Juma Tesfaye, thirty-two, scribe of the river quarter, held the obsidian mirror in his hands while the heat shimmered off the badlands, turning the air into a liquid that refused to hold its shape. The mirror was shattered, a constellation of black glass that whispered of blood, and his sister, Hana, lay in the next room wasting away, her breath shallow as a dying mule. I had trusted Kaleb, my apprentice, to guard the frame, but the debt collector’s boat had arrived early, its two blasts splitting the humid silence, bringing with it the sacred wood I had thought lost. Kaleb stood behind the man, his face a mask of shame, and I saw the truth in the coin he clutched: he had sold our heritage to pay for his mother’s medicine, a betrayal that felt heavier than the famine hoarding grain in the granaries.

Act I‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‍‍‍‍​‌⁠‌​​​​‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​⁠⁠​​⁠‌‍⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌​‌​⁠⁠‍​‌​⁠‍

The smell of river clay and rotting grain filled the small room where I tried to reassemble the shards. I cut my palm, letting my blood seep into the cracks, but the glass refused to bond, reflecting not my face but the hollow eyes of my ancestors, who warned that the mirror was a trap. The amulet of river clay hung around my neck, cold against my skin, a reminder of the debts we owed to the water. Kaleb watched from the doorway, his hands trembling, and I knew then that the cycle of sacrifice had begun again, demanding a price I could not yet name.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‍‍‍‍​‌⁠‌​​​​‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​⁠⁠​​⁠‌‍⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌​‌​⁠⁠‍​‌​⁠‍

Act II

Hana’s fever spiked, and the whispers from the shards grew louder, a chorus of voices speaking in tongues I did not know. I realized the mirror’s power lay not in reflection but in memory, and to save Hana, I had to shatter the remaining pieces, releasing the trapped spirits that would erase her from the world’s record. I confronted Kaleb, who admitted he had known the curse, his desperation mirroring my own, and I was forced to choose between her life and my own identity. The tax boat’s shadow fell across the floor, a dark line dividing the room, and I felt my sense of self beginning to dissolve, like salt in the flood.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‍‍‍‍​‌⁠‌​​​​‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​⁠⁠​​⁠‌‍⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌​‌​⁠⁠‍​‌​⁠‍

Act III‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‍‍‍‍​‌⁠‌​​​​‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​⁠⁠​​⁠‌‍⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌​‌​⁠⁠‍​‌​⁠‍

I struck the last shard with the handle of my pen, and the glass exploded into dust, settling on the floor like snow. Hana woke, healthy, but she looked at me with total indifference, her eyes empty of recognition, as if I were a stranger she had never met. I stood in the empty room, my hands bleeding, my name fading from my mind, the accounting of wrongs finally balanced. The keeper alone in the corner watched, his face unreadable, as I walked out into the night, my steps steady, leaving behind the broken shards and the sister who no longer knew me. The photo framed on the wall showed a family that no longer existed, a record of a life I was now forgetting. I walked into the heat, the Silverton stub of sealing wax still warm in my pocket, a remnant of a contract I had signed with my own soul. The sixty-three of Lantern Yard had seen many such endings, but this one felt different, a release that cost everything.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‍‍‍‍​‌⁠‌​​​​‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​⁠⁠​​⁠‌‍⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌​‌​⁠⁠‍​‌​⁠‍