," she said. "That's her shadow."
"She's walking around with Irena's body."
"No. She's walking around with the version of Irena you want to believe in. That's what makes her dangerous."
The shadow-Irena tilted her head.
"I died for your love," it said in a voice like chimes in a crypt. "But I never left. I became something better."
It walked backward into the trees, vanishing between two mirror-trunks.
And the real Irena's heart cracked once more.
---
The Path of Broken Names
To reach the Hall of Faces, where stolen identities were stored, they had to cross the Reflection River.
It didn't flow forward.
It flowed in loops, pooling around half-remembered events and misnamed childhoods. Irena stepped into it and saw herself at seventeen, weeping behind the library after Mara kissed Lucien on a dare.
> She didn't remember crying.
> But the river did.
A ripple twisted the memory. Mara wasn't smirking anymore.
She was crying, too.
Had that happened?
She tried to leave it behind, but the river clung to her ankles like silk scarves dipped in regret.
Lucien pulled her out.
"You're bleeding," he said.
She looked down. Cuts along her calves. Each one spelled a word.
> "L I A R"
> "S T O L E N"
> "F A D I N G"
She bit her lip. "It's inside me now. Isn't it?"
Theda didn't answer.
Theda didn't need to.
---
Hall of Faces
The hall rose like a cathedral made of shattered mirror-glass and ribs.
Inside, faces floated in vertical panes—alive, whispering, shifting.
Some were screaming.
Some were smiling.
Each one had been worn.
Some still were.
A girl stepped forward. She looked like Irena but younger, sharper, hair hacked off with rusted scissors.
"Name," she demanded.
"Irena Vale," she answered.
But the hall shuddered.
The reflection rippled.
The girl stepped closer.
"Try again."
Irena swallowed.
"Irena Vellin," she said.
The hall purred.
Accepted.
Lucien's jaw tensed.
Irena staggered back.
"No," she whispered. "That's not mine. It's hers."
Theda caught her before she collapsed.
"Then you'll have to steal it back."
---
The Blood Window
They found the blood window in the Hall's deepest chamber.
It was a pane of crimson-streaked glass, humming with ancient grief.
Through it, she could see Mara.
Laughing.
Wearing her favorite velvet coat. Twirling Lucien's locket on her fingers. Writing in her stolen journal.
She was perfect.
Flawless.
Loved.
And Irena?
Irena was a ghost.
Lucien reached for the glass—but it burned him.
"She's locked her version of you in this place," Theda said. "If you try to reach across, she'll seal you out for good."
"Then what do I do?"
Theda handed her a shard of mirror—razor-thin, glittering with curses.
"You bleed a new name into her skin."
---
Decision Under the Red Sky
Outside the hall, the sky cracked open.
Glass snow fell, each flake a whispered regret.
Irena stood in the storm, mirror-shard in hand, watching herself be erased from her own story.
Lucien watched her with pain in his throat. "You don't have to fight her like this."
"I already lost being kind."
He touched her wrist.
"What if I don't care which version you are?" he asked. "What if I just want the girl who chooses to be here?"
She looked at him. Really looked.
The wound was too deep now for pretty words.
But his touch still meant something.
Even if the version of herself he remembered was fading.
She gripped the shard tighter.
"I want her to see me," she said. "The girl she stole from. The girl she buried."
Then she stepped back through the crimson glass.
And vanished into the world Mara made.
---