Page 70 of A Taste of Silver
To the same uncertain rhythm, yet we share this moment's grace
Here we choose not cold perfection but the beauty found in trying
Here we are, still becoming, still living, still denying
That the only truth worth singing is the one we're singing now*
Reality fractured.
Not breaking but opening like a flower blooming in fast motion, showing all possibilities simultaneously in a kaleidoscope of potential futures. I saw the world where Aldric succeeded, realms merged under his iron control with mortals and mirror-born alike reduced to perfect, soulless order. I sawthe world where the Crimson One consumed everything, leaving only endless hunger and the echo of beauty devoured. I saw the world where Silvyr and I completed our binding and ceased to exist as individuals, becoming instead a single entity of pure magical power.
And I saw something else. A world where all three songs wove together, not in harmony but in acknowledgment of each other's truth. Where past, present, and future existed simultaneously without consuming each other, where love could exist alongside ambition, where perfection could coexist with beautiful imperfection.
Movement in my peripheral vision, barely visible through the dimensional chaos surrounding us. Vaen materialized from the space between possibilities, his form more solid than I'd ever seen it. The cost of his manifestation was visible and terrible, silver blood leaked from his eyes, his hands, every point where his existence touched our reality. His face was gaunt with the effort, years of standing guard between worlds having carved deep lines around his eyes.
"Sister." His voice carried the weight of his sacrifice, years of standing guard between worlds, of watching from the shadows as I grew up without memory of him. "The bridge. Every song needs?—"
"A bridge." I understood with a clarity that cut through me like cold steel. "You're the bridge. You've always been the bridge, haven't you?"
He smiled, sad and proud and absolutely certain of his choice. The expression transformed his worn features, showing me glimpses of the brother I'd known in childhood, before the Sundering tore our family apart. "I traded my mortality to stand between the worlds. Now I trade my immortality to bring them together."
"No—" I started, but he was already moving, already singing, his form beginning to blur as he poured everything he was into the working.
His voice shouldn't have been beautiful. He'd spent years as guardian between dimensions, his throat worn raw from calling warnings across the void, his body sustained by will alone. But it carried something neither the Crimson One's perfection nor Silvyr's yearning could match, the simple, devastating power of sacrifice freely given.
*I am the door that swings both ways, opening to let love through
I am the night that births the days, the shadow that defines the truth
I am my sister's stolen choice, the brother lost to memory's fog
I am my mother's dying voice, the final entry in her log
I am the guard who now steps down, the bridge that bears the weight
To forge from three songs a single crown, to open the sealed gate*
The theatre filled with light that defied description, not silver, not crimson, not the golden glow of mortal magic, but all three twisted together like rope, like the spiral of smoke above a fire, like the fundamental forces that held reality together. The competing songs found their rhythm at last, past-present-future becoming a single melody that rang through every mirror in existence.
The very air began to sing in response, every reflective surface in the theatre adding its voice to the growing chorus. Window glass, puddles of spilled wine, the tears streaming down my face, all of the surfaces that could reflect did, and theybecame part of an orchestra larger than any mortal instrument could contain.
Above us, through the impossible ceiling that now showed not wood and plaster but open sky and swirling galaxies, a figure descended on wings made of starlight and sorrow. Each feather was a captured memory, each movement a note in the greater song we were weaving.
My mother. Not a ghost, not a memory conjured by grief, but something more, the accumulated will of every Mirror Queen who'd added to the songbook, given form by our combined music and the desperate need for resolution.
"My daughter." Lyralei's voice was the sound of mirrors singing in perfect harmony, each word a note that resonated through my bones. Her face was exactly as I remembered from the few intact memories the suppressants hadn't touched, beautiful and terrible and infinitely sad. "You've found what I could only dream of, willing partners, not prisoners. A bond chosen freely, not forced by destiny or duty. But the song remains incomplete without true understanding."
She raised her hand, and the entire theatre became an orchestra of impossible complexity. Every surface that could hold a reflection became an instrument waiting for its moment. The cracked mirrors embedded in the walls hummed like tuning forks, the polished armor of Aldric's guards created percussion rhythms with each heartbeat, even the tears on our faces added their crystalline notes to the symphony.
"The tempering," she said, meeting my eyes with her silver gaze that held echoes of every queen before her. "Heat, hold, cool. Not breaking, but strengthening. Like the finest glass, reality must be heated carefully, held at the precise temperature, then cooled gradually to create something stronger than either component alone."
I understood with a clarity that burned through me like silver fire. Like the finest glass my mother had once shown me in the palace workshops, reality needed to be heated carefully, shaped with patience and skill, then cooled gradually to create something that could bend without shattering, that could hold both light and reflection without losing either.
"Together," I said, looking at Silvyr whose constellation eyes blazed with desperate hope, at Vaen whose sacrifice was literally keeping reality stable around us, even at the Crimson One whose perfect mask was beginning to crack under the weight of genuine emotion. "All of us. The complete song, with every voice acknowledged."
The Crimson One's perfect mask cracked further, revealing the raw hunger beneath, but also, for the first time, something that might have been longing. "You would include me? After everything I've done? After all the bonds I've corrupted, all the love I've consumed?"
"You're part of the story," I said simply, the words coming from some deep well of understanding I hadn't known I possessed. "The cautionary tale, the path not taken, the love that consumed itself instead of nurturing growth. We can't write a true ending without acknowledging what you represent."
