The Duke did not walk quickly.
That, more than anything, unsettled me.
He moved through the citadel as if time itself adjusted to his pace—guards stepping aside before he reached them, doors opening a breath too early, banners hanging still as though they feared rustling in his presence.
We passed corridors I had never seen before. Not secret passages—those had a certain theatrical arrogance to them—but forgotten ones. Hallways without polish. Stone that drank light instead of reflecting it. No glass. No crystal. No metal smooth enough to hold an image.
My Golden Eye throbbed.
Not with hunger.
With discomfort.
It was like being blindfolded by a sense that had never known darkness.
"You feel it," my father said without looking back.
I hesitated. "The Eye… doesn't like this place."
"That's because it can't listen here," he replied.
We stopped before a door so plain it felt offensive inside a citadel built on symbols. No sigils. No runes. Just old iron bands and wood scarred by time.
The Duke pressed his palm against it.
The door opened without a sound.
Inside—
The room was wrong.
Not hostile. Not dark.
Wrong.
There were torches on the walls, but their light refused to shine evenly. Shadows didn't obey objects. A pillar cast two shadows in different directions. A chair cast none at all.
At the center stood a stone table. On it, a bowl of water.
The surface was perfectly still.
I stepped closer instinctively, then stopped.
The water did not reflect me.
Not darkness. Not blur.
Nothing.
As if the concept of me failed to register.
"This room predates the council," my father said, closing the door behind us. "Predates the academy. Predates the Compact of Glass."
I swallowed. "Then why does it exist?"
He finally turned to face me.
"Because mirrors were not always trusted."
The words settled heavily.
I looked around again. "So this is—what? Protection?"
"A refusal," he corrected. "This room does not reject magic. It rejects permission."
My chest tightened.
"Permission to what?"
"To be seen."
Silence stretched between us.
I realized something then—something subtle and horrifying.
The Master did not force his way into worlds.
He was allowed.
"You said demons wait to be named guests," I murmured.
My father's eyes sharpened. "I said that?"
"You implied it."
He studied me for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.
"Yes," he said. "That is how it works."
He gestured toward the table. "Sit."
I did.
The chair scraped softly, but the sound felt delayed—as if the room took a moment to decide whether to allow it.
My father remained standing.
"You cracked the mirror," he said.
"I didn't mean to."
"That makes it worse."
I clenched my hands. "Then why wasn't I stopped?"
The Duke didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was lower.
"Because stopping you too early creates martyrs."
Cold ran through me.
"How many?" I asked.
He didn't pretend not to understand.
"Travelers appear every few centuries," he said. "Not many. Enough to be remembered. Enough to be feared."
"Feared by whom?"
"By the system," he said simply. "By councils. By mirrors."
I leaned forward. "And by you?"
For the first time, something like weariness crossed his face.
"Yes."
The word carried no shame.
"You're not the first 'unstable,'" he continued. "The mirror's language hasn't changed in a thousand years."
My mouth felt dry. "What happened to the others?"
His jaw tightened.
"That," he said, "is not information I give to someone who has not yet chosen."
"Chosen what?"
"Whether you want to exist… or act."
I frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"It will," he said. "When you understand the cost."
The bowl of water on the table rippled.
Not from movement.
From attention.
I stared at it.
For half a heartbeat—
The water reflected a corridor of black glass.
Seven arches.
A sword raised.
Emily.
I recoiled.
The image vanished.
My father watched me closely. "You saw something."
"Yes," I said. "And you knew I would."
He nodded once. "She is close to you."
"She's her own person," I snapped.
He didn't argue.
"That's what makes her dangerous."
My fists tightened. "To whom?"
"To the mirror," he said. "To the Master. To you."
I stood abruptly. "You're talking about people like they're objects."
He stepped forward.
"Then listen carefully," he said, voice firm but not unkind. "Objects break. People invite."
He reached into his coat and withdrew a small iron key.
Old. Unmarked.
He placed it on the table.
"The council mirror opens from the inside," he said. "I've been keeping it locked for thirty years."
My breath caught. "Why show me this now?"
"Because it already cracked," he said. "And because the Master has noticed you."
I stared at the key.
"If I take this…"
"You'll lose protection," he said calmly. "If you stay under me, you'll lose agency."
A choice.
Not a trap.
Worse.
"What did the last one choose?" I asked.
His eyes flickered.
"Obedience."
The word felt like a gravestone.
"And?" I pressed.
"And he obeyed," my father said. "Until there was nothing left of him that could refuse."
Silence fell.
I looked at my hands.
At the blood beneath my fingernails from gripping the mirror shard earlier.
"I won't open the Eye for you," I said.
The Duke's lips curved slightly.
Not amused.
Proud.
"Good," he said. "If you had, I would've known I failed again."
Again.
That word burned.
I straightened. "Then I choose to act."
He accepted it too easily.
"That was never in doubt," he said. "But understand this—if you fail, I will not save you."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
He nodded.
As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.
"The Master doesn't want you dead."
I froze.
"He wants you finished," my father continued. "A story completed cannot resist edits."
I didn't turn back.
Outside the room, the citadel felt louder. Brighter. Wrong.
As I walked away, a realization settled like ash in my lungs:
The mirror that didn't break was not the greatest danger.
It was the one that had been quietly keeping something all along.
Elsewhere
Emily stood alone in her quarters.
A simple bowl of water sat on her desk.
She stared into it.
For half a second—
Her reflection blinked late.
She frowned.
The water stilled.
Normal again.
She exhaled, unaware that the system had just taken note of her name.
To be continued…