The room was silent—too silent.
Only the faint rustle of the silk curtains stirred as a summer wind ghosted through the open balcony, carrying the scent of roses—and something more distant. Something rotting beneath the perfume of privilege.
Lyra stood in front of the mirror.
She hadn't moved in what felt like hours. The girl in the reflection mirrored her every breath, but it wasn't her. Not anymore. Not truly.
Her eyes—those once-soft hazel eyes—had sharpened. What once held innocence now brimmed with a strange, bitter knowing. Her cheeks were paler, almost ashen, and her lips trembled faintly, as if caught between laughter and a scream.
She reached up and touched the mirror, her fingers cold against the glass. The surface rippled with the faintest tremor of her touch, but the girl staring back didn't flinch. She looked... hollow.
"I died in this room."
The memory slashed through her mind like a blade.
Her father's voice. The smile that had felt like sunlight. The wine glass. The way the poison had coiled through her insides—ice and fire—burning her from within. She had tried to speak—God, she had begged—but he had just watched her.
Smiling.
Her breath hitched.
And then something inside her snapped.
With a strangled sound, Lyra turned and grabbed the nearest thing she could find—a small, ornate jewelry box, carved from cherrywood and inlaid with pearls. She hurled it with all her strength.
It shattered against the mirror.
The sound cracked through the room like thunder. Shards rained to the floor like glittering tears. The broken pieces reflected her in fragments—twisted and multiplied—dozens of Lyra's, all distorted, all broken.
Just like her.
The Door Opens
"Lady Lyra?!"
The door flew open.
Elira, her maid, rushed inside, skirts swishing, hands clutched at her apron. She froze at the sight: the broken mirror, the fallen box, the cascade of jewels scattered across the marble floor like spilled secrets.
Her eyes widened. "Are you… are you alright, my lady?"
Lyra didn't turn right away. Her chest was rising and falling—too fast. For a heartbeat too long, she almost told the truth.
No. I'm not alright. I died. And I came back full of fire.
But then, like a seasoned performer, she straightened her spine. Her expression softened, her lips curved into that familiar smile—gracious, gentle, controlled.
"Oh, Elira," she said with a light, airy laugh. "I suppose I got carried away. I just... tripped, that's all."
Elira blinked. "Tripped?"
Lyra glanced at the shards, then looked back with mock amusement. "Rather dramatically, yes."
But Elira didn't laugh. She simply knelt, quietly gathering the scattered jewelry. Her fingers moved mechanically, but her eyes kept flicking up to Lyra, uncertainty clouding her features.
"You've never…" Elira began carefully, "acted this way before, my lady."
Lyra's smile didn't falter. "Haven't I?"
"No. You've always been… calm. Gentle. Patient, even when others weren't."
There was no accusation in her voice—just worry. Genuine concern.
Lyra stepped forward, crouching beside her. "I suppose even the calmest waters hide storms beneath, don't they?"
Elira paused, unsure how to respond.
As she gathered the last of the jewels, she hesitated. "My lady, I don't mean to intrude, but... today is the Count's birthday. There's to be a grand celebration tonight. Many nobles are coming—from the capital, even. The entire court will be watching."
She hesitated again, then added quietly, "You are a noble. You are his daughter. It may be wise to... wear your mask."
Lyra straightened, her expression unreadable. "Of course."
But inside, her blood was roaring. Her father's birthday. Of course it would be. The man who murdered her would be celebrated tonight, toasted with wine and hollow words. The thought turned her stomach.
A Sudden Thought
She turned toward the balcony.
"Elira," she said suddenly, voice tight, "I need a moment."
The maid looked hesitant. "Shall I stay—?"
"No. Please."
When the door opened, Lyra bolted.
Down the hall. Beyond the sunlit arches and the cold, polished statues of her ancestors. Her feet knew the way—her mother had died in the past, she hadn't even been able to attend her funeral, hadn't seen her properly—but her soul wept for her inwardly, like a child lost in a storm.
She burst through the doors of the east wing.
And there she was.
Lady Mirel.
She Found Her Mother Dressing for the Celebration
The room smelled of rosewater and old perfume—familiar, warm, and painfully distant. Silken gowns hung from carved hooks; jewelry glinted in the lamplight. Her mother stood before a mirror, fastening a pearl earring with hands that trembled only slightly.
She looked regal. Composed. Untouchable.
But Lyra saw past it.
She stepped inside without a word.
Lady Mirel turned. Surprise softened into confusion, then concern.
"Lyra?"
Before she could say anything more, Lyra crossed the room and wrapped her arms around her. Tight. As if clinging to something she'd already lost once.
Her mother froze, startled—then slowly, carefully, returned the embrace.
"My little star," she whispered. "What's wrong?"
Lyra shook her head against her shoulder. "Nothing," she said.
But it wasn't true.
It was everything.
Everything she couldn't say, buried beneath a thousand unspoken wounds.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Just mother and daughter.
Alive. Together. In a world built of masks and poison.
And for a breath of time, Lyra let herself feel it—
The ache of love in a world where it never lasted.
The Celebration
The ballroom was dressed in gold.
Candles flickered from crystal chandeliers, casting soft, dancing light over marble floors. Velvet banners in the Mirel colors—deep crimson and black—hung from the vaulted ceiling. Tables gleamed with silverware and untouched wine, and the scent of jasmine mixed with something metallic beneath the perfume and polish.
Lyra stood at the top of the grand staircase, her hand resting lightly on the banister. She wore red. Not the soft blush of a girl, but the sharp, blood-dark crimson of a woman who knew what had been taken from her.
Below, the nobles laughed.
Their voices were sweet wine and poison, all at once. Smiles like daggers. Bows that meant nothing. They toasted the Count as if he were a king—and Lyra watched them all as if through glass.
A world she no longer belonged to.
She descended slowly, step by step, each heel-click a drumbeat of restraint. Eyes followed her—admiring, envious, curious.
"There's the daughter."
"She's grown."
"I heard she broke a mirror today."
She passed them like a ghost, offering smiles that didn't touch her eyes.
Her mother waited by the fountain at the center of the hall, speaking to a group of duchesses in glittering gowns. When she caught sight of Lyra, her expression flickered between pride and worry. But Lyra only nodded slightly.
She didn't want comfort.
She wanted control.
The string quartet began to play.
A waltz, slow and elegant. Couples moved to the floor, spinning in tight circles beneath chandeliers like clockwork puppets. Everything was beautiful.
Everything was false.
Lyra took a glass of wine from a passing tray, but didn't drink. She stared at it, the crimson liquid trembling in the glass.
She remembered the last one.
The poison had tasted like berries. Sweet. Deceptive.
Her grip on the glass tightened.
"Enjoying the celebration, my lady?"
A young noble spoke beside her—Oscar Thorne, if she remembered correctly. Golden-haired, with a smile too sharp to be honest.
Lyra turned to him, her voice smooth. "Of course. What daughter wouldn't be thrilled to celebrate the man who gave her life?"
Oscar chuckled. "Well said. And tonight, he basks in it."
Lyra smiled politely.
But in her mind, she whispered:
"Tonight, he basks.Soon, he will burn."