Elira
The first thing I did when I got home was kick off my boots and drop my bag onto the pink velvet chair by the door.
My room looked exactly how I liked it: bright, soft, and immaculate. The walls were blush, the carpet thick enough to swallow my feet. Everywhere you looked, there were little glass dishes of hair clips and perfume bottles lined up in precise rows.
Perfect. Controlled. Unlike the rest of my life.
Two of my reflections shimmered into being near the vanity, almost before I'd thought to call them. One started sorting the lip glosses by color. The other turned to me expectantly.
"Rough day?" she asked in my own voice.
I shrugged. "It was fine."
She tilted her head, not buying it. She never did.
I unbraided my hair with practiced fingers, feeling the tension of the day loosen. I only wore it up for training, no point risking someone else's fire catching on it. But the moment I was home, I wanted it down, soft and wavy around my shoulders.
I started toward my ensuite bathroom, and the clones trailed behind me like curious pets.
In the mirror, I caught a glimpse of all three of us. We looked the same, of course. Same pale gold hair, same deliberate calm. But I knew which one was real, even when no one else could have guessed.
Sometimes the only reason I summoned them was because I hated the thought of being alone with my own thoughts.
I stepped into the shower and let the hot water rinse the training hall's dust from my skin. By the time I came out, my hair was damp and wavy. One of the clones hovered behind me with a hair dryer, humming.
While she worked, I scrolled through my phone. Notifications flooded in. Likes, messages, tagged photos. A tiny, silly thrill went through me every time someone commented.
"You're so perfect."
"How do you always look like that?"
"Wish I was you."
They didn't know what I could do. Not really. Most normies only knew I had some power. They thought it was something elegant or harmless-illusion, light, maybe. None of them had ever seen my clones materialize out of nothing.
I liked it that way. Let them wonder. Let them imagine something better than the truth.
The clone with the dryer finished and set it aside. Another flickered to my closet and pulled out a cream blouse and a short skirt that matched the blush carpet. I didn't have to tell her what I wanted to wear. She already knew.
It wasn't effortless. Not really. Even after a couple years of practice, keeping them there took a little focus, a lot of intention. I wondered if Aurelia ever had to concentrate that way, ever had to be afraid that if she lost her train of thought, her fire would vanish or sputter out.
Probably not. For her, it looked like breathing. Like something she never had to earn.
I caught my own gaze in the mirror.
The truth was, I didn't hate her. Not in the way you hated someone you wished would disappear forever.
But I didn't like her.
I didn't like how her power had always been effortless. I didn't like how she looked at me, like she could see every flicker of envy.
I didn't like remembering the way my hair smelled when she burned it, all those years ago.
But that was fine. I didn't have to like her.
I had my own life. My own image. My own power.
And if I wanted to fill my house with perfect reflections of myself so I didn't have to think too hard about any of it, who was going to tell me not to?
A sharp knock sounded on the bedroom door.
Startled, I lost focus, and all the clones vanished in a ripple of dissolving light.
"Come in," I called, smoothing my hair over my shoulders.
The door opened, and my mother stepped inside. She was as polished as ever in her cream blouse and narrow trousers, her blonde hair coiled in a smooth knot at the nape of her neck.
"Dinner's ready, darling," she said, her voice warm in a way that made something unclench in my chest. "Your father's already at the table."
"Okay," I said, softer than I meant to. "I'll be down in a minute."
She studied me, as if she could see right through the calm expression I wore. Then she only nodded and closed the door behind her.
I picked up my phone again, staring at the dark screen.
For a moment, I wished, really wished I was the sort of person who didn't care what anyone thought.
But I wasn't.
And that, too, was fine.