The forest finally released them into a hollow.
It was not safety — but it was shelter.
A rotting cabin leaned drunkenly against the hillside, its roof sagging beneath years of rain. The single window was a warped pane of cloudy glass, half‑hidden behind ivy.
Lucien paused at the threshold, scanning the dark interior. "Stay here."
He stepped inside, his sword held low, moving like a man who had learned the hard way not to trust shadows. Isadora waited in the clearing, listening to the night breathe. Her lungs still burned from running, and her mind reeled with the Devil's last words.
> "Every step you take away from me, you take inside me."
She hated how they clung to her — how they felt less like a threat and more like a prophecy.
Lucien re‑appeared at the doorway. "It's empty. For now."
She followed him in.
---
The cabin smelled of damp earth and iron. The floor was warped and splintered, the hearth a yawning mouth of stone. A single table sat in the corner, its surface covered in a skin of dust so thick her fingers left trails in it.
Lucien closed the door and bolted it with a rusted iron bar. "We'll rest here until first light."
She nodded.
He knelt by the hearth, coaxing a small flame from dry scraps of wood. The fire caught reluctantly, casting orange light into the cramped space. It was warmer than the forest, but the warmth felt thin — as if the cold here was not from the weather, but from the house itself.
Isadora drifted toward the far wall. A tall, dust‑filmed mirror leaned there, its frame carved with twisting vines and tiny flowers. She wiped at the glass with her sleeve.
The reflection stared back — pale, tired, streaked with soot. But her eyes in the mirror were wrong.
They glittered.
---
She stepped back. "Lucien?"
He turned from the fire. "What is it?"
"Come look at this."
He joined her, frowning at the glass. "It's just you."
But as he said it, her mirrored self smiled. Slowly. Seductively.
Isadora's breath caught. "You saw that."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "Step away."
She obeyed. He drew his sword and tapped the mirror's surface. The glass rippled like water — and the reflection's smile widened.
The mirrored Isadora leaned forward, lips parting as if to speak. Her voice slid into the room, soft as silk, but layered with something darker.
> "Why do you keep running from him?"
Isadora froze.
The voice was hers — but not hers. Lower. Hungrier.
> "You love the way he looks at you. The way he says your name. You feel alive in his hands, don't you?"
Her stomach twisted. "Shut up."
> "You can pretend you want Lucien. But you dream of someone else when you close your eyes."
Lucien stepped between her and the mirror, blade raised. "You're not welcome here."
The reflection tilted her head. "Neither are you, prisoner."
And then — in the blink of an eye — the reflection changed.
---
Lucien's mirrored self stood beside the mirrored Isadora. But his skin was pale as ash, his eyes black voids. His hands held her waist, possessive, pulling her close.
They were dancing — no — swaying like lovers in some slow, silent waltz.
Isadora's pulse thundered in her ears.
Lucien stabbed the glass. The blade passed through as if through water, sending ripples through the image. But when he drew it back, a black smear clung to the steel, sizzling like acid.
The mirrored versions kept dancing.
Lucien turned to her, his face pale. "Don't look at it. Don't listen to it."
But she couldn't help herself. The image was magnetic.
The mirrored Lucien bent his head, whispering into the mirrored Isadora's ear. She smiled — a smile of surrender.
Isadora's hands curled into fists. "That's not me."
The mirror laughed — her laugh.
> "Not yet."
---
Lucien yanked an old cloth from the table and threw it over the mirror. "Enough."
The cabin felt smaller now. The fire crackled weakly, but it gave no comfort. The shadows along the walls seemed deeper.
Isadora sat on the floor beside him, her knees drawn up. "It's like he's in every corner. Every surface. I can't escape him."
Lucien's gaze softened. He reached out, brushing soot from her cheek. "You're not alone in this. As long as I breathe, I'll stand between you and him."
Her throat tightened. "And when you can't?"
He didn't hesitate. "Then I'll still try."
---
The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn't empty. The crackle of the fire filled it, mingling with the faint rustle of the ivy outside. For a moment, it felt like they could almost believe they were safe.
But then —
A soft thud.
From the far wall.
They both turned.
The cloth over the mirror was moving — not falling, but bulging outward. Something was pressing from the other side.
Lucien was on his feet instantly, sword in hand.
The bulge shifted, forming the vague shape of a hand. Then another. Pressing. Pushing.
Isadora's breath hitched. "Lucien…"
The cloth slipped.
The mirror's surface was no longer glass — it was water. Black, thick, and swirling. And from that blackness, the mirrored Isadora began to climb out.
---
She emerged slowly, one pale arm, then the other, her hair falling in waves of ink over her shoulders. She wore the Red Veil — pristine, unburned, trailing like silk smoke. Her eyes were nothing but molten red.
Lucien lunged, sword aimed for her throat.
The mirrored Isadora caught the blade in her bare hand. Her fingers sizzled, but she didn't flinch. She leaned forward, her lips curling into a familiar, terrifying smile.
> "You'll never save her, Lucien. Because part of her wants to be me."
Isadora's chest tightened. She knew it was a lie. She also knew it wasn't entirely a lie.
Lucien snarled, forcing the blade forward. The mirrored version hissed, letting go — then stepped back into the mirror, dissolving into ripples.
The glass solidified.
---
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Lucien lowered his sword, breathing hard. "We can't stay here."
Isadora stood, her legs shaking. "Where can we go that he won't follow?"
Lucien's eyes darkened. "Nowhere. But we can go somewhere he can't walk as easily. Somewhere we have the advantage."
She frowned. "Where?"
His answer was immediate. "The Monastery of Hollow Saints."
---
The fire in the hearth sputtered. The shadows on the walls stretched.
And somewhere inside the glass of the covered mirror, a whisper crawled into the room:
> "I'll be waiting at the altar."
End of chapter Twenty-three