Elira stared at the glowing mirror, its light pulsing faster—brighter—like it was alive. Like it was calling her.
"I'm dreaming," she whispered, though her voice trembled. "This has to be a dream..."
But her body didn't agree. Her hand lifted on its own, fingers trembling as they reached forward.
The surface of the mirror rippled beneath her touch—not cold, not glass, but warm and liquid. And before she could pull back—
It pulled her in.
There was no time to scream. No time to think.
Just darkness.
And then—impact.
Elira hit the ground hard, the air knocked from her lungs.
She gasped, coughing, her hands scraping against rough stone. The world around her shifted, foreign and silent. The scent of pine, smoke, and something ancient filled her lungs.
"Where…?" she breathed, sitting up slowly.
Stone towers loomed overhead. Torches flickered in iron sconces. Soldiers in black and silver armor marched past arched courtyards and cobblestone paths. Everything looked pulled from a medieval painting—or a memory she never had.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
"What the hell…"
A shout broke the stillness.
"There! By the garden wall!"
"She's not one of ours!"
"Seize her!"
Panic exploded in her chest. She stumbled back, hands raised.
"Wait—wait! I'm not—!"
Steel hissed from scabbards. Three guards rushed toward her with weapons drawn. Their boots pounded like war drums as they closed in.
"On your knees!" one barked. "Hands above your head!"
"I'm not dangerous!" Elira cried. "I don't even know where I am—I just—"
"Exactly what a spy would say," another sneered.
Before she could explain, cold shackles clamped onto her wrists. The metal bit into her skin. She was yanked to her feet, dragged across stone paths, past flickering torches and shadows whispering her arrival.
Massive oak doors creaked open.
The guards pushed her inside.
The throne room was enormous.
Marble floors stretched endlessly beneath her. Red banners hung from vaulted ceilings. The scent of old incense and dust filled the air. It was regal and oppressive at once.
At the far end, a man sat on a raised throne—older, stern, silver-bearded. His crown was plain, but the weight of power clung to him like a second skin.
The King.
Beside him stood someone else.
Someone she recognized instantly.
The man from the mirror.
Sharp jawline. Tousled dark hair. Silver eyes like frozen storms. He stood tall, distant, and unreadable—like a statue carved by sorrow.
His gaze landed on her.
And held.
Elira's breath caught.
"Who is this girl?" the King demanded, voice echoing through the hall. "Why is she in my palace?"
"Found near the west garden, Your Majesty," one of the guards reported. "She wears strange garments, speaks oddly. Likely a foreign spy."
"I'm not a spy!" Elira snapped. "I swear—I didn't mean to come here!"
"Then explain yourself," the King said coldly. "This kingdom is hidden from the world. No one crosses its borders… unless by force, or magic."
Elira hesitated, her voice a whisper.
"I came through a mirror. One moment I was home… and the next, I was here."
The court fell into stunned silence.
Whispers rippled through the room like wind through dry leaves.
"She lies…"
"The cursed mirror…"
"The prophecy…"
The prince stepped forward for the first time. His voice, when it came, was low and calm—but it cut through the noise like a blade.
"You saw the mirror?"
Elira turned to him, chest rising and falling.
"I saw you in it. Just before I was pulled in."
Gasps echoed.
A noble dropped to one knee, murmuring something in a forgotten tongue. Another gripped their pendant and crossed themselves.
The King stood.
"You saw my son's reflection… in the cursed mirror?" His voice was hollow.
"Yes," Elira said. "I don't know how or why, but—"
"Enough." His tone snapped like thunder.
He turned to his guards.
"Lock her in the North Tower. No food. No contact. Not until the High Seer arrives. If she speaks the truth, she may be dangerous. If she lies… she'll hang."
"Hang?!" Elira choked. "You can't be serious!"
But they were already dragging her away, metal digging into her wrists, boots scuffing across marble. The heavy doors groaned shut behind her.
She looked back one last time—her eyes catching the prince's again.
"I'm not your enemy!" she shouted.
He didn't move. But his voice followed, cold and clear:
"You saw the cursed mirror. You should be dead. The fact that you're not… is exactly why we can't trust you."
The doors slammed closed.
And the silence of the stone swallowed her whole.