A lie, told often enough, doesn't become the truth.
It becomes a mirror—
Reflecting what you most fear to see.
---
One Week Later – Skyevale Academy
Irena had begun to hear things.
Not voices, exactly. Not in the traditional sense.
But reflections—glimpsed from the corner of her eye—were no longer still.
In the Academy's gilded hallways, mirrors blinked when she didn't. Her reflection lingered a second longer than it should have. Her smile was off by degrees—like it was learning, not mimicking.
She had told no one.
Especially not Lucien.
Especially not Mara.
---
Mara – The Subtle Blade
Mara didn't need to break Irena. Not loudly. Not cruelly.
No. She had always believed in slow poisons.
A whispered word here. A poorly timed compliment there.
"Rena's so... intense lately, isn't she?"
"I heard she's been spending nights in the Ashvale wing. Alone."
"She always did attract trouble, didn't she?"
She never pointed. Never claimed. Just suggested.
And people—people loved suggestion more than they loved facts.
Her favorite rumor, the one she'd fed like a baby bird, was this:
> "Irena Valen has a twin. One that died. And sometimes… she forgets which one she is."
It spread like wildfire.
By the end of the week, two teachers had asked if she was feeling "balanced." One boy dropped out of their group project without explanation. The girl who used to sit beside her in Refracted Magic moved two seats down.
Mara smiled through it all.
She didn't want to ruin Irena.
She wanted the world to fear her.
---
Lucien – Cold Distance
Lucien hadn't spoken to her in three days.
Not since the Mirror of Laith.
He was colder now, distracted. Like something had been unsealed, and he didn't know how to close it again.
When Irena passed him in the courtyard, he looked away.
When she sent a message, he left it unread.
Something in her ached. Something deeper than pride.
---
The Wrong Reflection
On the fifth day, it happened.
Irena stood before her dormitory mirror, brushing her hair absently. Her mind was somewhere else—on Lucien's strange withdrawal, on the way Mara's smile seemed just a little too perfect lately.
She looked up.
Her reflection did not move.
It stared.
Then… smiled.
And whispered, in her voice, with lips that didn't match the timing of the sound:
> "You're not real enough. But I can be."
Irena screamed and staggered back, the brush clattering to the floor.
The mirror went still.
But the damage had already been done.
---
The Return of the Father
That same evening, the Academy buzzed with dangerous whispers:
> "Lord Dorian Ashvale has returned."
Lucien's father hadn't been seen in public in years. Some said he'd gone mad. Others claimed he had traded his reflection for immortality.
He arrived cloaked in black, his face partially veiled in silver lace. The cane he carried was carved from bonewood, and the gem atop it pulsed faintly with color that never settled.
When he entered the ballroom that evening for the Founder's Gala, everyone bowed. Even the Headmistress.
Except Lucien.
Lucien stood frozen at the top of the stairs, jaw clenched, hands twitching at his sides.
Irena saw it. She felt it—how the air changed when the two locked eyes.
Dorian Ashvale smiled beneath his veil.
"Ah," he said softly. "So this is the girl who cracked Laith."
Gasps rippled through the room like wind through reeds.
Irena didn't move.
Neither did Lucien.
Dorian turned away with disinterest.
"But of course," he added. "The Mirror always breaks when it sees too much."
---
Later – The Garden Again
Irena found Lucien that night in the Ashvale garden. Same place as before. Different boy.
He didn't turn when she approached.
"I saw your father," she said softly.
"I saw yours, once," he said, flat. "He was crying into his wine."
It hurt more than it should have. But she didn't walk away.
"You're pulling away."
"I'm protecting you."
"From what?"
He looked at her then. His eyes were darker now. Not cruel. Just… tired.
"You've been marked. That mirror—Laith—it doesn't just show. It calls. And the thing it calls doesn't like competition."
She stepped closer. "What thing?"
Lucien exhaled. "Yourself."
---
The Reflection Watches
Back in Irena's dorm, the mirror rippled.
The reflection stepped forward—but not out. Not yet.
It tilted its head. Studied the brush on the floor. Ran its fingers across the inside of the glass.
The edges of the mirror blackened slightly, like frost forming from inside.
And the reflection whispered, in a voice both hers and not hers:
Soon.