Page 33 of A Taste of Silver
"Oh gods." The words barely make it past my throat. "Syra, look at the coverage. Look at how many there are."
She leans closer, her fractal form sharpening as she focuses her considerable perception. When she speaks, her voice has lost all its usual levity. "That's not possible. The palace supposedly removed all its mirrors during the prohibition. They were meant to be destroyed, ground to powder and scattered."
"They lied." My hand clenches against the mirror's surface hard enough that cracks spider-web outward from my palm before healing instantly. "Or whoever was supposed to destroy them got greedy. Kept them covered and hidden instead. Do you know how much a noble family would pay for an intact mirror from before the prohibition?"
"Fortunes," Syra says grimly. "Multiple fortunes. I've seen the black market, remember? A hand-glass sells for enough gold to feed a village for a year. Something from the royal palace? With history and power woven into its very silver?" She shakes her head. "They'd have sold their souls for the chance to keep them."
"And now they're all waking up at once." I trace the pattern of crimson lights, counting them obsessively even though the number doesn't matter. One would be dangerous. A dozen would be catastrophic. But this? "Seventy-three. There are seventy-three covered mirrors in that palace, and every single one is compromised."
"Compromised how?" Syra's eyes narrow. "This isn't just the awakening. These mirrors feel... wrong. Infected."
She's right. I can sense it now that I'm looking properly, the subtle wrongness in how they pulse. Natural mirror-space has a rhythm, a harmony that resonates with the ghost-melody. These are discordant, their frequencies bent and twisted by something that's been working on them for much longer than Aurea's been awakening.
"The Crimson One." The name tastes like ashes and old regret. "He's been poisoning them for months. Maybe years. Slowly corrupting every sealed mirror he could reach, preparing them for—" The realization hits me like a physical blow. "For her. He's been preparing them for her."
The carriage draws closer to the palace gates. I can see guards flanking the entrance, their armor polished to mirror-brightness. More surfaces for him to work through, more eyes through which he can watch her approach.
"You have to warn her." Syra grips my shoulder, her fingers surprisingly solid despite her fractured nature. "Reach through again, manifest somewhere she can see you?—"
"I can't." The admission costs me what little pride I have left. "That puddle manifestation took everything. I'm running on fumes and desperation. If I try to push through again now, I'll scatter so completely I might not be able to pull myself back together."
"Then what do you suggest?" Syra's voice carries an edge of panic I've rarely heard from her. "We just watch as she walks into that?"
I stare at the mirror, at Aurea's approaching carriage, at the palace full of corrupted reflections waiting to spring whatever trap has been so carefully prepared. My mind races through possibilities, through options that all feel inadequate to the scope of what we're facing.
"The rose," I say suddenly, remembering the gift I'd sent through to her pillow the night before. It had taken hours to manifest, coaxing a single bloom from the garden to cross into her realm, but it had been worth it to see her face when she found it. "I can use it as an anchor. Send impressions, emotions, warnings through the connection."
"That's a child's toy compared to what she needs." Syra doesn't bother hiding her skepticism. "You need to be there, actually there, to protect her from what's coming."
"I will be." The words come out as a vow, absolute and unbreakable. "When she truly needs me, when the moment comes that she can't face alone, I'll find the strength. But until then, I have to conserve what essence I have left."
The carriage passes through the palace gates. I watch Aurea's face through the window, see her studying the architecture with those silver eyes that miss nothing, cataloguing exits and weaknesses with the tactical awareness that's emerged since her awakening. She's brilliant, my Mirror Queen, cleverer than her enemies expect. But brilliance isn't enough against enemies she doesn't know exist.
"Show me the guest chambers," I tell the mirror. "Wherever they plan to house her."
The image shifts, zooming through stone walls and locked doors to reveal a suite of rooms in the eastern wing. Elegant, well-appointed, and absolutely crawling with reflectivesurfaces. The windows are floor-to-ceiling, their glass polished to perfection. The vanity holds an ornate mirror that practically screams "trap" to anyone with the sense to see it. Even the tea service waiting on the side table is silver-bright, every surface another potential eye through which the Crimson One can watch her.
"It's a cage made of glass," Syra breathes. "They're not even bothering to hide it."
"Why would they?" Bitterness seeps into my voice. "They think she's untrained, frightened, still partially suppressed by Melora's herbs. They think they're dealing with a girl playing at power, not a Mirror Queen coming into her birthright."
"Are they wrong?" Syra asks, and the question isn't cruel, just honest. "She's powerful, yes, but she's also barely begun to understand what she can do. Three weeks ago she couldn't even speak her full name."
Three weeks. It feels like lifetimes, like the years between her forgetting and remembering have compressed into moments that simultaneously stretch toward eternity. She's learned so much in such little time, recovered so many pieces of herself, but Syra's right—she's still only beginning to understand the scope of her inheritance.
The carriage stops. I watch Aurea being escorted from the vehicle, guards flanking her like an honor guard that's really just a more polite form of imprisonment. She walks with her spine straight, her head high, every inch the queen she was born to be. The sight of her courage makes something in my chest cavity crack open.
"I'll maintain watch through every reflection I can reach," I say, settling into position before the Last Mirror despite my body's screaming protests. "Track her movements, look for opportunities to communicate. The rose will let me send basicwarnings, impressions of danger. It's not much, but it's what I have."
"And when it's not enough?" Syra's question is gentle but insistent. "When she faces something that requires more than distant warnings?"
"Then I'll manifest fully." I meet her mismatched eyes with my constellation ones, letting her see the absolute certainty in them. "Even if it costs me everything. Even if pulling myself through rips me apart permanently. She doesn't walk into darkness alone. That's not negotiable."
Syra studies me for a long moment, her fractal features settling into something almost fond. "You know that's not how the bond is supposed to work, right? You're meant to be partners, equals, not a sacrifice waiting to happen."
"Partners," I agree. "Which means when one can't stand, the other carries them. She's carried the weight of forgetting for fourteen years, carried the burden of awakening alone, carried the responsibility of being the last of her bloodline. Now it's my turn to carry something for her."
Through the mirror, I watch her being led to her chambers. The door closes behind her with a finality that makes my marks burn in sympathetic response. She's alone now, surrounded by enemy mirrors, walking into a trap she can only partially perceive.
