They set them up.
Angled. Facing inward toward the center of the room, toward the bed, toward the point where two mirrors can catch everything and send it back doubled.
Viktor watched her.
Eliantra stood before them.
Her hands pressed flat against the glass of each mirror — left palm on the left, right palm on the right — her eyes closing, the , interior focus of a mage reaching for something that lives below the level of thought.
The magic moved.
Not dramatically. Not the theatrical light-show of lesser practitioners. The first-tier, 'competent,' refined magic of a woman who has been doing this since childhood — a soft, silver-blue warmth gathering at her palms, spreading through the glass, the mirrors taking on the , slightly-deeper quality of surfaces that are now 'recording' rather than just reflecting.
The Mirage Spell.
Viktor knew what it was. He'd done his research on this woman.
