The Black Palace was too quiet.
Silence lay heavy over its spires and courtyards, a silence not of peace, but of breath held in fear. The night itself seemed to crouch just beyond the walls, waiting to hear what the palace would whisper next.
Servants moved through the corridors like ghosts, their candles guttering though no wind stirred. Since the last night's strange light and shattering glass, no one dared to look directly into a mirror. Sheets of dark cloth hung over every surface that might reflect a face.
But Aradia could feel them watching her.
Each mirror hummed softly when she passed, veils trembling as if they recognized their mistress. The air shivered with quiet whispers — nothing anyone else could hear, but to her, they were words.
"Sister…"
"Aradia…"
"The fire remembers…"
She wrapped her shawl tighter. Her pulse throbbed in her palm where the sigil had burned itself into her skin. The connection between her and the emperor grew stronger with each passing hour — a thread of heat that pulled taut whenever he dreamed.
Caspian's voice curled from her grimoire, faint but sharp.
"The palace sings again. Can you hear it, little witch? The mirrors hum your name."
"I'm listening," she murmured.
"Careful. The palace doesn't sing for free. It hungers."
Aradia ignored him and continued down the corridor leading to the Mirror Hall. The great doors loomed at the end — chained, sealed, and marked with runes of warding. Even from afar, she could feel their pull, like a heartbeat under her feet.
She reached out and brushed the chain. Silver light flared from the sigil on her hand, and the metal snapped like brittle twigs.
The door swung open with a low groan.
Dust drifted in the air, glittering faintly under the weak moonlight filtering through tall arched windows. The hall stretched endlessly, lined with mirrors from floor to ceiling — all veiled in black silk.
The cold hit her immediately, seeping into her bones. Her breath turned to mist.
She stepped forward.
With each step, the veils swayed as though invisible hands brushed past them. Beneath the fabric, faint movements shimmered — shapes pressing against the glass from the other side.
Aradia stopped before the first uncovered mirror. The veil had fallen away. The surface was fogged, but a faint reflection glimmered through the haze.
At first she thought it was herself — until the reflection lifted its hand when she did not.
And then she saw him.
Lucien.
He stood on the other side of the mirror, far away yet close enough that she could see the strain in his jaw, the fatigue around his eyes. He was in his own hall, bathed in golden candlelight, dressed in the same black tunic he wore in her memories of the pyre.
He stared into his mirror as if searching for someone.
"Why do you haunt me?" he murmured.
His voice was soft, broken — and she heard it clearly, as though the glass between them were no barrier at all.
Her lips parted. "You burned me once," she whispered back.
The mirror rippled violently.
Lucien flinched, his head snapping up. His eyes — silver-gray, storm-bright — locked on her. For one impossible moment, the mirror ceased to separate them.
He could see her.
The air vibrated. The veils of the other mirrors fluttered, a thousand whispers rising like a wind.
"He remembers…"
Aradia's heart lurched. She turned and fled, her footsteps echoing down the marble hall. Behind her, the veils lifted one by one, the sound of their movement like sighs of longing.
She didn't stop running until she reached the lower servant quarters. Her chest heaved; sweat beaded her brow though the corridors were freezing.
She pressed her back against the wall, hands shaking.
"You saw him again," Caspian said softly, his voice curling through the air like smoke.
"Yes."
"And?"
"He spoke. He remembers pieces. He doesn't know why, but the name burns him."
"Of course it does. You left your mark on his soul."
Aradia closed her eyes. "He's waking too soon."
"Or maybe you are."
She pushed away from the wall. The whispering had stopped. The palace had gone eerily still, as if holding its breath.
When she reached her room, she looked into the tiny shard she kept hidden under her pillow. It shimmered faintly, showing the emperor's reflection — kneeling before his own mirror, his expression twisted with confusion and fear.
"Remember me," she whispered.
His reflection looked up.
And for an instant, she thought he did.
In his private chamber, Emperor Lucien did not sleep.
He sat alone in the dark, staring at the fractured surface of the great mirror across from his bed. The glass was spiderwebbed with cracks — from his own hand earlier that night — but the cracks glowed faintly, veins of soft silver light running through them like embers trapped in stone.
Every breath felt heavy. Each heartbeat echoed faintly through the air, as though it belonged to someone else.
He closed his eyes. The woman's whisper lingered still: You burned me once.
When he opened his eyes again, his reflection smiled at him.
He hadn't moved.
The smile was faint — sorrowful, knowing.
Then it vanished.
Lucien rose, heart pounding. "Who are you?"
Only silence answered.
He tore down the cloths covering the rest of the mirrors in his chamber, one after another. Dozens of his own faces stared back at him, some slightly delayed in movement — reflections that didn't match.
The room filled with soft whispers. He couldn't make out the words, but they made his skin crawl.
"Aradia…"
He froze. The voice came from behind him.
He turned. No one.
But the mirror behind him rippled, showing a figure moving closer — a woman cloaked in shadow, silver light bleeding from her fingertips.
Lucien's throat tightened. "Show yourself."
The reflection obeyed. The veil fell away.
Her face was pale and unfamiliar, yet something deep in his chest clenched. His mind whispered a name he didn't know he knew.
"Aradia."
The mirror exploded outward.
Down below, Aradia jerked upright in her bed. Her hand burned, searing pain running up her arm. The shard she had hidden glowed fiercely, showing the shattered reflection of Lucien's mirror.
Caspian's laughter rang out low and sharp.
"You've done it now, little witch. You've crossed your tether."
"I didn't mean—"
"Intent means nothing to curses. You think magic listens? It hungers."
She wrapped her bleeding hand in cloth. The air trembled again; the veils outside her door fluttered.
Dozens of voices whispered at once — soft, pleading, familiar.
"Sister, why did you wake us?"
"The flame sleeps best forgotten."
"He dreams of the pyre again."
Aradia opened the door slowly. The corridor was awash in silver light.
Every mirror had unveiled itself. Shadows moved within them — faint outlines of women, faces half-burned, their mouths moving in silent chorus.
"You shouldn't have touched him," they said. "The pyre remembers."
"I need him to remember too," she whispered.
"Then you will burn again."
Aradia's hands shook. Her power itched under her skin. "Let it burn. I'll burn first this time."
The air erupted in motion. The mirrors screamed — a shrill, metallic sound that set her teeth on edge. Blue-white fire spilled across their surfaces, chasing itself in circles.
Aradia raised her hand, summoning the old language of flame. Her blood answered. Silver light burst from her palm, slicing through the air like lightning.
The sound shattered into silence.
When she lowered her hand, every mirror in sight had gone still. The veils hung motionless. Her body trembled from the effort, sweat slick on her brow.
Caspian's voice slithered through the smoke.
"You've awakened the hall, witch. The palace won't sleep again."
She leaned against the wall, panting. "Good. Let it remember."
Far above, the emperor stood amidst shards of glass, breathing hard. The guards who rushed in dared not look at him directly — the air around him shimmered, pulsing faintly with heat.
"Seal the mirrors," Lucien ordered, his voice hollow. "All of them."
"Your Majesty—"
"Now."
When they left, he stared at the broken pieces littering the floor. Among them, a single shard still glowed faintly blue. Within it, he thought he saw her eyes again — violet, luminous, impossible.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
The shard pulsed once, as if answering, and the glow went out.
At dawn, the palace was eerily calm. Servants whispered prayers to ward off evil, though most had forgotten which gods still listened.
Aradia sat by her narrow window, watching the sun bleed over the horizon. Her burned palm throbbed in rhythm with the pulse in her chest.
Caspian's voice drifted lazily from her book.
"The more he remembers, the stronger you grow. But remember—strength isn't mercy."
Aradia traced a finger over her palm. "And mercy isn't justice."
"No," Caspian agreed. "But it's what makes curses interesting."
She looked toward the upper towers where the emperor's chambers glowed faintly in the new light.
"Soon," she whispered. "He'll remember everything."
And somewhere high above, Lucien stirred from a restless sleep, whispering the same word she had — though he didn't know why.
"Soon."