The air was still.
Wu Zetian stepped into the chamber. Her hard slippers made no sound against the polished mirror-like floor. No, not only the floor, but even the walls and ceiling were made of mirrors.
These drank in the light like black water, and when they returned it, they gave no reflection of her present self.
Instead, they showed fragments of her past.
A child's face stared out from the first mirror, her own, barely nine years old, head bowed as her father, Wu Shihuo, the Duke of Ying, praised her brothers but overlooked her.
She had been born to privilege, yes, but privilege was only an ornament for a girl; her father's wealth could not buy her place in the histories.
"You are clever," the mirror whispered with her father's voice, "but a daughter's cleverness brings only trouble."
Wu Zetian's lips curled down, but she quickly covered them with her fan. She moved on, refusing to meet the child's eyes.
The next mirror was sharper.
