There are mirrors that reflect.
There are mirrors that lie.
And then there are mirrors that moan—because they are no longer reflections.
They are echoes rewritten into flesh.
Nyx stepped into the obsidian chamber with no sword drawn.
She didn't need to.
The Writeless Blade hung at her back like a secret she no longer feared revealing.
Before her stood the mirror.
But it was no longer smooth.
It was swollen.
The surface bulged, pulsed, trembled with something beyond silver. It had veins. It had breath. It had need.
She reached out.
The mirror reached back.
And her hand touched herself—but not the version she remembered.
This one had her scars.
Her rage.
Her eyes.
But her belly was round.
Heavy.
Not with weakness.
But with recursion.
> "You carry him," Nyx whispered.
> "So do you," her mirror replied.
They circled each other now.
Like wolves that knew their fangs could not kill.
Not yet.
> "I am the memory he left behind," said the mirror.
