In the royal bedchamber, the air was still.
Golden drapes fluttered faintly with the breeze, but inside, all movement had ceased — except for the gentle rise and fall of Elira's chest.
She lay motionless on the velvet-draped bed, her skin pale, eyes shut tight. Her hands were folded over her stomach, her brow slightly creased as if she were locked in a dream she couldn't wake from.
Around her, tension hung thick.
"Elira," Elric murmured from the edge of the bed, his voice tight with frustration and fear. "Just… wake up. Please."
He'd been there for hours, refusing to leave.
The healers had come and gone, muttering in confused tones, whispering over ancient scrolls, performing every test known to the royal physicians — and yet they could find nothing physically wrong with her.
"She's unhurt," one of the elder healers had said earlier, bowing low. "No fever. No poison. No injury. But her mind…" He had trailed off, troubled. "It's as if her consciousness has... wandered."
Elric had clenched his fists. "Wandered where?"
No one had an answer.
Now, Queen Lysandra stood at the back of the room, arms crossed, her black robes silent as shadow. She said nothing as she watched her son's jaw tighten, his hand gently holding Elira's limp one.
"She was fine last night," Elric muttered, more to himself than anyone. "She was arguing with you. Asking questions. Stubborn as ever."
"Sometimes," Queen Lysandra said at last, her voice like winter air, "those with a tie to the mirror are more vulnerable to shifts in realms. Especially if someone on the outside… pulls."
He looked up sharply. "You think this is Malveric's doing?"
"I believe it's possible," she said. "This feels like mirror magic — but not the kind rooted in reflection. This is layered. Mental. Illusory."
"Can you bring her back?"
Lysandra's eyes narrowed. "Not yet. I don't know where she is."
Elric turned back to Elira and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "You've faced dragons. Curses. Me. And now you're stuck in a dream?"
His voice cracked.
"Of all things..."