The air inside the ancient manor was thicker than the storm clouds gathering outside. Shadows clung to the stone walls like they feared the lightning, and every creak of the wooden beams above echoed like the sigh of a forgotten soul.
Liana stood alone in the corridor, her palm pressed against the cold, rough surface of the wall. Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, each breath burning her throat. The whispers had grown louder today—closer, sharper—as if someone was breathing against the back of her neck.
//"Amara… you cannot run from yourself."
Her fingers curled into a fist. That name again. Amara. She had been hearing it for weeks now, sometimes in dreams, sometimes while awake. At first, she thought it was a trick of her imagination—a fragment of a nightmare that refused to fade. But tonight, it sounded different. Heavier. Real.
Her heart thudded violently as she turned toward the far end of the corridor, where the torchlight trembled uncertainly. "Who's there?" she demanded, her voice steadier than she felt.
Silence answered. The kind of silence that mocked.
She hated it. She hated the way the world seemed to know something about her that she herself didn't. The strange looks from servants, the fragmented memories that slipped into her mind without warning, the cruel little twists of fate that pushed her into danger again and again.
But most of all, she hated the doubt gnawing at her chest—what if the whispers were right?
Her grip tightened on the dagger strapped beneath her cloak. Ever since the marriage that tied her to this household, she had been treated like both treasure and curse. Half the people bowed in awe of her presence, the other half spat under their breaths when they thought she wasn't listening.
And through it all, there was him.
The man everyone thought was her destined partner, her protector, her male lead in this twisted tale. He was handsome, sharp-tongued, and endlessly calculating. He played his role too well, so convincingly that even she had almost fallen for the illusion.
But every time his fingers brushed hers, every time his lips curved in a smile meant to charm, something inside her recoiled. Something whispered, not him.
Lightning cracked outside, painting the corridor in stark white light. For an instant, she saw a figure reflected in the window opposite her. A tall silhouette, watching.
She spun around, but the hallway was empty.
Her blood chilled. No—there was someone there. She knew it. She felt the weight of unseen eyes, lingering with a strange intensity that was nothing like the others. Not mocking, not judging—searching.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. She moved forward, each step echoing on the stone floor. The storm outside roared, thunder shaking the ground as though the heavens themselves were warning her away.
But she couldn't stop.
She needed to know.
---
She pushed open the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor and stepped into the library. The scent of old parchment and ink struck her senses, mingling with the faint metallic tang of rain carried in through the cracked windows.
The torches here were nearly extinguished, their glow reduced to pale embers. Shadows pooled thick in the corners, swallowing everything they touched.
And in the middle of the room—she froze.
A mirror.
Tall, gilded, and cracked across the surface. The same mirror she had seen before in her scattered dreams.
Her breath hitched.
Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, carrying her closer to the fractured glass. And there, amidst the jagged lines of broken reflection, she saw her face.
But it wasn't just her face.
Her reflection's lips curved into a smile she hadn't made. Her reflection's eyes glowed faintly gold, filled with secrets she didn't want to know.
// "Amara," the reflection whispered, its voice overlapping with her own. "You cannot keep hiding behind a borrowed name."
Her body trembled. The dagger slipped slightly from her grasp. "I'm not her. I'm not Amara," she whispered, more to herself than to the image. "I'm Liana. I've always been—"
But the lie faltered. Because deep inside, she knew it wasn't the truth.
Her reflection tilted its head, gaze softening. "Then why do you remember the fire?"
And suddenly, her mind was not her own.
The library vanished. The storm, the torches, the cracked mirror—all dissolved into ash. In their place came a memory she had never lived, but felt etched into her bones.
A burning temple.
Screams tearing through the night.
Her own hands, bloodied, reaching out toward someone she loved—and failing to save them.
Her knees buckled. Pain ripped through her skull as she fought against the tide of images. "Stop! Please—stop!"
But the past didn't care for her pleas. It swallowed her whole.
---
When she came back to herself, she was sprawled on the floor, drenched in sweat. The mirror stood silent, its reflection once again her own pale, terrified face.
Her dagger clattered beside her.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she pushed herself up. She wanted to run, to leave the cursed room behind, but her body refused. Something in her heart told her this was only the beginning—that running wouldn't save her anymore.
A faint creak made her head snap up.
The library door was ajar. Someone was standing just beyond the threshold.
The shadows concealed their face, but she saw the outline of broad shoulders, the steady stance of someone who wasn't afraid of storms or cursed mirrors.
Her throat tightened.
It wasn't him—the man everyone thought was her fated match. She knew his silhouette too well, the sharp arrogance in his posture.
This was different. Calmer. Stronger. More real.
The figure didn't move closer. They just… watched.
And though she couldn't see their eyes, she felt it—the undeniable pull, the way her chest ached as if she had been waiting for this presence all along.
Her lips parted, words escaping before she could think. "Who… are you?"
The storm outside silenced as though holding its breath.
But the figure didn't answer.
Not yet.
---
The storm outside had dimmed, but the air in the library thickened with an unnatural weight. Every heartbeat thundered in Liana's ears as she stared at the figure half-shrouded by the door. The torches sputtered, their flames bowing to an invisible force that seemed to radiate from him.
Her instinct screamed danger, yet some deeper part of her—the part that trembled at the name Amara—whispered otherwise.
The figure finally stepped forward.
Liana's breath caught.
The light revealed only fragments: the sharp line of a jaw, the glint of eyes that seemed older than the stones in the manor, and a cloak dampened by rain, droplets sliding onto the wooden floor.
But before she could demand answers, the door behind him slammed open.
"Liana!"
Her supposed husband—the man the world believed to be her male lead—stormed into the library. His presence was like fire forced into a confined space: suffocating, aggressive, unrelenting.
He glanced at her, then at the cloaked figure, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "You."
The air crackled between them, heavy with unspoken history.
Liana's chest tightened. She looked from one to the other, the pieces of her fractured reality grinding painfully against each other. "Do you… know him?"
Neither answered her. Instead, they moved.
Her supposed protector lunged forward, steel flashing in his hand. The cloaked figure sidestepped with fluid precision, as if he had anticipated the attack long before it came. The clash of their blades rang out, sharper than thunder, filling the library with sparks of violence.
Liana stumbled back, her heart racing. The cracked mirror behind her pulsed faintly, as though feeding on their battle. Every strike, every parry, seemed to draw something out of her—memories, emotions, things she couldn't yet name.
The cloaked man's voice finally broke the silence. Deep, steady, commanding. "She is not yours."
Her supposed husband snarled. "She is bound to me by fate. By law. By power you cannot break."
The cloaked man's blade caught the light, a glimmer like dawn piercing the shadows. "Then fate itself is a liar."
Their blades met again, the impact shaking dust from the shelves. Ancient books toppled, pages scattering like desperate whispers.
Liana pressed a trembling hand to her chest. She wanted to scream, to demand the truth, but her voice felt trapped behind the walls of her fear. The storm roared back to life outside, lightning striking so close the windows rattled violently.
Her gaze fell to the cracked mirror.
It was glowing.
Her reflection no longer mimicked her movements—it was smiling again, golden eyes watching with eerie calm.
//"Choose, Amara," it whispered. "Whose truth will you believe?"
The floor shook as another clash of steel rang out. One of the men—she couldn't even tell who anymore—crashed into a bookshelf, splintering wood and raining parchment down like feathers.
Her legs moved on their own. She reached for her fallen dagger, her breath sharp and shallow.
"Stop!" she cried, forcing her voice to rise above the chaos.
Both men froze mid-strike.
Their gazes turned toward her, one filled with possessive fury, the other with unyielding resolve.
And for the first time, she realized something terrifying.
She wasn't just caught between them.
They were fighting because of her.
Because of who she was.
Or rather—who she used to be.
The mirror pulsed brighter, the golden light spilling across the floor until it touched her boots. Her skin burned where the glow reached her, but it wasn't pain—it was recognition.
Memories surged again. The temple aflame. A vow whispered beneath the stars. A blade piercing her chest, not once, but twice—betrayal and sacrifice blurred together.
Her knees buckled as she clutched her head.
The cloaked man's voice cut through the haze, sharp and unrelenting. "Remember, Amara. Remember who you are."
Her supposed husband's roar followed, equally fierce. "Don't listen! You're mine, Liana! You've always been mine!"
Her vision fractured. She saw herself through two lives, two names, two destinies tearing at her soul.
Liana.
Amara.
Which was real?
The storm outside split the sky with a final, deafening crack. The mirror shattered completely, shards exploding outward, each fragment carrying a sliver of her reflection.
The glow engulfed the library, and in that blinding light, Liana heard her own voice scream a name—she didn't even know which one.
---
When the light faded, silence fell.
The library lay in ruins, the mirror destroyed, books scattered like corpses across the floor.
And in the center of it all, Liana stood trembling, the dagger still in her grip.
Both men were still there. One kneeling, blood trickling from a wound at his shoulder. The other standing firm, his blade lowered but his gaze locked on her.
And in her chest, a terrible certainty bloomed.
This was only the beginning.
---
The silence after the storm was almost unbearable. Only the ragged sound of Liana's breathing filled the ruined library, the scent of smoke and iron thick in the air.
She stared at the two men before her—one kneeling, clutching his shoulder where blood seeped through his clothes, the other standing tall, blade lowered but aura unyielding.
For the first time, she realized that both of them carried truths sharp enough to cut her apart.
Her supposed husband's eyes, usually burning with arrogance, now smoldered with desperation. "Liana," he rasped, his voice breaking in a way she had never heard. "You belong here. To me. Don't let that stranger poison you with lies."
The cloaked man remained silent. He didn't plead, didn't justify. His gaze simply held hers—steady, calm, unshakable. It was the kind of look that said: I will wait, no matter how long it takes.
Her hands trembled as she tightened her grip on the dagger. The weight of her choices pressed down, threatening to crush her.
"Why me?" she whispered hoarsely. "Why is it always me?"
Neither man answered.
Instead, her reflection answered—though the mirror lay shattered on the floor, its shards still glowed faintly, and in them, she saw dozens of fragments of herself staring back.
Some were Liana.
Some were Amara.
All of them carried the same question in their eyes.
Who was she?
---
A sudden noise jolted her from her thoughts—the pounding of boots echoing from the hall. Guards. Servants. The household had heard the storm, the battle, the shattering mirror.
The kneeling man struggled to his feet, fury hardening his expression again. "They will come for him," he said, jerking his chin toward the cloaked figure. "They'll brand him an intruder. A threat. If you don't stand with me, Liana, they'll kill him."
The words stabbed deeper than his blade ever could.
Because they weren't a lie.
She looked at the cloaked man, waiting for him to deny it, to offer some reassurance. But he only said one thing—his voice low, steady, and cutting through the chaos in her chest:
"Truth is worth bleeding for. Even if it costs everything."
Her throat constricted.
The door behind them rattled—fists pounding, voices shouting. The storm wasn't outside anymore. It was here. It was her.
She had to decide.
Her body trembled violently, her pulse racing faster than thought. She wanted to scream, to tear free from both fates pressing against her, but she knew one thing with terrifying clarity:
Whatever choice she made now would change everything.
---
The door burst open.
Dozens of guards flooded into the room, swords drawn, torches flaring. Their eyes locked on the cloaked figure instantly, shouts filling the air. "Seize him!"
The cloaked man didn't flinch. He stood still, gaze never leaving hers.
Her supposed husband smirked, bloodied but defiant. "Choose, Liana. Now."
Time slowed. The world narrowed to the space between the three of them.
Her dagger weighed heavier than any blade should. Her breath came shallow, uneven.
And then—she moved.
---
The library erupted into chaos.
Steel clashed, voices shouted, but she barely registered any of it. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heart, the echo of her reflection's whisper still haunting her.
Amara.
Liana.
Both. Neither. Everything.
Her choice tore through the room like lightning.
And though the storm outside had ended, a new one had just begun.
---
⚡ QUESTION ⚡❓️❓️❓️❓️
Who will Liana's choice truly bind her to—the man the world insists is her fate, or the stranger whose silent gaze carries the weight of a forgotten past?