The Mirror That Burns

We didn't speak again that night. Not because there was nothing to say—but because silence, for once, felt like a language we both understood.

Shira stayed beside me. Not close enough to touch. But not leaving either.

Like she was relearning the shape of our presence.

The next morning, Ronan found us sitting just like that—still and wordless in the blue light of dawn.

He didn't say anything at first.

Just crouched nearby and poured tea into two cracked cups, handing one to each of us without comment.

But his gaze lingered on me a little too long. And when I looked up, he looked away.

Something in his eyes had changed.

Not suspicion.

Recognition.

But not the kind I was ready to confirm.

Not yet.

—------

As we traveled north again, away from the temple, the world began to shift. Not the terrain—but the way it looked to me.

Everything felt sharper. More dangerous. Like the truth had peeled a layer from my skin and left me raw.

Every time I looked at Shira now, I didn't just see the fighter. I saw the part of me that could've been different—had fate placed us in each other's shoes.

Would she have survived the court the way I had?

Would I have survived the wilderness the way she did?

I wasn't sure.

But I knew one thing:

We shouldn't have had to.

—-------

At midday, we passed an abandoned watchtower.

Its stones had been melted from the inside—traces of Echo fire still lingered in the cracks. Ronan paused there longer than the rest of us.

His jaw clenched. His hand hovered near his sword hilt.

He hadn't said a word about what he saw in the mirror.

But I knew.

Because he hadn't called me Lyara once since then.

Only "you." Or nothing at all.

—-----

That evening, I opened the journal again.

There was one more entry I hadn't noticed before—buried between two sketches. Almost like it had been hidden on purpose.

"I loved them both. The child of my body and the child of my choice. But love is not always protection. Sometimes it's the knife you hide behind your smile."

I stared at that line until my eyes burned.

Elaine had tried.

She had failed.

And now we were walking the edge of her failure—hoping not to fall into the same ruin.

—-------

The fire crackled low that night. The wind had teeth, and the stars above felt too sharp, like they were watching.

I sat alone, tracing lines in the dirt with the hilt of my knife. I didn't expect him to join me.

But he did.

Ronan didn't say a word as he lowered himself onto the log beside me. We sat like that for a while, both staring at nothing.

Finally, he asked, quietly, "How long have you been carrying her?"

The question stunned me. Not because he said it—but because of how gently he did.

I didn't answer right away.

"I don't know," I said at last. "Sometimes it feels like she's always been there. Like... I was born with her shadow inside me."

He looked at me sideways. "She's not a shadow."

"No," I said. "She's a mirror."

He was silent again.

Then, softly: "In the temple, I saw something. Just for a second."

I held my breath.

"Not Lyara," he continued. "Not exactly. It was like watching a flame flicker between two faces. Yours. And hers. One familiar. One forgotten."

His words made something in me ache.

I didn't deny it.

I didn't lie.

"I don't know who I am when I look in that mirror," I whispered. "I just know... I don't want to be what Velkhar made me."

Ronan's brow furrowed. "He made you?"

I hesitated. Then nodded. "In a way. He made Lyara, at least. And now I'm left carrying her bones."

"You're not just carrying her," he said. "You're fighting to become more than her."

That surprised me.

But what surprised me more was how much I wanted to believe him.

—---------

Later, when the others slept, Shira slipped away from camp.

I followed.

Not because I didn't trust her.

But because something in her posture had changed. She wasn't just walking—she was listening. Hunting.

We ended up near a broken rise, just out of view of the tents. From the shadow of the stone, I watched her press a hand to the earth. As if feeling for something.

And then—voices.

Faint. Like echoes in a cracked bell.

Shira crouched low.

Velkhar's voice filtered through the night—not physically present, but speaking through one of the mirror shards Serra had stashed in her bag.

We hadn't known Serra was still in contact.

Until now.

> "They're close," Velkhar said. His voice was like silk stretched too tight. "The mirror showed her the truth, didn't it?"

Serra didn't answer at first. Her fingers curled around the shard.

Her mouth opened—then closed.

When she spoke, her voice was steadier than her hands.

Then:

> "I don't think she knows what to do with it. She's unraveling."

> "Good. Let her break. Let the pieces want something. That's how we reshape them." The words struck me harder than a blade. Because part of me had wanted.

Wanted peace. Wanted Ronan. Wanted answers.

And now I saw how even wanting could be used against me.

Shira's hand curled into a fist. Her shoulders trembled.

I couldn't move. Could barely breathe.

> "What of the prince?" Serra asked. "He's getting too close."

> "He believes it's Lyara he loves," Velkhar said. "Let him. That makes his heart ripe for sacrifice."

My stomach turned.

> "We're still on schedule," Velkhar continued. "The Fulcrum opens in three days. The mirror must see love, suffering, and surrender. One will burn. One will rise. The other... will bleed."

The shard dimmed.

Serra tucked it back into her cloak and vanished into the dark.

Shira didn't move.

I stepped forward only when I saw her shoulders drop—like she'd exhaled everything at once and still couldn't fill her lungs again.

"They're using us," she said.

I nodded.

"I should've known," she added. "About Serra. About all of it."

"You couldn't have."

But she didn't believe me.

And neither did I.

—--------

The next day, tension hung over us like fog.

Serra avoided my eyes. Ronan stayed close—but didn't push. And Shira… Shira didn't speak at all.

Until we reached the ridge.

From up there, we could see the broken lands of the Fulcrum's edge: glass-like sands that rippled with buried power. The place where the old kingdom of the Echo had once stood—now only fragments, swallowed by time.

Shira stopped walking.

"Tell him," she said, voice hoarse.

I turned. "What?"

She nodded toward Ronan. "He deserves to know."

Ronan blinked. "Know what?"

I opened my mouth.

Then closed it again.

Because I wasn't ready.

Not to say it.

Not to lose whatever fragile thread still tied him to me.

Shira looked at me, then looked at him. And with quiet steel, she said:

"She's not Lyara."

Ronan froze.

His jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in memory.

Like he already knew.

He stepped toward me, slowly.

"Then who are you?"

I didn't answer.

Because my name had never felt so heavy.

—-------

The silence cracked like thunder.

He didn't demand. Didn't shout.

Just waited.

So I gave him what little I had.

"I was Adelaine. Before the mirror. Before the fire. Before Solmira fell. But Lyara's face—her memories—they're inside me now. And some days… I don't know which of us is speaking."

His throat worked.

But he didn't back away.

Instead, he whispered, "Then speak now. As you."

So I did.

"I didn't ask for this," I said. "But I will carry it. I'll carry her, and the lies, and the war. But I won't let Velkhar use my heart to break the world."

Something flickered in his eyes.

Pride. Maybe.

Or something gentler.

He stepped forward, then paused—his hand lifted halfway, fingers curling inward like a question.

He met my eyes.

I didn't pull away.

And only then did he take my hand.

"You're not broken," he said.

"You're choosing to live in pieces—until you can be whole again."

And somehow, I believed him.

—-------

But peace doesn't last long in stories like ours.

That night, when the stars turned red, and the wind shifted—

The first warning flare streaked the sky.

A sign from one of our scouts.

Too late.

By the time we looked back, the sand behind us was already boiling.

Dozens of them—glass-skinned beasts, molded by Echo magic and sent to test the edge of our resolve.

We didn't have time to run.

Only to choose:

Stand.

Or scatter.

Shira drew her blade.

Ronan unsheathed his.

And I—

I reached inside myself and whispered a name that wasn't mine.

But that answered anyway.

Because Lyara was still there.

And she was ready to fight.

Even if it meant burning again.

Even if it meant bleeding for me.

—-------

➤ 

Ronan knew. 

Velkhar knew. 

And now… so did I. 

Only one soul would survive the Fulcrum. 

But tonight, the Echo came first. 

And we weren't ready. 

[ → Prepare for Chapter 15 ]