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Chapter 12 - Burning Room II

Chapter twelve: Burning room

The corridor outside the scorched room still smelled of wet stone and smoke.

Elira hesitated at the threshold, where the soot-streaked wallpaper curled like dead petals. No servants dared linger nearby now. The fire had been contained, but a cold hush clung to this part of the manor—as if the house itself was holding its breath.

Lucien had warned her to stay away. His voice, quiet but final, had lingered in her mind all afternoon.

"You are not to enter that room again."

But the pull gnawed at her.

Something had been left behind in the smoldering air—something watching.

She stepped over the broken threshold.

The chamber was blackened, the velvet drapes gone to ash, the floorboards brittle and soft beneath her steps. Smoke stains traced claw-like marks across the walls, leading toward the large oval mirror still mounted above the collapsed hearth.

It shouldn't have survived.

Elira stood before it, heart thudding. The glass was cracked in three places, the fractures like veins through a frostbitten eye. And yet, as she stared into it—

Movement.

She gasped.

A shadow passed behind her reflection, though the room behind her was empty.

She spun.

Nothing.

Slowly, she turned back to the mirror, dread rising like a tide.

And there he was.

A boy—standing behind her in the reflection. His hair tousled, his eyes familiar, too familiar. His face—

"Calen...?" she whispered.

The name slipped out before she could stop it. The image blinked. A sliver of a smile.

Elira took a shaky step forward.

The boy in the corner hadn't moved. His silhouette was hazy, as if sunlight tried and failed to catch him. But she knew that figure. The tilt of the head. The curve of his shoulder. Her breath hitched.

"Calen?" she whispered.

He turned—just slightly.

"Calen!" Her voice cracked with urgency now, louder. She reached toward him, fingers trembling, eyes stinging. "Is it you? Say something!"

But the figure didn't answer. Instead, it flickered. A tremor passed through the air, warping the light around him. His face—so familiar, so painfully wrong—seemed to stretch and fade like a memory swallowed by fog.

She stepped closer.

"Please... don't go."

But the image unraveled, threads of light dissolving midair like ash on wind. Where he had stood was now nothing. Just shadows. A brittle silence wrapped the room once more.

Elira's arms dropped to her sides, heart thundering.

Behind her, the mirror pulsed faintly, a ripple across its surface like disturbed water. Her reflection stared back—wider-eyed, paler, not quite her. There was something off about the way her mirror-self looked at her. Too still. Too knowing.

A voice broke the stillness.

"Don't touch it again."

Lucien.

She spun to find him leaning against the doorway. How long had he been standing there?

His face was carved in ice. Cold. Unreadable.

"I thought you left," she said, breathless, dazed.

"I returned." He stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the mirror. "This place reeks of residue magic. You shouldn't have entered alone."

"You didn't answer my question," she said quietly, fists clenched. "Was that real? Was it him?"

His jaw ticked. "Hallucinations are common in rooms marked by Choir magic," he said. "They show you what you most want. Or what you most fear. Often both."

Her lips parted, trembling. "But it felt—"

"That's the point," he cut in sharply. "The Crimson Choir likes to remind others where their reach lies. Even here."

The words dropped between them like a guillotine. Her heart thundered louder now, this time with dread.

"But why him?" she asked. "Why would they show me him?"

Lucien's expression darkened. "Because they know it would rattle you."

A silence stretched, brittle and strained.

Then she said, "It wasn't just him. The mirror… it didn't show my reflection. Not really. It was—watching me."

Lucien walked toward it. The glass had gone still, inert. But as he passed, his reflection lagged a second too long behind his actual movement—subtle, but unmistakable.

He stared into it for a long moment, then spoke quietly. "This mirror is no ordinary object. It's one of the Choir's leftover artifacts. I thought it was purged with the rest when I took this manor."

"And you left it here?" she asked, voice sharp.

"I underestimated how long its magic would cling." His voice had cooled into something tight and grave. "That was a mistake. One I won't make again."

She turned away, arms folded tightly. "If this room's so dangerous, why let anyone near it?"

"I didn't. You were told not to stray."

A low ember of defiance stirred in her. "I wasn't straying. I was trying to understand what's happening around me. Because you won't tell me anything."

Lucien stepped closer. Too close. His presence, sharp and consuming, filled the room like smoke.

"You want understanding?" he said, voice cold as steel. "Very well."

He gestured toward the mirror. "The Crimson Choir's experiments blur the line between memory and illusion. They feed on emotion—grief, longing, fear. Especially from those bound to strong bloodlines." His gaze drilled into her. "Like yours."

The unspoken truth hung heavy: they had shown her Calen for a reason.

"So what now?" she asked, voice hollow. "You lock the room again and pretend it never happened?"

"No." He walked to the corner where the image had vanished. "Now I make sure nothing like it happens again."

A pulse of heat surged through the room as he raised one hand and muttered a word in a language she didn't recognize. The mirror cracked—not visibly, but with a sound that shuddered across the air. Like something old being wounded.

The room dimmed. The oppressive pressure began to lift.

She stared, shaken.

Lucien turned back to her. "You are not to return here."

"I wasn't trying to—"

"I know," he said. Still sharp. But his eyes weren't empty this time. Something flickered behind them—guarded concern.

"You saw someone you loved," he said more quietly. "The Choir knows how to wound deepest."

Elira swallowed. "He looked real."

"I've seen men lose their minds in these kinds of rooms," he said. "Begging to touch people who weren't there. Dying to hold what they lost. This magic is older than most of the Court realizes."

He moved past her, to the door.

"Elira."

She turned slowly.

"When you see things in this house... question them. But don't chase them. That's how they trap you."

He didn't wait for her answer. Just vanished into the dim hallway with the rustle of his coat.

Elira remained where she stood, alone again. The mirror had gone still—but her reflection lingered longer than it should have, her eyes haunted with too many truths.

She didn't trust the silence anymore.

And worse… she didn't trust what she wanted to believe.

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