The mirror chamber smelled of iron and shadow. I had been here before, but tonight it felt different, like the room remembered me.
The black cloth shrouding the great mirror quivered. No wind stirred. The iron bowl beneath it held only dust and the faint stain of old wax. Yet the air was alive with expectation, as if the room itself waited for me to falter.
I stepped closer. The fabric rippled beneath my fingertips. A whisper brushed my ear — faint, too soft to understand.
I held still. Calm. I did not speak.
The mirror was not yet mine to read. It was patient. It knew I was patient.
A shadow moved inside its glass, a faceless bride, reaching. I could have recoiled. I did not.
Instead, I observed. Calculated. If this is what it wants, it will have to earn it.
The mirror's presence pressed against my mind, but I pressed back, steady and unbroken.
I left the chamber with no outward tremor. But beneath my calm, a vow sharpened: If they want to claim me, they will have to reach for me. I will not crawl.