The coin vanished the next day.
Not lost.
Taken.
I checked my coat pocket at breakfast — where I'd tucked it between pages of notes — and it was gone. No one saw. No one asked.
But I knew who had it.
Because when I walked into the art room that afternoon, it was waiting on my easel.
Pressed into a smear of charcoal.
Set like a dare.
And beside it—drawn in soft, smudged lines—was a sketch of me.
But not me now.
Me, standing in the observatory.
Barefoot.
Hair down.
Looking at someone just out of frame.
The title beneath it said:
> "She doesn't see the fire yet."
---
He was in the back corner of the room, working silently, back to me.
I didn't call his name.
I just walked up behind him and waited.
He didn't turn.
"You kissed him," he said, voice calm. Measured.
Too calm.
"You watched?"
He glanced over his shoulder. "No. But I don't have to."
"I didn't know I was supposed to report to you."
"You're not."
Then: "But now you know what he is."
---
I didn't respond right away.
Because part of me still wasn't sure what he meant. The kiss had been real. Raw. Nothing about it had felt fake.
But the warning in his voice made something inside me freeze.
He finally looked up, eyes sharper than usual. "They've chosen him before, you know."
"Who?"
"The Order."
I frowned. "And you?"
He didn't answer.
Which said more than words could.
---
I left the art room unsettled.
The weight of the coin in my hand was colder now. Like it had changed meaning without asking.
By the time I reached the south wing staircase, I realized I'd been walking in circles.
And that's when I saw her.
Dean Alvara.
The school's academic director. Always too polished. Too polite. Her eyes like polished knives.
"Elena," she said smoothly, like she'd been waiting.
"Yes?"
"I trust you're settling in."
"As well as anyone can."
She smiled thinly. "Good. Then you'll have no trouble reporting to the Auralith this evening."
My breath caught.
"For what?"
"A reflection."
I didn't understand. But I nodded.
And she turned away before I could ask anything else.
---
That night, I returned to the Auralith for the second time.
But this time, I was alone.
No boys.
No fire.
Just the mirrors.
They stood in a perfect circle now — tall, freestanding, each reflecting a version of me I didn't quite recognize. One had a bruise on my jaw. One wore a velvet mask. One cried without blinking.
And in the center of the room: a single chair.
A voice echoed from nowhere.
> Sit.
I obeyed.
Then silence.
A long, heavy one.
And then—
The mirrors changed.
Each one showed a name.
Not mine.
But others.
Students. Past and present.
I saw Petra. I saw the golden boy. I saw the artist. I saw names I didn't know.
Then I saw one scratched out completely.
No reflection. No name.
Just a pulse.
> This is your warning, the voice said.
Not everyone who enters the Order is remembered.
Loyalty is memory. Betrayal is erasure.
---
I didn't sleep that night.
Not because I was afraid.
But because the scratched-out mirror… had looked like mine.
---
The next day brought fog thick enough to cancel outdoor classes.
Which meant more time indoors.
More watching.
The golden boy avoided me all morning. Not cold — just absent. Like something had shifted, and he didn't trust himself near me.
The artist was worse.
He was everywhere.
At breakfast, sketching across the hall. In the corridor, leaning against my locker. At the library steps, pretending not to wait.
Finally, after Literature, he caught up to me.
"I want to show you something."
I hesitated. "What?"
"Not here."
---
We walked across the courtyard in silence. The fog made everything feel suspended — like the school was holding its breath again.
He led me into the west wing.
Down a staircase I'd never seen.
Behind a panel marked "Maintenance."
Into a room lined with old boxes and file cabinets.
At the back, tucked behind a moth-eaten curtain:
A locked cabinet.
He pulled out a key. Turned it slowly. Opened the door.
Inside were dozens of envelopes.
Most torn. A few unopened.
He handed me one.
Faded parchment. Gold ink.
I recognized the seal.
Velvet Order.
But the name on it—
> Anastasia Vale.
I blinked. "Who—?"
"She was like you," he said softly. "They let her in. Chose her."
"What happened?"
He met my eyes.
"They erased her."
---
I read the letter.
An invitation. The same as mine. Same phrasing. Same promises.
But it was dated twelve years ago.
"She disappeared," he said. "No expulsion. No transfer. No note."
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Because I know what it feels like to love something dangerous."
---
I didn't ask what he meant.
Not then.
But that night, I dreamed of the mirrors again.
And in the one with no name—
Someone stood inside it this time.
She had my face.
But her smile… wasn't mine.