He was ten when he first touched the mirror.
Not the gilded one in the manor.
Not the ceremonial one his father kept locked in the west wing.
No—this mirror was hidden. Behind a false wall. In a corridor no one entered unless they were lost, bleeding, or called.
Lucien had been all three.
---
He remembers the blood on his sleeve from a tumble down the grand stairs. The splinter in his palm. The broken nose.
He remembers the soft pull behind his ribs, like someone tugging a string from deep inside his chest.
And he remembers the whisper.
> "Come look."
---
The mirror was tall. Narrow. Dusted in cobwebs and secrets.
It didn't reflect the hallway.
It reflected a forest that did not exist.
And standing in it—was himself.
But older.
And smiling.
---
Lucien had backed away.
Then stepped forward again.
The reflection didn't move with him.
It watched.
> "What are you?" he asked.
> "You," it said. "If you say yes."
---
He never did say yes.
But he never said no either.
And the mirror remembered that.
---
Years later, he told Irena about the mirror. Just once.
She didn't laugh.
She only asked, "Did it hurt?"
Lucien hadn't known how to answer.
---
Now, in the cottage bed with Irena breathing softly beside him, the memory comes back sharp.
The pull.
The forest.
The not-quite-him.
---
He slips out from the covers.
The mirror above the dresser is fogged.
He wipes it.
It clears—not to his reflection, but to a scene that shouldn't be visible:
Elle.
Running.
She's barefoot. Her dress is torn. Her mouth is bleeding. But her eyes—gods, her eyes—they're exactly like Irena's were the first time she realized Mara had betrayed her.
Alive. Unmoored. Too full of light for this world.
---
He reaches toward the glass.
It's cold. Then warm. Then humming.
The mirror begins to ripple.
---
> "Don't," Irena says softly behind him.
Lucien turns. She's awake. Sitting up.
Eyes wide.
> "She's one of them," he says. "One of the shards."
> "I know."
> "She's scared."
> "They all are."
Lucien hesitates. "What do we do?"
> "We find the one who started the splitting."
> "Mara?"
Irena shakes her head.
> "No. Not just her. Someone gave her the mirror. Someone taught her how to use it."
> "You think it was me."
> "I think it might have been your reflection."
---
Lucien stares at her.
The room feels smaller. The mirror feels louder.
And the worst part?
She might be right.
---
Back at the manor, years ago, Lucien had found something hidden behind the mirror wall—a ledger. Names. Faces. Dates.
Experiments.
The mirror wasn't just a portal.
It was a prison.
And someone—maybe not his father, maybe not just Mara—had used it to copy people. Bend them. Break them. Bury the versions they didn't like.
---
He remembers one name, burned into the top of a page:
> Project: M.A.R.A.
(Mirror Adaptation: Refracted Archetype)
He never told Irena that.
But she saw it anyway.
In his silence.
In his guilt.
---
> "We need to go back," Lucien says.
> "To the manor?" Irena asks.
> "To the mirrors."
> "All of them?"
> "If they're still linked… if they're still alive... then that's where the final piece will be."
> "And the original Mara?"
Lucien's voice is a whisper. "Maybe she never left."
---
Outside, dawn peeks over the edge of the world. Pale and colorless.
Inside the mirror, Elle stops running.
Turns.
And smiles directly at Lucien.
---
> "You're late," she mouths.
---
He steps back.
The mirror fogs again.
Gone.
But Lucien knows what he saw.
And for the first time since he met Irena, he feels something shift in him—not just fear or guilt or love.
Resolve.
If the mirror has stolen versions of everyone else…
Then maybe it's time he stole something back.