The feast was a wound in the dark.

Candles. Too many candles. They burned low and thick, turning the stone walls of the old manor into a honeycomb of trembling light. The air smelled of roasting pork, stale wine, and sweat. People moved like ghosts in heavy wool. They whispered. They laughed. The sound was wet and sharp. It scraped the back of Margot’s throat.

She stood by the hearth. Her hands were still. They were always still. She watched the fire eat the wood. The embers glowed red. Then they turned gray. Then they were ash.

A shadow fell across her.

She did not turn. She knew who it was. She could feel the heat of him. The weight of his gaze. It pressed against her skin like a cold stone.

Her brother, Elias, stood behind her.

He was tall. His coat was black. It soaked up the candlelight. His face was pale. His eyes were dark. He looked at the fire. He did not look at her.

The hall was loud. Music played somewhere in the distance. A fiddle squealed. A drum thumped. It sounded like a heart beating fast. Like a heart trying to escape the chest.

Margot watched the ash settle.

She had come here to be found. Or to hide. She could not remember which. She had walked for days. Her boots were worn through. Her feet bled. She had not eaten in two days. She had only the memory of his face. The face that lived in her mind. The face that ate her thoughts.

The object was in her pocket.

It was small. It was cold. It was a key. No, not a key. A shard. A piece of glass. It had come from the mirror in the nursery. The mirror that had shattered when she was seven. He had broken it. He had thrown it. The shards had cut his hand. They had cut her arm. The blood had mixed on the floor. Red on red.

She touched the shard in her pocket. It was sharp. It bit into her palm. She liked the pain. It made her real. It kept the distance between her and the world.

Elias turned.

He looked at her.

His eyes were wide. They were empty.

He raised his hand.

He pointed at the table.

There was a plate. There was a goblet. There was a knife.

He pushed the plate toward her.

The meat was raw. It pulsed. It was red. It looked like flesh.

She looked at the meat. She looked at his hand. His fingers were long. They were pale. They trembled.

She stepped back.

The crowd parted. They saw her. They saw him. They stopped talking. The music stopped. The fiddle stopped. The drum stopped.

Silence.

It was heavy. It was thick. It pressed on her ears.

Elias spoke.

His voice was soft. It was thin. It sounded like dry leaves.

He said one word.

*Look.*

Margot looked at the mirror.

The great mirror. It hung on the far wall. It was framed in gold. The glass was dark. It did not reflect the room. It reflected the dark. It reflected the void.

She saw herself in it.

Or she thought she did.

It was not her face. It was a face. It was smooth. It was young. It had no eyes. It had no mouth. It was a blank. It was a mask.

She reached for the shard in her pocket.

Her hand shook. The shard cut deeper. Blood ran down her wrist. It dripped on the stone floor. *Plip. Plip. Plip.*

The sound was loud.

Elias took a step forward.

His face changed. The emptiness vanished. It was replaced by something else. Something old. Something hungry.

He smiled.

It was not a kind smile. It was a sad smile. It was the smile of a man who knows he is wrong. Who knows he is trapped. Who knows he cannot stop.

He reached out.

His hand closed around her wrist.

His grip was tight. It hurt. It burned.

He pulled her toward the mirror.

The crowd watched. No one moved. No one breathed. They were statues. They were shadows.

Margot felt the pull. It was not physical. It was magnetic. It was the pull of the water. The pull of the grave.

She looked into the dark glass.

The blank face looked back.

It waited.

Elias pushed her.

She fell.

She hit the floor. The shard in her hand snapped. It cut her palm. The blood pooled. It spread. It turned the stone red.

She looked up.

Elias was standing over her.

He was crying.

His tears fell on her face. They were warm. They were salty.

He fell to his knees.

He put his head in his hands.

The crowd stirred.

A man stepped forward. The lord of the manor. He wore a red cloak. His face was hard. His eyes were cold.

He looked at Elias. He looked at Margot. He looked at the blood.

He raised his voice.

He accused Elias.

He said Elias had tried to kill her. He said Elias was mad. He said Elias was a beast.

The crowd murmured. The murmur grew. It became a roar. It became a storm.

Elias looked up.

His face was wet. His eyes were red.

He did not defend himself.

He did not speak.

He only looked at Margot.

He pointed at the mirror.

He pointed at the shard in her hand.

He pointed at the blood.

He shook his head.

*No.*

The lord drew his sword.

The steel rang out. It was a high, clear note. It cut through the air.

Elias stood.

He walked to the mirror.

The lord followed.

The crowd followed.

Margot lay on the floor.

She watched them go.

Her breath was fast. Her heart was slow.

She picked up the broken shard.

It was small. It was dull. It was no longer sharp.

She held it up.

The candlelight caught it.

It did not reflect.

It absorbed.

It was black.

It was a hole.

She looked at her hand.

The blood was drying. It turned brown. It turned black.

She looked at the mirror.

The dark glass was empty.

The blank face was gone.

There was only the dark.

The lord raised his sword.

He swung.

The blade hit the mirror.

The glass did not shatter.

It did not break.

It did not crack.

The sword passed through.

It passed through the glass as if it were smoke. As if it were water. As if it were nothing.

The lord stumbled.

He fell.

He hit the wall.

He did not get up.

The crowd gasped.

Elias stood before the mirror.

He raised his hand.

He touched the glass.

His fingers sank into it.

He pulled.

He pulled with all his strength.

He pulled until his face turned red. Until his veins bulged. Until his mouth opened in a silent scream.

The mirror resisted.

It held.

It held him.

It held them.

Elias fell.

He fell forward.

He fell into the glass.

He did not hit the other side.

He did not fall through.

He was pulled in.

His body stretched. It twisted. It bent.

It was a ribbon. It was a thread.

It went into the dark.

It disappeared.

The mirror was whole.

The glass was clean.

The dark was deep.

Margot stood up.

Her legs were weak. She swayed.

She walked to the mirror.

The crowd was silent. They were afraid. They backed away. They made space.

She stood before it.

She looked into the dark.

She saw herself.

It was not the blank face.

It was her.

It was real.

It was solid.

It was there.

She reached out.

She touched the glass.

It was cold.

It was hard.

It was real.

She pulled.

She did not fall in.

She did not disappear.

She stayed.

The glass held her hand.

She let go.

She turned.

She walked out of the hall.

The doors were open.

The night was cold.

The air was fresh.

It smelled of rain. It smelled of earth. It smelled of life.

She walked into the dark.

She did not look back.

She did not look at the manor.

She did not look at the mirror.

She walked.

Her feet hurt.

Her hand hurt.

Her heart hurt.

She walked.

The night was long.

The stars were bright.

They watched her.

They did not blink.

They were cold.

They were far.

She was alone.

She was free.

Or she was lost.

She could not tell.

She walked.

The path was narrow.

The trees were tall.

They blocked the sky.

They blocked the light.

She walked into the shadow.

The shadow took her.

It was deep.

It was quiet.

It was still.

She stopped.

She stood still.

She breathed.

In.

Out.

The air filled her lungs.

It filled her body.

It filled her mind.

She thought of Elias.

She thought of the feast.

She thought of the mirror.

She thought of the shard.

It was in her pocket.

She touched it.

It was smooth.

It was warm.

It was alive.

She closed her hand.

She clenched it.

The pain came back.

It was sharp.

It was clear.

It was real.

She opened her hand.

The shard was gone.

Her palm was empty.

There was no glass.

There was no blood.

There was only skin.

Smooth.

Pale.

Clean.

She looked at the sky.

The stars were gone.

The moon was gone.

The dark was total.

The dark was absolute.

She stood in the dark.

She was in the dark.

The dark was in her.

It was not a curse.

It was not a gift.

It was a truth.

It was a fact.

She knew it.

She knew it now.

Knowledge was a wall.

It separated her from the world.

It separated her from him.

It separated her from herself.

She could not go back.

She could not forget.

She could not heal.

She could only carry it.

She carried the weight.

She carried the silence.

She carried the dark.

She walked.

The path ended.

The road began.

The road was long.

The road was straight.

It went into the distance.

It went into the night.

It went into the unknown.

She walked.

Step by step.

Foot by foot.

Breath by breath.

She did not stop.

She did not turn.

She did not look back.

She walked.

The dark followed.

It was faithful.

It was constant.

It was her shadow.

It was her mirror.

It was her truth.

She walked.

The night was endless.

The road was endless.

She was endless.

She walked.

The story ended.

The silence began.

The dark remained.

The pale echo faded.

It faded.

It faded.

It was gone.