Chapter 20
The circle of binding pulsed like a living heart.
Eliendara's breath caught as the world split open around her—flashes of memory, magic, and soul tearing at her skin like wind razors. She was inside the mirror now, but not looking into it.
She was standing on the other side.
And she was standing across from her.
The Bride.
The reflection.
The other Eliendara.
They were identical in every way—down to the way they tilted their heads, the way their fingers flexed before casting a spell. But one shimmered with a subtle distortion, a flaw hidden beneath perfect imitation.
"You don't belong here," Eliendara said, voice steady.
"I do," the Bride replied, voice soft as breath. "I was born the moment you died. Carved out of memory, pain, and sacrifice. I am everything you left behind."
Eliendara narrowed her eyes. "You're a ghost. A shadow pretending to be flesh."
The Bride smiled sadly. "Then why do I remember everything you've forgotten?"
With a flick of her fingers, the world around them transformed.
Eliendara saw her old room in Vexley manor—the red drapes, the silver hairbrush, the carved violin resting on the windowsill. She hadn't thought of this room in years.
"Your first kiss," the Bride whispered. The air shimmered.
A young boy with soft brown eyes and trembling hands leaned in beneath the moonlight.
"Your first betrayal."
A knife. Her mother's voice. A door slamming shut.
"These are not just memories. They are mine," the Bride said. "I kept them alive when you buried them. I protected them while you erased yourself."
The room shattered.
They were back in the mirror realm—an endless white void with fractured reflections spinning around them like stars.
Then—
They attacked.
Flashes of light and shadow collided. Fire and frost met mid-air. Each spell mirrored perfectly. Every dodge met with its twin.
Magic couldn't decide which one was real.
But the soul could.
Eliendara dove inward, closing her eyes, searching not in memory—but in pain.
Pain the Bride had never felt.
The ache of waking up in blood-soaked sheets.
The weight of Ryven's betrayal.
The chill of Thorne's last kiss before her execution.
The grief of becoming a name that no longer fit.
"I suffered for this body," Eliendara growled. "I bled for this soul. You may have my face—but you'll never have my fire."
The mirror-self hesitated.
Too late.
Eliendara's hand burst with soulfire. Not just magic—memory turned into weapon.
She hurled it.
The Bride screamed as the flames wrapped around her, not burning her flesh—but burning her falsehood.
Glass cracked.
Reality splintered.
And then—
Shatter.
The mirror exploded.
Eliendara gasped, collapsing onto the stone floor of the Sanctuary of Veiled Flame.
Kael caught her just before she hit the ground, sword drawn.
The guests—those puppet shades—vanished in a pulse of dying magic.
And across the altar, the Bride knelt in silence… veil torn, body still glowing faintly.
Then her head dropped.
And she was gone.
Thorne stood at the edge of the altar, frozen.
"I gave her everything," he whispered.
Eliendara rose slowly. "You gave her stolen things. And I've come to take them back."
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Thorne isn't done.
He pulls out a black dagger carved from bone—And offers his life to a deeper power…
To awaken the Sixth Sealing Lord.The one who cannot be touched by fire…Because he was born in it.