Chapter thirteen: Whispering mirrors
Smoke clung to the hallways long after the fire had been put out. The scent of scorched silk and wood still threaded the manor's breath, no matter how many windows the staff opened. Elira's palms ached, a raw sting from where she'd scraped them against the flagstones—yet she couldn't remember falling. Only the cold, gleaming edge of fear remained, sharper than pain.
Lucien hadn't spoken to her since pulling her from the burning room.
Not a word. Not a glance.
Not even when he'd issued quiet orders to have the west wing sealed.
That silence weighed heavier than any reprimand.
Back in her chamber, Elira sat curled on the edge of the bed, her dressing gown draped over her nightdress, still dusted with soot. The night had closed in tight, stifling, despite the open window. The wind outside moaned like it carried the voices of those the fire had taken—though she knew only one maid had been found.
Dead. Flesh melted to bone. Face twisted in something beyond terror.
She couldn't stop replaying the image. The way the flames hadn't spread. How they'd licked around the woman in a perfect spiral. Controlled. Ritualistic.
This was not a random blaze.
Elira sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes lingering on the far wall where the mirror stood.
At first, it was subtle.
The light caught strangely on the glass, bending in ways it shouldn't. Her reflection—though still—felt wrong, just slightly off. As though it moved a breath too slow behind her. Watching her, instead of mirroring her.
She turned her head. So did the reflection. But too late.
A chill slipped down her spine.
"Enough," she muttered to herself, standing.
She crossed the room and reached for the heavy mirror frame, intent on tilting it or covering it with a cloth. Just anything to get it out of her sight.
Her fingers brushed the glass.
Instantly, cold shot up her arm like ice in her veins.
She tried to pull away, but her hand wouldn't move. The surface beneath her palm… pulsed. Once. Like a faint, slow heartbeat beneath silver skin.
And then the mirror changed.
Her reflection melted into shadow—warping, fragmenting—and another image rose to the surface like a memory dredged from a sunken well.
A boy. Familiar. Fragile.
Calen.
Her heart stopped.
He was pale, thinner than she remembered, and his eyes—Gods, his eyes—were wide with fear. He looked directly at her, as if he saw her.
"Calen?" she whispered, voice barely sound.
She pressed her palm harder to the glass. "Is it really—?"
His mouth moved, but the sound that came out was warped, distant.
Ellie…
She leaned closer. "Please, say something. Where are you? What is this?"
The mirror shimmered, his face twisting—not from pain, but urgency. As though trying to warn her.
His face twisted in warning—his hand raised.
Run.
She tried to press closer—but the glass rippled under her palms.
And then—
It shattered without breaking.
The image splintered into darkness and was gone, swallowed whole as if it had never been there.
She stumbled back, heart racing, air catching like thorns in her throat.
Behind her, the whispers began to stir in the walls again, soft and serpent-like.
Then the door slammed open.
Lucien stood there—sharp, dark, his eyes burning like moonlit steel. He didn't ask.
He felt it.
The bond between them still shimmered with the echo of her fear.
Lucien's presence flooded the room like a tide.
His coat swept the floor behind him as he crossed to her in three long strides, the door banging shut of its own accord behind him. His eyes flicked to the mirror first—still and ordinary once more—then back to Elira.
"You touched it," he said, voice low.
She flinched. "I didn't mean to. I just—" She swallowed, wrapping her arms around herself. "It was the reflection. It felt… wrong. I was going to move it."
His gaze sharpened. "You should have called someone. That mirror isn't meant to be touched."
"Why?" she demanded, stepping back. "What did I see in it? That was Calen, wasn't it?"
Lucien didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached past her and placed a single gloved fingertip to the mirror's surface. The glass hummed faintly, then dulled as if veiled in shadow. "Hallucinations," he said quietly. "Echoes. This manor carries remnants of old magic, especially in rooms marked by the Crimson Choir. Mirrors… remember."
"Remember what?"
"Pain. Blood. Desperation. If you look long enough, it reflects what you most fear. Or most miss." His gaze cut to her. "Your brother."
"But it felt real," she whispered. "He spoke. He looked at me like—like he needed help."
Lucien's expression didn't soften, but his voice lost some of its ice. "That's what makes it dangerous. The Choir twisted these rooms for their own rituals. What you saw may have been memory. May have been illusion. Or both."
"You said he was gone," she accused. "Dead."
"I said he was taken." His voice was cold. "There's a difference."
Her legs nearly gave out beneath her. "So he is alive?"
But Lucien only turned toward the mirror, fingers brushing the edge of the frame. His eyes flicked toward the corners of the glass, where the silver veins were fading.
"Elira," he said tightly, "this manor is filled with locked doors for a reason. You don't know what you're calling to when you touch things that should remain buried."
"I wasn't calling anything!"
"No?" He turned back to her, voice dropping to a quiet snarl. "Then why did it answer?"
She stared up at him, the heat of his anger pressing against her as surely as his shadow.
Elira's breath trembled. "You felt my fear… through the bond?"
He didn't answer at first.
Then, almost begrudgingly: "Yes."
That one word held weight. A crack in the marble of his demeanor.
He turned away, as if to hide it, then paused at the door.
"I'll have the mirror removed by morning. And your room cleansed."
She stared at him, hesitant. "Why did you really come?"
Lucien's hand hovered on the doorknob.
Then he said, without turning, "Because I told you not to break the rules. And yet…"
"Don't touch the any mirror again."
"And if I do?" she challenged.
He glanced over his shoulder.
The look he gave her could've frozen fire.
"Then I'll chain you to the bed."
The door slammed shut behind him.