By morning, the palace had learned to whisper again.
Servants spoke in lowered voices, skirting the subject of shattered mirrors and blue fire. Every corridor hummed with half-truths. The nobles blamed the wind; the priests blamed sin.
Head Servant Maera blamed her.
Aradia felt the suspicion before she heard it. The maids who once smiled now crossed themselves when she passed. The kitchen hands left their tasks to stare after her, whispering about "the girl whose eyes glow in the dark."
She'd survived burning once — she would survive this. But she could not afford to draw more eyes.
When Maera called her name that afternoon, the air itself went still.
"Mira," Maera said, drawing out the false name like a blade. "You'll explain these scorch marks."
Aradia followed her to the east wing corridor, where faint black streaks climbed the stone near her quarters. They looked like smoke fingerprints, reaching upward.
Maera folded her arms. "The priests say the curse walks here. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
"No, Mistress."
"Strange." Maera's gaze was flinty. "They begin near your door."
Aradia forced a calm smile. "The lamps here burn too low. Sometimes the soot gathers."
Maera's nostrils flared. "Or perhaps the servants grow careless."
She leaned closer. Aradia caught the faint scent of vinegar and lavender — the same blend used to cleanse altars after exorcisms. Maera had been praying.
"Clean it," Maera said. "All of it. Before the evening bell."
"Yes, Mistress."
Maera's eyes lingered. "And Mira—if I find another mark, I'll assume you've been playing with forbidden candles. The last girl who did that is still coughing ash in the infirmary."
Aradia bowed. "Understood."
When Maera left, Aradia waited until her footsteps faded. Then she whispered, "Caspian."
"I'm listening," came the familiar curl of his voice from her hidden grimoire.
"She's watching me."
"Of course she is. Power makes people suspicious. Even the powerless."
"She'll send someone to spy."
"Then give them something to find."
Aradia stared at the scorch marks. "What do you suggest?"
"A trick. A lie that looks like truth. You were always good at those."
She smiled faintly, bitterly. "I learned from the best."
"Flatterer."
That evening, Aradia waited until the servants retired to the kitchens. She drew a small pouch from beneath her pillow — fine gray powder glimmered within: illusion dust, a residue of her own shattered mirror from the night before.
She whispered a phrase in the old tongue and blew gently across the marks on the wall. The black streaks shimmered, then softened to a dull gray, harmless as candle soot.
To anyone watching, it would look ordinary — but to her eyes, faint threads of silver swirled beneath the surface, weaving a ward of concealment.
When she finished, the corridor smelled faintly of ash and roses.
A soft voice startled her. "You missed a spot."
Aradia turned sharply. A young maid stood in the doorway — short, pale, her hair a tangled knot of brown. She held a bucket in one hand, eyes downcast.
"Lysa," Aradia said, recognizing her from the laundry hall. "You shouldn't be here."
Lysa shifted uneasily. "Mistress Maera said to… keep watch. Make sure you weren't hiding anything."
Aradia's lips curved faintly. "And what did you see?"
Lysa hesitated. "Nothing… yet."
"Then keep it that way."
She brushed her hands together and stepped closer. "You don't want Maera's kind of attention, do you?"
Lysa shook her head. "She scares me."
"Good. Fear keeps you breathing." Aradia tilted her head. "Help me, and I can make sure she never notices you again."
Lysa blinked. "Help you with what?"
"Watching her instead."
Lysa's eyes widened. "You want me to spy on the Head Servant?"
"I want you to tell me what she says when I'm not around. Words have power. I need to know what names she's giving me."
Lysa swallowed hard. "Why me?"
Aradia smiled. "Because you're already afraid. Fear makes good listeners."
The girl hesitated, then nodded once. "Fine. But if she finds out—"
"She won't."
Aradia lifted a hand, and a faint shimmer of silver passed between them — a quiet enchantment, binding their voices in secrecy. Lysa gasped softly at the warmth.
"What was that?"
"A promise," Aradia said. "Neither of us can speak of it to anyone else."
The girl stared. "You're… you really are—"
Aradia silenced her with a look. "Don't finish that word. Not unless you want to burn for it."
Lysa nodded quickly, eyes wide.
"Clever," Caspian murmured. "You've made your first pawn."
Aradia ignored him. "Now go," she told Lysa. "And listen well."
By midnight, the corridors had quieted to that peculiar stillness only cursed places know.
Aradia sat by the low window of her quarters, moonlight bleeding across the stone. Below, the gardens slept under fog; above, the palace roofs gleamed with frost.
She should have been tired, but the air felt alive, charged. Every candle she lit guttered blue, no matter how she prayed it wouldn't.
"You're unraveling," Caspian whispered from his book.
"I'm holding," she replied.
"You say that every time before you break."
She opened the grimoire just enough to see his sigil faintly glowing on the parchment. "You sound almost concerned."
"Concern ruins the flavor of tragedy," he purred. "But I admit, watching you navigate suspicion is exquisite."
She shut the book. "Then watch quietly."
The door creaked open. Lysa slipped in, her face pale.
"Well?" Aradia asked.
"She's been speaking with the High Priest's men," Lysa whispered. "Said she'll cleanse your chamber tomorrow with holy salt. She told them she's certain you're tainted."
Aradia's jaw tightened. "How soon?"
"Before dawn."
"Then she dies before she reaches my door," Caspian murmured through the pages.
"No," Aradia said aloud. "Not by my hand."
Lysa stepped back. "Did you say—?"
"Nothing." Aradia's tone softened. "Go back to your room. You've done enough."
But the girl lingered. "Mistress Mira… why not stop her? You have power. I've seen the candles—"
"Because every death feeds the curse," Aradia said quietly. "Even hers."
Lysa said nothing more. She nodded and slipped out, closing the door behind her.
Aradia stared at the wood long after it shut. She knew Maera would act. She also knew the curse had a way of deciding its own justice.
Sometime before dawn, the mirror above her bed began to hum.
The sound was soft, like glass breathing. The veil fluttered without wind.
Aradia sat up slowly, the skin on her arms prickling. "No," she whispered. "Not again."
But the mirror unveiled itself — the cloth sliding down as if brushed aside by unseen fingers.
Within the glass, her reflection was gone. In its place: Maera.
The Head Servant stood in an unfamiliar corridor, candle in hand. She was spreading salt across the stones, lips moving in silent prayer.
Then the candlelight dimmed. A shadow appeared behind her — tall, faceless, draped in smoke.
Maera turned. Her mouth opened to scream.
The candle fell. The flame caught her skirts.
Aradia jerked to her feet. "No—"
The mirror flared white, then darkened.
When the light cleared, Maera lay still on the floor — unmoving. The salt circle burned black.
Her eyes were open, staring directly through the mirror.
Straight at Aradia.
For a heartbeat, it felt as if the reflection could see her.
Then the image faded.
Aradia stood trembling, her pulse echoing in her ears. "It wasn't me," she whispered. "I didn't—"
"You didn't need to," Caspian murmured. "The curse acts on your will now."
"I didn't wish her dead."
"You feared her. The curse feeds on that just as sweetly."
Aradia sank onto the bed, covering her face. "She was only human."
"So were you, once," the grimoire purred.
She stared at the extinguished candle beside her bed. Its smoke curled upward, faintly blue.
In the dark, the mirror whispered one last thing before going still:
"All eyes burn in the end."