The Shattered Mirror
Asros wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve and bounded up the stone steps in a single rush, seizing the firmly shut door handle and yanking it open. Through the narrow gap, the Great Hall stretched before him in deathly silence, like a tomb.
No guards. Not even a single maid in sight. The dim, cavernous space made him glance around warily as he crept forward and began climbing the stairs. He could not explain why he was muffling his own footsteps. The last time he had come here, he had felt the same thing—this castle was like a graveyard. Its eerie atmosphere forced him to hold his breath without thinking.
Glancing at the curtained windows, Asros took the stairs two at a time and reached the third floor in moments. At last, his sister’s bedroom door came into view.
He stopped before the massive mahogany door, catching his breath, then knocked softly. No answer came—no question of who it was, no invitation to enter.
Perhaps she is asleep?
Pressing his ear to the door, Asros knocked again, harder this time. From within came a dull thud.
After a moment’s hesitation, he turned the handle and peered inside.
A hazy smoke drifted through the disordered room. Asros coughed at the stale air, then his eyes widened. The chamber looked as though a storm had torn through it.
Mouth agape, he blinked and stepped into the wreckage as if drawn by an unseen force.
Shards of broken glass littered the floor. The carpet reeked of rich wine, as if bottles had been hurled across it. Torn strips of fabric and feathers spilled from pillows lay scattered everywhere.
His dazed gaze swept over the mess until it caught on the full-length mirror, now shattered into countless pieces. He flinched, shoulders hunching. Dozens of fractured reflections of himself stared back from the spider-webbed surface.
A chill ran through him. He began backing away when a rustling sound came from behind.
Asros spun around, heart leaping, and froze at the sight of Thalia sprawled carelessly across the carpet.
For an instant, his breath caught in his throat.
She wore only a thin nightgown, her eyes empty as she stared at the ceiling. Her face looked drained of all life, and a shiver raced down his spine.
She moved one slender arm, birch-branch thin, and scooped up a handful of feathers from the floor, scattering them into the air. White down floated like dust in the murky air.
The woman watched them with unfocused eyes, then slowly turned her gaze toward him.
Asros stepped back without meaning to.
Her lips, crusted with dried blood, parted, and a dry voice emerged.
“……Have you come to watch the spectacle?”
“I—I only came to visit because you were ill……”
Her desolate eyes fixed on the bouquet cradled in his arms.
Asros felt his ears burn. Somehow, it felt as though he had done something unforgivable.
Thalia lowered her eyelids like someone exhausted.
“……Leave it there and go.”
Asros hesitated, then set the flowers on the shelf beside the bed. He no longer knew what else to do. Staring helplessly at his sister, he turned and left the room.
Beren, waiting in the corridor, frowned at his ashen face, suspicion flickering in his eyes—as though Asros had been harmed in some way.
Asros said nothing. He simply seized the man’s hand and pulled him along.
“Let us return to the main palace at once.”
Together they fled down the deathly quiet corridor. Asros did not even know what he was fleeing from. He only knew he had to escape this unnaturally cold and damp place as quickly as possible.
Glancing once over his shoulder at the half-open bedroom door, he raced down the stairs and out of the detached palace like a beast escaping a trap.
* * *
It felt as though an ant were crawling through her veins.
A sharp, prickling pain traveled up her shin, gnawing at her knee, thigh, hip, and lower back. It was not as fierce as before, yet just as maddening.
Thalia dug her nails into the uneven skin of her knee, scratching relentlessly. The ant inside seemed to rebel, burrowing deeper into the bone.
Determined to drag the loathsome creature out, she peeled away the tough, callused layer of skin. Blood welled from the open wound and trickled down, but she paid no heed to the burning pain, gouging at the raw flesh with her nails.
At that moment the nanny entered and let out a piercing scream at the sight.
“Please, stop doing that!”
The woman slammed the tray down and seized Thalia’s hand.
Thalia looked at her with listless eyes, then placed her other hand over the scar.
“Why must you do this!”
The nanny grabbed that hand as well, sighing heavily.
“The scars are already hideous enough. What will you do if they become even worse?”
Thalia regarded her with a vacant stare.
This was the same nanny who had once praised her beauty endlessly, who had doted on her as though she were a living replica of Senebier’s childhood. Yet even she now found Thalia repulsive.
Twisting her wrist free with sudden force, Thalia shoved the woman’s shoulder.
“Get out! I do not want to see your face!”
The nanny glared at her with narrowed eyes, then stomped over to the shelf. She picked up the bowl of porridge and the medicine bottle from the tray and held them out.
“Once you have taken these, I will leave you be. You need not worry.”
Thalia reached out to fling the bowl away.
But even the slow-witted nanny had learned from repeated incidents. She stepped back swiftly and fixed Thalia with a stern look.
“If you refuse to eat, I will not burn the sleep herb for you.”
Thalia glared at her with resentment, but in the end she accepted the bowl. She no longer had the strength to argue.
She took up the spoon and mechanically shoveled the soggy contents into her mouth. It tasted like mud. Fighting nausea, she forced the porridge down, then swallowed the unknown medicine. The nanny placed a fresh bundle of herbs into the censer and lit it.
Thalia drew in the acrid smoke and collapsed onto the bed. Her consciousness grew hazy; drowsiness crept over her. With a sigh of relief, she turned her gaze to the window as her senses blurred. Beyond the clear glass, the evening sky was stained crimson.
When the sun set, thick darkness would soon swallow her. Even in her muddled state, terror crept in. She feared the coming of night—the memory of waiting endlessly in the dark for someone to appear tightened around her throat.
Yet morning frightened her even more. She did not wish to live another day in this wretched body.
She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a desperate prayer.
Please, let all the time allotted to me pass in an instant while I sleep. Let me be freed from this pain forever.
As always, her wish went unanswered.
Thalia awoke to a hand shaking her shoulder. She looked up at the sunlight pouring through the window and let out a hollow sigh. Another loathsome day was about to begin. She pressed a hand to her throbbing forehead.
Then an unfamiliar voice reached her ears.
“It is time to rise, Your Highness.”
Startled, Thalia turned her head and saw a tall, imposing shadow standing beside the bed. She bolted upright.
The woman was strikingly tall and powerfully built, her eyes the color of steel as she looked down at Thalia. With precise, graceful movements, she curtsied.
“I beg Your Highness’s generous forgiveness for entering your bedchamber without permission. I am Trania Meldren, chief maid of the Empress’s palace. By Her Majesty’s command, I have come to attend to Your Highness for the day.”
Thalia’s expression grew confused. Her eyes wandered slowly around the room.
The chamber had already been cleaned. In one corner stood a dozen maids dressed in the livery of the Empress’s palace, waiting in silence. When Thalia saw the armfuls of garments in their hands, her body stiffened.
An ominous premonition tightened her throat.
“Attend to me? Why would you……”
“Today, Your Highness is to have an audience with His Majesty the Emperor.”