Assassins don't always come with poison.
Sometimes, they come with familiar faces.
Two days after the banquet, the Neutral Citadel remained quiet on the surface. But beneath the marble floors, in secret corridors and veiled rooms, the true war unfolded.
Selene knew it the moment she woke.
Not because of alarms.
But because of silence.
The kind of silence that presses too tightly against your skin.
Lucien sensed it too.
He stood near the window, eyes narrowed, his hand resting on the hilt of Velorian—the sword still humming faintly with aether.
"We're being watched," he murmured.
Selene's crimson eyes reflected in the frost-touched glass.
"I know."
Lira entered the room at dawn, breathless, eyes wide.
"There's a breach in the citadel wards," she whispered. "No guards saw it happen."
Selene's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Of course not."
Because the people coming for her now weren't normal killers.
They were echo blades—assassins trained by the Order of Veiled Saints to slice not just bodies, but identity.
At midnight, they struck.
Not in the war chamber.
Not in the banquet halls.
They came in the mirror.
Selene stood before her reflection, brushing her crimson hair, when the first fracture appeared in the glass.
A single crack—thin as breath.
Her reflection smiled back at her.
But Selene wasn't smiling.
Lucien was at her side in seconds, golden eyes sharp.
"Don't move."
The mirror rippled.
A figure stepped through.
It looked like Selene.
Same crimson eyes.
Same pale skin.
Same subtle scar beneath her jawline—the one no outsider should know about.
But this wasn't a mimic.
It was something worse.
"Aether clone," Lucien whispered, his voice cold.
A reflection given form.
A perfect copy, sent by the Order to replace her—not by killing her body, but by erasing her place in the rebellion.
The clone spoke first, voice soft.
"I can lead for you, Selene," it whispered.
Its crimson eyes gleamed like wet silk.
"I'll accept the crowns. I'll kneel when needed. I'll make the world easier."
Selene's real eyes narrowed.
"You're here to make me harmless."
The clone smiled.
"To make you remembered safely."
Lucien's sword flashed.
But his blade passed through the clone's form—no blood, only light.
The echo stepped closer, fingertips brushing Selene's hair.
"I'm the version of you they'll love, Selene. The obedient queen. The polished icon. No rebellion. No defiance. Just… peace."
Selene's voice cut the air.
"False peace is still war."
Her hand moved, and the Crimson Veil ignited in her palm.
Not against armies.
Not against rulers.
But against this—a theft of self.
Her magic wasn't steel.
It was memory.
It wrapped around the echo like frost, freezing the clone's false smile, cracking the perfect mimicry.
"I don't exist to make the world comfortable," Selene whispered.
Her magic snapped.
The mirror shattered.
The echo collapsed into shards of forgotten light.
Lucien caught her as the last ripple faded.
"Are you alright?"
Selene's voice was steady.
"I'm still here."
But they both knew what this meant.
The Order had moved past political games.
Now they wanted to rewrite her personally.
To replace rebellion with reflection.
Outside, crimson snow continued to fall.
Inside, Selene stood in front of the shattered mirror, eyes steady.
She would not be a softer version of herself.
Not for the Order.
Not for the kingdoms.
Not for history.
She would be real.
Even if it killed her.