The moment we stepped into the garden, I felt it—the strange hum of the mirror's presence, a gentle vibration in my bones. Quippleton fluttered up to my shoulder and preened his feathers like he owned the place.
I walked towards the mirror and stood Infront of it, I whispered his name.
After a few moments his reflection came Infront of the mirror and he looked at me
And then… he saw the bird.
He froze.
"What the—"
Quippleton fluttered from my shoulder to a nearby tree branch with all the elegance of a royal ambassador.
Evanor took a slow step forward. "Is that… a parrot?"
Quippleton cocked his head. "Charmed, I'm sure."
Evanor blinked. "No. Wait. No freaking way."
The mirror shimmered faintly as he leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "...Quippleton?"
"Quippleton the Fourth," the bird said proudly, fluffing his chest. "Former companion of His Highness Prince Evanor of the House of Orlaithe, Master of—"
"Quip," Evanor interrupted, voice cracking just slightly.
He didn't move for a second. Just stared, as if the weight of years was crashing down all at once.
"…How—how are you here?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
I stepped forward gently. "Remember the vial I showed you? The one I found in my parents' trunk?"
He nodded, eyes still fixed on Quippleton.
"Well… last night, just after midnight, it turned into him. Right in my hands."
Evanor's mouth fell open slightly. "You're telling me my mother somehow sealed my childhood parrot into a vial like a weird magical keepsake and now he's back?"
"Essentially… yes."
He let out a short, breathless laugh—half amazed, half overwhelmed. "Of course. Because nothing in my life is ever normal."
Quippleton ruffled his feathers. "You're welcome."
Evanor shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving his old companion. Then, after a long pause, his voice softened.
"…How is she?"
The question hung in the air, trembling like a thread in a storm.
Quip blinked. "Your mother?"
"Yes, you feathered glitter-ball," Evanor murmured, his voice rougher than before. "My mother. Is she alright?"
"Oh, she's quite alright," Quippleton said with a dramatic toss of his tiny head. "Still ruling the Dimensions of florp Throws a banquet every twelfth dawn. Still sings to the moon. Wears slippers shaped like swans. You know, the usual."
I stood back, quietly watching the boy in the mirror — the sharp-tongued, mysterious Evanor — practically melting into someone else. Someone softer. Someone I hadn't seen before.
And I couldn't help myself.
"Well," I said, raising a brow. "You never told me you were a prince, Evanor."
He glanced at me, startled. Then, as if just remembering I was still here, he gave me a look that landed somewhere between exasperated and sheepish. "It didn't come up."
Quippleton gave a chirpy laugh. "He used to have his title stitched into his socks."
"I did not!" Evanor barked, clearly horrified. "Quip, that was one time. ONE."
"Oh, so now you do remember things," I teased, eyes twinkling.
I huffed. "you guys enjoy your reunion, I'll be back"
Evanor glanced towards me "wait! where?"
I replied "the library"
Quippleton puffed up and declared, "Royal reunion protocols: Begin!"
I chuckled softly and turned away, leaving them to their nostalgia. The path through the garden curved like a vine, and I followed it past the pale foxgloves and silver-leaved trees, toward the Garden Library — one of my favorite places in Moonhollow.
It wasn't like the grand libraries of the capital, with marble columns and cold silence. No, this one was small and wild, like it had grown out of the earth itself. Vines laced around the window frames. Books lined wooden shelves under a canopy of starflowers, and the whole place smelled faintly of lavender and ink.
I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, pausing every now and then to pull one down and peek at its title. Mostly herbology, magical flora, old village legends… until one book practically buzzed in my hand.
I stopped.
It was bound in green velvet, with silver script across the front that read:
"When the Mirror Fades: Echoes of the Last Guardians."
Chills prickled down my spine. I flipped it open, careful not to tear the delicate pages. Diagrams of the Butterfly Glass, dates, entries from past Guardians… and one line, underlined in deep red ink:
"When the moon bends and the hour turns twelve, the mirror's power begins to bleed."
I barely had time to process it when the door creaked open behind me.
"Found it, have you?" came the unmistakable voice of Lady Seraphine.
I turned to see her standing in the doorway of the Garden Library, wrapped in her forest-green cloak. Her hair was pinned in gleaming coils, and her eyes shimmered beneath a dusting of starlight, ancient and steady.
"I was looking for… well, I didn't know I was looking for this," I said, holding up the book.
She stepped closer, her expression grave. "Good. Because it's time you knew."
"Knew what?"
"That the Butterfly Glass is not invincible," she said softly. "Its magic thins, weakens. Every hundred years, the curse eats away at it from the inside. This year is the breaking point. If it shatters before the curse is undone…" She paused. "Evanor will be lost. Permanently."
The world tilted slightly. "Then tell me what to do."
"You must go," she said, "to the Vale of Thorns."
The name felt like ice against my skin.
"The witch's stronghold still lingers there," Seraphine continued. "Twisted by time and sorrow. The village within it—Virelda—is trapped in a sliver of dusk, halfway between memory and magic. It does not age, it does not sleep."
"And you want me to go there?" I asked, heartbeat quickening.
"Not want. The mirror will send you. Every night, after midnight, it will show you a hidden door. That door leads to the edge of the Vale. You must cross it alone."
My voice dropped. "And what will I find?"
Seraphine's gaze darkened. "You must find a flower. The Moonpetal Nocturne. It blooms only beside the grave of the witch's daughter—her only child, who died a month after she was born. The witch buried her beneath a silver tree. The flower is ghostly and pale blue, and it only blooms when the stars are at their highest."
I swallowed hard. "Why the flower?"
"It feeds the mirror," Seraphine said. "The curse is rooted in grief. That flower was born of it. As long as it is brought back each night, the mirror will hold. But miss even one night, and the cracks will begin."
"Wait—every night?"
She nodded once. "Until the curse is broken. The mirror will only guide you when the hour turns twelve, and only until the moon fades."
"And if I'm caught?"
Her silence answered everything.
Finally, she said, "The people of Virelda are… shadows of the past. Caught in time. They may not notice you. They may try to. Do not speak to them unless you must. Do not follow voices that call you by name."
My breath caught. "They'll know my name?"
"They shouldn't. But the witch was clever. Some memories whisper louder than others."
A silence settled between us, heavy as the air before a storm.
I looked down at the book in my hands, the velvet now damp from the sweat of my palms.
"But why me?" I asked.
Seraphine's expression softened, but her voice remained firm. "Because the mirror chose you. Not because you're brave. Not even because you're clever."
She stepped closer, placing one hand over the book.
"But because you feel. Deeply. The witch's magic was born of pain. And only someone who can carry that weight without becoming it… can undo it."
I stood very still.
Outside, a breeze stirred the ivy around the window. Somewhere in the distance, Quippleton squawked something ridiculous, probably about royal biscuits.
But in that moment, the only sound that mattered was the echo of one word in my chest:
Needed.
And I wasn't sure if that made me strong—
or utterly breakable.