Some mirrors show you who you are.
Others show you what you want.
But the Mirror of Laith?
It shows you how you'll break.
---
Irena shouldn't have followed Lucien down the spiral stairs behind the velvet curtain.
But curiosity was louder than fear.
It always had been.
The air shifted as they descended, cooling from perfume-laced luxury to something ancient and damp. It smelled like forgotten stone and the weight of secrets too old for daylight. Their footsteps echoed like memories.
He said nothing the entire descent. Only glanced back once, his eyes catching hers in the flicker of a wall sconce.
No smile.
Just that quiet, magnetic grief he wore like second skin.
---
The Door
The door at the bottom of the stairwell wasn't locked. It didn't even creak. It simply opened like it had been expecting her.
Inside: a circular chamber lit by blue flame. The walls were covered in mirrors of every size, but none showed reflections—just shifting color, like smoke behind glass.
And in the center, atop a pedestal of obsidian, stood a single full-length mirror.
It was black from edge to edge. Not dark—void. Like someone had skinned the night sky and hung it in a frame of bones and gold.
Lucien moved toward it with reverence.
"This is the Mirror of Laith," he said. "It doesn't show who you are. It shows who you're becoming."
"And if you don't like it?"
Lucien's mouth curved slightly.
"Then don't look."
---
The First Glimpse
Irena stepped forward.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached toward the glass, the air around it colder than the rest of the room. Not evil—but aware. Watching.
The mirror flickered once.
And then she saw—
Herself, bathed in moonlight. Wearing white. Kissing Lucien like she was drowning and he was the last breath. His hands around her waist. Her eyes closed in trust.
But then—
Behind her, a figure.
Same face. Same body.
But wrong.
The other Irena smiled—but it wasn't joy. It was triumph.
And Lucien… he wasn't kissing her anymore. He was choking. Bleeding from his mouth.
The mirror cracked.
Irena gasped and stumbled back.
---
Lucien caught her before she fell.
"You looked too long," he said, voice hoarse.
"Why did I see—?"
He shook his head. "The Mirror lies. But it lies with truth. Like dreams. You won't understand it until it's already happened."
She looked at the fissure in the glass—still glowing faintly.
"What did you see when you looked?"
Lucien hesitated.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"It's never shown me anything. Ever."
She frowned. "Is that good or bad?"
He met her gaze.
"I think it means I don't become. I just… end."
---
Meanwhile: Mara
Back at the ballroom, Mara spun across the dance floor in a whirl of gold, laughing at something forgettable. She played the role well. Flawless. Controlled. Desirable.
But her eyes kept darting toward the stairwell Lucien had taken Irena down.
She knew what was beneath this place.
The Mirror of Laith.
She had warned Irena once. Had whispered drunkenly one night, half a year ago: "Mirrors are never just glass, Rena. They're memory. They're want."
Irena had laughed.
Now Mara watched the clock.
Waited.
Plotted.
---
Back in the Mirror Room
Lucien placed his palm against the cracked mirror, and the glass began to hum.
"I don't bring people down here," he said softly. "Not ever."
"Why me?"
He turned to her, and for the first time, Irena saw something unguarded in his face. Something hungry.
"Because I don't trust you."
Her breath caught.
He didn't mean it as cruelty.
He meant it as prophecy.
"I don't trust anyone who sees what I see," he said. "But I'd rather be betrayed by you than comforted by anyone else."
Her heart felt too full. Or too empty.
She couldn't tell.
She took his hand anyway.
---
Final Scene – The Rising Thread
As they climbed back up into the ballroom's light, the mirror behind them healed its crack.
But not before it whispered.
Not before it remembered.
Somewhere in the Mirrorworld, the reflection of Irena—the wrong one—opened her eyes.
She was smiling.