The night still carried the scent of starlight and metal.
Up on the rooftops, beneath the looming pull of twin moons and Nyra's tension with Voss still simmering under her skin, something had cracked.
Not just the air.
Her.
Now, in the wake of everything—the arena, the trial, the glances that spoke of betrayal and truths unspoken—she walked alone.
She needed to.
The Dominion felt quieter at this hour, but not safer. Never safer. The kind of quiet that swallowed things.
Above her, the sky pulsed faintly.
Fatesfall.
The first shimmering trails of meteor fire dragged violet light across the heavens. Each streak left reality shivering behind it, a pulse that made the very fabric of the world seem to warp and breathe.
The stars weren't still tonight.
They were watching.
She sat on the edge of her cot, still in the same torn combat leathers she hadn't fully peeled off since the Mirror Trial. Her hands rested loosely on her knees, eyes unfocused.
Memories flickered across her vision—not like thoughts, but like burns.
Seraph's breath hitching as she cradled her own dislocated shoulder.
Voss, staggering, blood streaming from his ribs.
Riven, collapsing with that lopsided grin that hid more pain than any scream.
All of them bleeding.
All of them enduring.
All of them targeted—because of her.
Her jaw clenched. Her eyes stayed dry.
Until a soft tap scratched against her door.
She turned her head slowly, aura coiling close like a reflex.
There was no knock. Just the flutter of parchment slipping beneath the gap.
She rose with the smooth lethality of a creature that had forgotten how to sleep and crossed the room in three quiet steps.
Black parchment.
Unmarked.
But sealed in blood-red wax.
The Headmaster's insignia. A dragon's eye surrounded by knives.
No signature. Just a single line:
Mirrorbridge. Alone.
No instructions.
No threats.
Just a place. And the weight of silent judgment behind it.
Nyra stood for a long time, fingers tightening around the note until the corners frayed.
She didn't ask questions.
She never had that luxury.
She took the long way through the grounds, every step deliberate.
The Dominion Institute, even in sleep, pulsed with life.
Torchlight flickered like dying stars along the stone walls. Shadowed figures moved in the distance—students? Instructors? Ghosts? It was hard to tell.
Her boots echoed down an empty corridor that bent just slightly wrong. Too sharp. Too narrow. As if the Institute were watching, shifting its ribs to guide her.
She passed the Eastern Arc.
The clock tower.
Then turned sharply into the Obsidian Gardens.
A choice she did not make consciously.
The moment she stepped into its twisted borders, the atmosphere changed.
The trees were too still.
The ground too soft.
Vines snaked over the statues like veins feeding the stone warriors, frozen in mid-death or mid-victory.
One bled from the eyes. Another wept chains. A third was missing a mouth entirely.
And every one of them turned to watch her.
Nyra walked with her head high, shoulders squared, even as the hair on the back of her neck lifted.
Behind her, a low sound.
Like laughter.
It came from nowhere. And everywhere.
"Cute," she muttered, refusing to look back.
The air smelled of rotting leaves and scorched iron.
She knew this place. It had been used for punishments before. For those the Headmaster wanted broken in spirit before body.
Tonight, it was just her.
Just her and the memory of blood that refused to dry from these stones.
The vines reached toward her like grasping hands. Her shadow twisted unnaturally ahead of her, growing longer even when the light didn't shift.
She pushed forward.
Out of the gardens.
And into the stretch of open ground where the Mirrorbridge loomed like a wound ripped across the sky.
It wasn't a bridge anymore.
Not tonight.
It looked like a scar stitched through air—arched and narrow, hovering between two towers, its glass surface fractured and gleaming with internal light.
The edges shimmered like oil in water, warping everything around it.
Nyra stepped closer.
The temperature dropped.
Mist pooled at the edges of her boots. Her own reflection blinked too slowly in the glass.
And behind that reflection—
Another.
Distant.
Feminine.
Chained.
The silence was louder than any scream.
She stepped onto the bridge.
Nyra stepped onto the Mirrorbridge.
The instant her foot touched the fractured glass, the world exhaled.
Not the wind.
Not the earth.
Reality.
The atmosphere turned viscous, like she'd waded into a place that remembered too much and forgave nothing.
The glass beneath her boots rippled—solid, but alive. Each step sent faint pulses of warped light skimming out in waves. Sound didn't echo here. It swallowed.
She paused halfway across.
The mist thickened until the edges of the bridge dissolved. There was no end now—no entrance, no exit. Only the in-between.
Whispers stirred beneath the surface.
Her name.
No. Not her name exactly. Variants. Silken pronunciations of who she might've been.
"Princess."
"Pet."
"Silkling."
The bridge knew her.
Knew every version of her.
And it wanted to feed.
The first vision came slowly.
Like blood sinking into snow.
The mist parted, and light bent around her. The bridge reshaped, widening. Stretching.
Nyra blinked.
The Dominion Academy vanished.
In its place stood a marble courtyard. High balconies ringed it, woven with gold filigree. Banners bearing her father's crest billowed in warm, perfumed winds.
And she—
She stood beneath the sunlight, not in chains, not in flame, but in silk.
Gowns the color of rose-petals. Jewelry twining her neck and wrists.
A tiara glittered across her brow.
Laughter bubbled from her throat.
It didn't sound like her.
Across the courtyard, nobles clapped. One of them—a boy with soft hands and softer eyes—approached, offering her a delicate flower carved from enchanted glass.
She took it. Curtsied.
Smiled.
This is not real.
The thought struck her like a blade.
Her fingers clenched. The flower shattered.
This is not who I am.
But the vision continued.
Her voice purred, trained in diplomacy and flattery.
She sat beside the Queen, who draped an arm around her shoulder with matronly pride.
No chains. No scars. No fire.
Nyra shook.
"No."
The image flickered.
The fake version of her—the silken caged creature—tilted her head.
Smiled again.
"Why not this?"
The chains at Nyra's side flared hot.
Her breath quickened.
"Because I'd rather bleed than be coddled in their lie."
The version of her paused… then turned to ash.
The vision collapsed.
The warmth vanished.
And the bridge pulsed hungrily beneath her feet.
She staggered.
The mist surged.
But Nyra grit her teeth and kept walking.
The bridge wasn't just showing her illusions.
It was digging.
Looking for the version of her that would break.
It hadn't found it yet.
But it would try.
The silence turned sharp.
The kind that cuts not through the air—but through the soul.
Nyra stood alone in the mist-choked ruin of her first vision, breath shallow, spine rigid. The fake warmth had vanished. The noble smiles had turned to smoke.
And the Mirrorbridge wanted more.
It pulsed underfoot. Not rhythmically. Hungrily.
The mist around her thickened again.
Color bled away.
The glass under her boots darkened—not with shadow, but with something deeper.
Memory.
The second vision hit harder.
No build-up.
Just violence.
Just truth.
She dropped to her knees.
The sky above her shifted—gray, heavy, rimmed in soot.
She was in a pit. A real one this time. Earth-packed. Flies buzzing over rot. And she—
She was small.
Dirty.
Dead.
Her body twisted, half-covered in mud. Flies crawled along her lips. Her branded wrist, bloated, rose like an accusation.
Nyra stared.
Frozen.
The world around her blurred and narrowed.
This wasn't a distortion.
This had nearly happened.
She had come this close to being forgotten. A number. A nameless body buried beneath hundreds of others in the slave pits of Grellith.
A sharp whine filled her ears.
The chains around her arms trembled.
A scream built in her chest.
But it didn't escape.
Not yet.
Not yet.
"You should've died there."
The voice was hers.
No echo.
No distortion.
Just her.
But filled with loathing.
"They forgot you. Like all the others. You were never meant to be more."
Nyra's jaw clenched. She rose slowly, shaking, eyes wide with fury.
"You think I don't know that?"
Her voice cracked. Not from weakness. From fire.
"I was meant to rot. Meant to serve. Meant to bleed for them. And I did. But I'm still. Fucking. Here."
She raised her hand, calling flame.
Nothing.
The Mirrorbridge fed on fear. On grief. It choked her magic, burying her Crownfire in the marrow of her bones.
Pain surged through her spine, her limbs.
The brand on her wrist flared red-hot.
The corpse version of her laughed.
Chains turned to snakes.
Mist turned to blood.
And still she stood.
"You want to show me death?"
Her eyes burned silver, even without magic.
"I live with it. I was it. You can't break me with something I buried already."
The corpse dissolved into smoke.
The mirror cracked.
A thin line across the glass. Violet-black. Pulsing.
Somewhere far above, outside the veil of the Mirrorbridge, Kierian watched.
Hidden in the shadowed ridge of the Northern spire.
His breath shallow.
His hand curled loosely around the hilt of a hidden blade.
But he didn't move.
Didn't intervene.
Only watched.
His expression unreadable.
His eyes full of something dangerous.
And quiet.
Back inside the bridge, Nyra stood alone.
Breathing hard.
Her knees shaking.
But unbroken.
And the Mirror hungered still.
It would dig deeper.
It would reach for what even she hadn't dared confront yet.
And Nyra was ready.
The crack across the mirror widened.
Nyra staggered forward. Each step sent another pulse through the bridge, distorting the mist until it shimmered like warped glass.
The air had weight now.
Like grief pressed into the lungs.
A third vision rose without warning—not conjured, not summoned, just there.
She stood in a corridor she had never walked, yet knew too well.
White marble underfoot. Royal banners on the walls. The scent of perfume, cinnamon, and the subtle burn of incense carried by the breeze.
At the far end stood King Vaelor.
Tall. Regal. Unflinching.
He opened his arms.
And for a moment—a terrible, flickering moment—Nyra ran to him.
Her heart betrayed her feet.
She wanted to believe.
Wanted to be seen.
Wanted to matter.
But as she reached out—
His face began to dissolve.
The skin peeled into ash.
His eyes emptied into void.
His arm, once extended, cracked into dust before it could touch her.
Then came the whisper.
Not from him.
From behind her.
Cold. Female. Familiar.
"A mistake, born of weakness. You were never meant to be more."
Nyra turned.
Queen Selene.
Eyes like a glacier's core. Lips painted with stillborn smiles.
She circled Nyra, hands clasped before her like a priestess delivering a sentence.
"A slave pretending to be blood. A spark pretending to be fire."
Nyra clenched her fists.
"You fear me," she said, voice sharp.
Selene smiled.
"No. I pity you."
The corridor cracked.
The floor rippled.
Above, the sky fractured.
Twin auroras twisted together in unnatural spirals, curling over the broken vision like celestial veins bleeding into void.
In that swirl of colors, she saw something else—a glimpse of The Cradle of Falling Light.
Not solid. Not real.
A memory echo, or a prophecy.
Or something else entirely.
The ground quaked.
Nyra dropped to her knees.
The bridge tightened around her—a thousand invisible hands locking her in place.
The voice returned.
"This is the truth."
Her chains turned red-hot.
The Crownfire within her clawed for release.
But the Mirror fed on her doubt. It forced her to choke on her own potential.
It demanded surrender.
She gasped, fighting it.
No. No. No.
And then—
Something broke.
Inside.
Not with rage.
Not with hate.
With sorrow.
The tears came quietly. Not loud. Not desperate.
But deep.
And real.
She saw her mother's smile, blurry in memory.
She saw Kierian's gaze the night he called her "Hellcat."
She saw Seraph's stillness, Riven's reckless grin.
I am not a mistake.
The Mirror cracked again.
A pulse of violet-black light erupted from her chest, blasting outward in all directions.
The Queen vanished.
The corridor disintegrated.
Above, the auroras screamed.
And far away, through the broken mists of the real world—Kierian saw it.
Felt it.
The sky above the bridge warped.
But still he did not move.
Only gripped his blade.
Ready.
Just in case.
The Mirrorbridge groaned.
Hairline fractures laced its surface like veins of light frozen mid-shatter. Every crack pulsed with Nyra's heartbeat, each beat slower now. Heavier.
She stood at the center of the distortion.
Chest heaving. Blood dripping from her nose, her palms, her wrists—the latter burning where the brand had split open, searing red against her dark skin.
And the Mirror—
The Mirror wasn't finished with her yet.
The mist thickened one last time.
The air turned to ash.
And from it stepped herself.
But not as she was.
Not anymore.
This version wore no fire, no blood, no scars.
She wore a collar shaped from Seraph's silence.
Chains forged from Riven's loyalty.
And eyes stolen from Nyra's own grief.
She moved like a whisper. Like a wound.
She stopped just feet away, head tilted in eerie recognition.
Then she spoke—and it was Nyra's own voice.
"You were always meant to kneel."
Nyra flinched.
Not from the voice.
From the truth behind it.
This was not a lie.
This was the voice of every moment she considered giving up. Every second she thought she couldn't survive the next breath. Every flash of shame, of hunger, of hatred for her own reflection.
She didn't step back.
She stepped forward.
Chains dragging.
Flames dormant.
Bones aching.
The reflection bared its teeth.
"You think fire makes you more than what you are? You think their love makes you real? You are broken. You are ruin in a girl's skin."
Nyra shook.
But her feet did not stop.
She walked forward like a ghost seeking closure.
"You are rage. You are fear. You are the girl they marked."
"Yes," Nyra whispered.
The reflection blinked.
"Yes," she said louder. "I am. I am all of those things."
She reached out.
And embraced the horror.
The reflection tensed—then writhed.
Cracked.
Screamed.
And shattered.
Not from violence.
From acceptance.
The Mirrorbridge shrieked.
Cracks webbed across its entire surface, and then— a drop of blood fell.
Nyra's.
It hit the glass.
And ignited.
Not gold.
Not red.
Amethyst. Inferno. Crownfire.
It erupted from her chest like a birth scream.
Not controlled.
Not beautiful.
Wild.
Unforgiving.
The mist recoiled.
The visions died.
And for a single breath, the Mirrorbridge burned with stars.
Far above, Kierian stepped back from the ledge.
His blade untouched.
His eyes wide.
"She did it," he murmured.
A pause.
Then, quieter.
"She's not their slave anymore. She's their reckoning."