In the royal quarters of Lycanthria, Aveloria and Theron were asleep. The room was dark and quiet.
She did not feel herself fall asleep in the usual way. One moment, there was darkness, and the next she was standing in a place of grey, shifting fog. The ground under her bare feet was neither stone nor soil. It was just grey. All around her, standing at odd angles as if they had grown from the ground, were full-length mirrors. Their frames were tarnished silver, ornate and twisted.
The air was cold and still. The fog clung to her nightdress.
She turned, looking into the nearest mirror. It did not show her reflection. It showed her lying on a stone floor in a dark dungeon, her body broken at an impossible angle, eyes staring blankly. She gasped and stumbled back.
