In Atreaum, the throne room reeked of powdered bone and boiled ink. Kingsley stood guard near the doorway, and all the other servants had been sent away. Three mirrors were propped against the far wall, showing different images with a deep crack along its axis.
One had split across the face of the continent. Another split near the upper-right corner, where Staesis's bell had rung. The last—most jagged of all—completely shattered when Marguerite ordered it to show Lucian's location.
The Queen stood before them, gloves discarded, veil removed, breathing shallow. "Again," she whispered. This time, the glass refused to obey.
Marguerite's fingers clenched, both halves of her face visibly angry. A deep crack split the stone floor. The shards from all the mirrors trembled.
Queen Marguerite stood before them barefoot, her gloves discarded, her breathing shallow. Her dark brown curls were caked in graveyard dirt and there was a deep purple shadow under her living eye.
"Again," she whispered.
The glass refused to obey.
Her fingers clenched and a crack split the floor.
"Show me."
The shards trembled.
Behind her, the door opened without a knock.
The Spymaster entered with the confidence of a peacock, gliding over the stone floor like spilled ink. He wore his usual smirk and a thick cloak that swept the floor and left traces of oil, like a snail leaving mucus.
"You'll reduce half the castle to sand if you keep this up."
She didn't look at him.
"The glass won't scry properly. Lucian's resonance…it's far too saturated. He's strayed far from my domain."
The Spymaster raised an eyebrow. "My Queen, you wrote the letter yourself, did you not? Telling him he is no longer required to return to the mortician's quarters?"
Queen Marguerite stared at him and showed her full displeasure.
The Spymaster suppressed a chuckle, but a soft giggle still escaped his mouth.
Doomed to be truthful no matter what the situation…this damned curse! He thought, then coughed. She wasn't at his level yet, despite him lending her a portion of his power.
"That means he no longer belongs to your domain."
Marguerite frowned and her right eye smoldered bright blue. "He was summoned using my system and my court mages. Raised by it. Trained to serve—"
"And yet," the Spymaster interrupted lightly, "he serves no one."
He handed her a note sealed with mortician's black wax.
There was only one line: I will not be a puppet.
The Queen turned sharply.
"I restored balance. I ended the Silence. I brought the rites back from dormancy..."
Her voice rose. The shattered mirrors trembled again.
"Back from the dormancy you created by not summoning another mortician." He said gently, but she ignored him and resumed her temper tantrum.
"I gave them order—structure—and now my most powerful creation dances outside the spiral like a flame with no wick!"
The Spymaster stepped closer, unbothered.
"And you are making the same mistake he did—assuming grief is a resource you can harvest cleanly."
He held out one hand, gesturing toward the broken mirror.
"You're trying to see something that doesn't want to be seen."
She stared at him.
"I can still see him. I have to. He is spiraling—"
"True," the Spymaster said smoothly. "But he is also being tempered."
He gave a knowing smile.
"And one's true nature, my Queen, does not appear in glass."
Marguerite closed her eyes and slowly, her remaining pink cheek lost its color. She cleared her throat and breathed until her voice lowered to a whisper. Marguerite's jaw clenched and her tongue clicked softly as she summoned the power of her dead half.
The part of her that was sacrificed when she took the crown and bound her own grief to her Queendom. Soft shadowy tendrils rippled across the tiles. Her skeletal form bloomed from the candlelight: regal, morose, and draped in mourning cloth dripping in embalmer's gold.
It was always an odd feeling when the Queen cut herself into two. From the hole her dead half left, her full living body stretched from its hiding place. The two halves looked at each other, hollow weeping eyes gazing back into dark soulful blue ones.
With her living and dead half working together, the mirrors reassembled slowly—no longer out of intimidation or magic, but with memory. Bony hands traced the cracks and every shard slid back into place like they were forgiven for breaking.
When the work was done, the three mirrors were whole but not the same.
Every crack was lined in gold, and no longer reflected her living or dead selves.
They only showed Lucian, but not his face. It was simply his presence, like looking into the abyss and seeing the shadow of someone you once knew.
It was a great mass of shifting lines that grew brighter with every rite he practiced, every soul he soothed, and every seed of memory he left behind.
"He's burning himself out," The two Queens whispered. The one made of fire and bone had a slight echo to her voice. "There's far too much."
The Spymaster crossed his arms, thoughtful.
"Perhaps."
But her gaze sharpened.
"No. There's a tether."
"How can you tell?"
"Because it's not coming from the dead. It doesn't show at all."
The mirror shimmered, trying to depict it—but failing. The lines blurred around Lucian like dew sliding from stone.
"It's natural," she murmured. "Rooted. Wild. Druidic."
The Spymaster laughed.
Low. Amused. Almost proud.
"Ah, yes. Somewhere in the forests of Candlemere…there's a druid. Rumor is she sells bread now."
The Queen turned slowly.
"You knew?"
"Of course." He tilted his head. "Would you like me to remove her?"
A pause.
"No," she whispered. "Not yet."
The Spymaster nodded, mockingly solemn.
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
She turned back to the mirrors.
Lucian's presence shimmered, steady.
Alive. Burdened. But no longer alone.
She raised one gloved hand toward the glass. Her fingers trembled — not from effort.
But from fear.
"He has no master," she said. "No chain."
"And no anchor," the Spymaster added. "Yet he floats."
She stared at the glass long enough for it to fog beneath her breath.
"Then we must decide whether he is the next branch of the system…"
Her eyes darkened.
"…or the root that breaks it."