The Bone That Remembers
The mirrors didn't reflect her. Not properly. Not honestly.
Every time Liora passed one, it shimmered slightly, as though submerged beneath a shallow pool. Her face appeared a breath too late. Her expression changed when she hadn't moved. In one, she saw her mouth open before she'd spoken. In another, she stood motionless even as she paced.
One mirror had a hairline crack that pulsed like a vein.
Another refused to show her at all.
She had tested the door. Locked. No handles on her side. She had shouted, kicked, even thrown a candle at the farthest mirror. Nothing. Wren had called it a "suite," but it felt more like a sanctum. A shrine built for something already dead.
Everything in the room was red.
Not a warm, cherry red. Not the soft pink of blushing cheeks. But crimson. Rust. Rose. Blood. The color of the petals that had bloomed from the earth the first time she bled. The exact shade of the velvet cloak draped across the edge of the bed, still waiting for her.
Liora hadn't touched it.
She sat on the cold marble floor, legs folded beneath her, the untouched tray of food beside her. The scent rose from the dish like steam from a spell — roasted chestnuts, sweet root, a drizzle of honey. Too rich. Too precise. Not comforting. Not forgettable. The meal wasn't meant to soothe. It was meant to seduce.
Everything here was.
Even now.
She hated the silence. It made her thoughts louder, sharper, harder to control. There was no wind. No creaking wood. Not even the whisper of drafts beneath the door. Only the soft flicker of candles and the occasional, too-quiet voice behind the mirrors.
At first, she tried ignoring them.
But they never stopped.
The girl with the slit throat had returned. She stared from the tall mirror near the bed, mouth moving in slow, deliberate shapes. Liora stood and approached. Her reflection flickered behind the ghost's — not layered, not superimposed. Embedded. The girl's face bled into her own.
Then, just above a whisper: "He'll love you. That's how he eats."
Liora's stomach turned.
"What do you want from me?" she asked quietly.
The ghost didn't answer.
Only blinked.
Liora backed away and sat on the bed, her body folding into the velvet like it had been waiting for her. The mattress was too soft. It sank beneath her like swamp mud. She hadn't slept since the night of the pyre. Her muscles throbbed, her skull pulsed, her eyelids dragged downward like stone gates.
She lay back. Just for a moment.
The candlelight blurred.
She didn't remember closing her eyes.
The dream came in pieces.
She was small again, maybe eight. Kneeling behind the reed-thick banks of the river, hands clamped over her mouth. Smoke smeared the sky above the trees. The fire had already started on the other side of the hill. She could see it flickering between the branches, and she could hear her mother's voice.
Not screaming.
Chanting.
The words weren't in any language she knew, but they vibrated in her bones. Old. Wrong. Sacred. Her teeth ached just listening.
Then came the crowd.
They dragged Mairead Ashvale into the clearing, her hair hacked short, her wrists bound in iron. One of the men carried the velvet heart-charm like a trophy, hoisted on a stick, blood still clinging to its edges. The priest held it aloft like evidence. Unclean, he'd called her. A danger.
Liora tried to run forward. Her legs refused to move. Her knees had melted into the ground.
The pyre crackled.
Her mother didn't scream. Didn't beg. She stared into the crowd and smiled — a small, knowing thing. Not defiant. Not afraid. As the flames reached her feet, she turned her head slightly. Her lips parted.
"The bloodline must remain."
Smoke poured up in ribbons, swallowing her whole.
Then the dream shifted.
Liora saw him.
Not the Hollow King as she knew him now — no helm, no armor, no silence. A younger version. Pale gold eyes. A silver circlet resting above dark, unbraided hair. He stood at the edge of the trees, not hidden, but apart. Watching the fire as though it were a punishment he couldn't stop.
He looked… guilty.
Then he turned and walked away.
Liora's body jolted awake.
Her hands were clenched so tightly her nails had broken skin. She sat up in the dark, chest heaving, temples pounding. The mirrors around her had gone blank.
Then, the sound of a latch.
Soft. Intentional.
The door creaked open without ceremony. Wren slipped inside like smoke, carrying a tray in one hand and a dark satchel in the other. Their footsteps didn't echo. They never did.
"You were dreaming," they said, setting the tray down.
Liora wiped her forehead with her sleeve. "No," she muttered. "I was remembering."
Wren gave her a look. "Same thing, in here."
She studied them — the way they moved, the way their mismatched eyes never stayed still. "Is this all a game to you?" she asked. "Another bride to watch go mad in a pretty cage?"
Wren smiled faintly. "You haven't gone mad yet. That's a good sign."
She rose from the bed, barefoot, and crossed the room slowly. "Why me?" Her voice grew harder with each word. "Why now? The Hollow King's had a hundred years. A hundred brides. Why change the pattern?"
Wren didn't answer. Instead, they knelt by the satchel and unwrapped something carefully. A long cloth. Inside it, a bone.
Liora stepped back instinctively. The object looked fresh. Too fresh. Long. Pale. Carved with runes that seemed to crawl along its surface. There was dried blood crusted along the jagged end.
"Do you know what this is?" Wren asked, not looking up.
"A threat," she said tightly.
Wren smiled. "No. A memory."
They turned the bone toward her, reverent. "It's your mother's."
Everything inside Liora stilled. Her breath. Her thoughts. Her body.
"We pulled it from the mirror crypt," Wren continued, as if describing the weather. "It called to the palace. Just like you."
She stared at the bone, nausea rising sharp in her throat. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because the palace isn't loyal to him," Wren said, their voice quieter now. "Not entirely. It obeys older laws. Memory. Blood. Bone. You're not here because he chose you. You're here because the palace did."
Liora turned away, trying to steady her breath.
"Why?" she asked.
Wren stood and met her gaze. "Because you remember what others have forgotten. And he—" they glanced toward the wall, toward the chamber where the Hollow King waited unseen, "he forgets what he shouldn't."
They moved to leave. Their hand was on the door when they spoke again. "Don't trust the mirrors," Wren said. "They only show you what you fear most."
The door shut softly behind them.
Liora looked down at the
bone.
And in the mirror beside her, her reflection was gone.
In its place, Mairead Ashvale smiled back — flickering in the candlelight.