Date: The 2nd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The Antechamber of Reflections, Imperial Palace.
If hell existed, Aanya was certain it looked exactly like this room.
The Eunuch had called it the "Antechamber of Reflections." It was a holding pen for the candidates, designed to let them check their appearances one last time before facing the Emperor.
The walls were not stone. They were glass. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors, framed in gilded silver, lined every inch of the hexagonal room. The ceiling, too, was a mosaic of mirrored tiles.
There was nowhere to look without seeing yourself.
For Lady Lysa and Lady Elin, this was a paradise. They twirled in front of the glass, admiring the sway of their silks, fixing stray curls, and practicing their curtsies.
For Aanya, it was a torture chamber.
She stood in the center of the room, stiff as a corpse. Everywhere she turned, she saw the Lie. A thousand reflections of a girl with a perfect, creamy right cheek stared back at her.
And underneath the resin, the scar was waking up.
It started as a tingle. The heat from the hallway had softened the glue just enough to irritate the damaged nerve endings. Now, as the resin cooled and contracted in the air-conditioned room, it began to pull.
Itched.
It was a maddening, deep-burrowing itch, like a thousand ants crawling beneath a layer of hardened wax.
Aanya's hand twitched at her side. Her fingernails dug into her palm.
Don't scratch, she screamed internally. If you scratch, you will peel the edge. If you peel the edge, the monster comes out.
She stared at her reflection. The violet eyes looked terrified, but the face looked serene. It was a disconnect that made her feel insane. She was screaming inside a statue.
"Move over," a sharp voice snapped.
Lady Lysa brushed past Riya, her wide golden skirts nearly knocking the younger girl over. Riya stumbled, catching herself on a chair.
"Watch where you're going!" Riya hissed, her face flushing red.
Lysa didn't even turn around. She adjusted her diamond necklace in the mirror. "I do not watch for furniture," Lysa said to her reflection. "And I certainly do not watch for the 'spare' sister. Honestly, why are you even here? The Emperor asked for beauty, not... whatever that dress is."
Riya looked down at her blue silk. It was expensive for a merchant, but compared to the Duke's daughter, it looked like a rag.
Riya looked at Aanya. Her eyes were pleading. Say something, her eyes begged. You are the favorite now. You are the beauty. Defend me.
Aanya's heart ached. She wanted to step forward. She wanted to tell Lysa to shut her mouth. She wanted to grab Riya's hand.
But her mother's voice was a vice around her throat.
Stay still. Do not speak unnecessary words. Every muscle movement risks the mask.
Aanya swallowed the words. She remained frozen, staring straight ahead, her face a mask of indifference.
Riya saw the hesitation. She saw the blank stare. And she misinterpreted it completely.
"You're just like them," Riya whispered, her voice trembling with betrayal. "You think you're better than me now because you have a painted face."
Riya turned her back on Aanya, marching to the corner of the room to sulk in the shadows.
Aanya felt a tear prick her eye. No, Riya. I'm not better. I'm just trapped.
"You are very quiet."
The voice came from close by. Too close.
Aanya stiffened. She didn't turn her head. She saw the reflection in the mirror before her.
Lady Mira, the General's niece, was standing right behind her.
Mira was different from the others. She wasn't looking at herself in the mirror. She was looking at Aanya. Her eyes were dark, calculating, and dangerously sharp.
"I have been watching you," Mira said softly, stepping around to face Aanya. She was tall, looming over her. "You stumbled in the hallway. You held your face."
"I... I felt faint," Aanya lied, her voice tight.
"Did you?" Mira tilted her head. She leaned in. "You have strange skin, Aanya of House Kael. I have seen many women. I have seen powder, rouge, lead paints. But your skin..."
Mira squinted.
"It doesn't breathe," Mira whispered. "Look at Lysa. She is glowing with a light sheen of sweat. It is hot in here. But you? You are matte. Like a doll."
Aanya stopped breathing. The itch under the mask roared, burning like fire.
"It is a rare powder from the East," Aanya said, taking a step back.
"Is it?" Mira took a step forward. "It looks smooth. Too smooth. I wonder what it feels like."
Before Aanya could react, Mira reached out. Her hand, calloused from holding a bow, moved toward Aanya's right cheek.
She's going to touch it, panic exploded in Aanya's chest. She's going to feel the rubber. She's going to feel the coldness.
If Mira touched her, it was over. The game, the family, the life—all of it ended.
Instinct took over. The instinct of a cornered animal.
SMACK.
The sound echoed sharply against the glass walls.
Aanya's hand had moved in a blur. She slapped Mira's hand away with a force that surprised them both.
The room went dead silent.
Lady Lysa stopped twirling. Lady Elin stopped humming. Riya looked up from the corner, mouth agape.
Lady Mira stood frozen, cradling her stung hand. Her eyes narrowed into slits. The air crackled with sudden violence.
"You struck me," Mira said, her voice low and dangerous. "You struck the niece of the High General."
Aanya stood there, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was terrified. She wanted to apologize. She wanted to beg for forgiveness.
But she couldn't. An apology was an admission of guilt. Weakness was death.
She had to be the Empress.
Aanya drew herself up to her full height. She lifted her chin, angling the "perfect" side of her face toward the light. She forced her eyes to go cold, channeling all her fear into a shield of icy arrogance.
"You forget your place, Lady Mira," Aanya said. Her voice didn't tremble. It was cold as steel.
"My place?" Mira hissed.
"You are a candidate," Aanya stated, looking down her nose at the taller girl. "You are not the Emperor. Only the Emperor may touch the royal merchandise."
She paused, letting the silence stretch.
"Do not presume to touch my face again with your common hands. Or I will have the guards remove them."
Mira stared at her. For a moment, it looked like she might strike back. But then, doubt crept into her eyes.
Aanya's confidence was absolute. Her face was unmoving, unreadable, perfect. It was the face of someone who knew she was going to win.
Mira lowered her hand. She stepped back, a flicker of intimidation crossing her face.
"My apologies," Mira muttered stiffly. "I did not know the merchant's daughter had claws."
"You would do well to remember it," Aanya said.
She turned away, dismissing Mira, dismissing the room. She stared back into the mirror.
In the reflection, she saw Riya staring at her. Riya didn't look impressed. She looked horrified. She looked at Aanya as if she were a stranger—a cold, cruel, arrogant stranger.
Aanya felt sick. The itch on her cheek was unbearable now.
I am sorry, Aanya screamed in her head. I am so sorry.
But on the outside, the reflection just stared back—beautiful, flawless, and utterly heartless.
The heavy oak doors swung open.
"The Emperor is ready," the Eunuch announced.
Aanya let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She had survived the room of mirrors. But she had lost her sister, and she had made an enemy.
She walked toward the doors, the itch burning under her skin, walking into the fire to meet her fate.