The door slammed behind Elira Vale, shutting out the storm and the weight of another long, pointless day.
She dropped her bag, kicked off her soaked shoes, and stood in silence. No one to greet her. No one waiting. Just the creak of the old attic room her grandmother left her, and the faint scent of dust and lavender.
Her eyes flicked toward the corner.
The mirror was still there—tall, antique, carved in vines and roses long faded by time. It had always unnerved her, though she never said that out loud. She used to think it watched her when she wasn't looking.
Tonight, it felt heavier.
She sighed, crawled onto her creaky bed, and buried herself under the blanket—still in her bookstore uniform.
"Just sleep," she whispered.
"No dreams. Just sleep."
But the moment her eyes closed, the world slipped away.
She was barefoot, standing on marble floors cold as winter. A grand hall surrounded her, lit by golden chandeliers swaying in a phantom breeze. Tapestries whispered stories in a language she couldn't remember, though the meanings pressed against her mind.
A garden bloomed just beyond tall archways—roses black as ink and silver trees dripping with stardust. Wind swept through the open doors, warm and strange.
Elira looked down. She was wearing a flowing gown of pale blue, embroidered with symbols that shimmered faintly—symbols that pulsed with familiarity.
And then—arms wrapped around her. Strong. Protective. Familiar.
She turned her head slightly. A man held her, his face inches from hers, voice like velvet.
"You came back to me…" he whispered.
His eyes were silver and stormy, just like—
"Wait," she said, her voice catching.
"Who… are you?"
But part of her already knew. Her body leaned into his, breath caught in her throat. They were close, dangerously close. She could feel the sadness in him. The longing. And something else…
Something ancient.
Their foreheads touched. A kiss hovered between them. And just before it could happen
The entire palace trembled.
A blinding light erupted behind the man, and a scream—hers, his, or someone else's—ripped through the dream like broken glass.
Elira jolted upright in bed, heart hammering.
Moonlight painted her room in pale silver. The rain had slowed to a mist against the window.
She dragged in a breath.
"Just a dream," she whispered.
But her eyes went straight to the mirror.
It was glowing.
A soft, bluish pulse, faint like a heartbeat beneath glass. The surface rippled, ever so slightly. Like water disturbed by a whisper.
She got up slowly. The floor was cold beneath her feet, just like in the dream.
As she stepped closer, the light in the mirror brightened.
Then it moved.
A face appeared—not hers.
A man stood behind the glass. Young. Regal. Sad. Silver-eyed. Crown crooked. The same man from her dream. He looked straight at her as if he had been waiting.
Elira gasped and stumbled back. A chair clattered to the ground.
She looked again.
The mirror was still.
No glow. No face. Just her own reflection, pale and shaking.
But she had seen him.
He had seen her.
And just as her breathing began to slow—
The mirror pulsed again.
Brighter.
Louder.
And this time, it didn't wait.
It pulled.