Page 1 of Wicked Prince of Mirrors
PROLOGUE
Once upon a time, there was a prince so vain, he collected mirrors to preen at his appearance. He gathered them from across the kingdom, mirrors of silver and gold inlaid with crystals, carved with marble, framed in sculpted filigree. His collection turned into an obsession. He had no care for his people and funneled their labor, their coin, into a shrine for himself, a kingdom of silver mirrors and gleaming glass.
The citizens of his kingdom grew desperate, for war pressed at their borders, creatures lurked at their doors, and famine broke out. But there were no armies to fight for them, no king to protect their land.
Someone so selfish, vain, and careless should not rule, so the people plotted to overthrow him and put an end to his greed. They marched upon the palace and called for the prince to come forth.
He did, but when he saw their treachery, a madness overtook him and he summoned somethingterrible from the mirrors—a monster that would reflect every evil back on the people. Before it could strike, a sorcerer stood up and cursed the prince.
Every mirror he looked at would shatter, and he’d never see his reflection again because he’d be trapped behind the glass, switching places with the monster he’d summoned. He’d live out his days in the mirrorverse until he learned his lesson.
As for the beast, the sorcerer let it escape . . .
PART I
1
ESMIRA
Apale glow unfurled from my fingertips, lighting up the open page of a book that displayed a serpentine monster. Soulless eyes and wicked fangs snarled back at me, as though the detailed parchment came alive under the unnatural light.
I dropped the tome, which tumbled to the plush carpeted floor of my chamber with an unholy thump. If the pages were crumpled or torn, the librarian would give me a sharp tongue lashing, but that was the least of my worries.
Turning my palms up, I stared at the glow, bile rising in my throat.
No, it couldn’t be!
I hadn’t meant to summon the light, didn’t know I had it within me. Glowing fingers and translucent veins only meant one thing.
Mirror Magic.
And it was forbidden.
Anyone found with magic was arrested and taken to the academy, where they were trained to protect and serve the kingdom, but anyone with Mirror Magic was executed because it was the one kind of magic that could bring back the Wicked Prince.
I grew up hearing the tale of the Wicked Prince of Mirrors, myths about him escaping from the mirror and returning to the kingdom he lost to his folly. A kingdom which now belonged to my father, for he was the one who took up his sword, rallied the people, and fought back the monsters at the door.
He made peace treaties with those who warred against the kingdom and built his own armies to conquer city after city. We were a strong, united nation because of him. The people called my father the great conqueror and they told tales of his courage in war, his bravery, his harshness, his fairness, and his cruelty.
Inside the palace, though, other stories were told. There were threats of usurpers and secret societies still loyal to the Wicked Prince. Even more concerning were whispers of foul attacks to the north, of people going missing and bodies found ripped open, despite the Boundary.
To end the war, my father had a magical barrier built between the land of mortals and the void of monsters. I always imagined seeing it with my waking eyes, a bubble of pinkish-purple light, hues of lavender bleeding across the once azure sky, and bolts of zig-zagging lightning halted by crackles of fire from the magicians that guarded the Boundary.
Somehow, the beasts still escaped to roam the land. Killing.
Worse, no one knew what had happened to the monster of all monsters the Wicked Prince had supposedly freed from the mirrorverse. Was it still out there in hiding or had it been killed?
Recently I’d felt watched. Was it possible the monster was here?
Now this, glowing fingertips.
A shiver went up my spine, and the gnawing fear that sat like a stone in the pit of my belly grew tighter, heavier.
The door burst open. With a yelp, I thrust my hands into the folds of my silk dress and turned to face the intruder.
My cousin, Rhea, barged into the room, orange skirts twirling, light brown curls dancing around her shoulders, dark eyes lined with kohl. There was always a wildness to her, a chaos to her energy. I blamed it on the fact that she’d come from the north, too close to the war, too close to the devastation, too close to the barrier between life and a dreadful death. She’d seen terrible things she never spoke of, but for the past five years, she’d lived with me, safe in my father’s palace. Rhea tossed herself onto my bed, scattering the plump goose feather pillows. “Esmira, I have news.”
“News from the Boundary?” I asked, bending to scoop the book off the floor. I patted the pages back into place, relieved to see my fingertips were no longer glowing.
