The mirror didn't shatter when Halcyra reappeared, it sighed. As if exhaling all the fractured moments it had trapped while Eleanor struggled to seal the reflection door.
It happened in the west wing library, between dusk and silence, where Eleanor often wandered in hopes of understanding the residual hum that lived in the stones.
Books were rearranging themselves again, titles rewriting mid-sentence, glyphs swirling on bindings like constellations.
Then she heard it:
"You held the mirror too long."
Eleanor turned.
Halcyra stood in the threshold between rows of spellbooks, dressed in ash-colored robes, her presence humming like a chime blown off-key.
"You're not supposed to be here," Eleanor whispered.
"Neither are you," Halcyra said. "Yet here we are."
A Mirror Rejoined
Ariella found them moments later. Her sword was sheathed but glowing faintly. The moment she laid eyes on Halcyra, her hand drifted to the hilt.
"She's not a threat," Eleanor said quickly.
