Amara woke with the cold certainty that something was wrong.
It wasn't the kind of wrong that screamed or startled. It simply settled there, just behind her eyes and beneath her ribs, like it had always been waiting. The room was quiet—soft morning light slid through the shuttered window, stretching across the floor in pale ribbons. Luke was gone. His side of the room was tidy as ever, his satchel missing from its usual hook, a book left open on the desk.
She sat up slowly, her limbs heavy, the blanket dragging against her legs like wet cloth. Without thinking, she whispered a charm Luke taught her—simple, practiced, harmless—to clear the condensation from the window.
Instead, the mirror cracked.
A spiral fracture spread across its surface, blooming silently like frost. It glowed for a heartbeat, then faded into stillness.
Amara stared at it. Her chest rose and fell slowly. She said nothing. She didn't move.
When Luke returned around midday, she was curled on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, eyes unfocused and distant. He placed a paper bag on the table beside her.
"I got you something," he said casually. "Raspberry glaze. You like those, right?"
She blinked. "Thanks," she said softly, without reaching for it.
Luke sat across from her, watching. She didn't meet his gaze.
The rest of the day passed in slow, uncomfortable silence. Amara stayed in the dorm, still and quiet. She didn't tease him or smirk when he recited spell theory aloud, pretending to study. She didn't even react when he got one of the glyphs wrong. Her hands were folded in her lap most of the time, but every now and then he caught them twitching—like she was drawing runes in the air without meaning to. Shapes he didn't recognize.
He didn't say anything.
That evening, she stood by the window, staring out into the darkening sky. Her palm hovered just above the pane, unmoving, as if she were listening to something outside.
Luke looked up from his notes.
"Hey," he said, voice light. "You okay?"
She turned slowly. Her expression was blank.
"I'm fine," she said.
It was too calm. Too careful.
Later, when she was asleep on the couch, Luke approached the window where she had stood. A thin layer of frost had crept across the glass, but in the center was a perfect sigil, carved into the condensation as if etched by heat. It shimmered faintly, lines rigid and ancient.
Luke touched it.
Pain flared across his fingertip, sharp and bright. He hissed and jerked his hand back.
The sigil vanished.
That night, Amara woke from another dream. She didn't remember the shape of it—only heat and shadows and the echo of her own voice shouting a name that didn't feel like hers.
She stood in front of the mirror.
The spiral crack was still there, etched like a scar.
For just a second, the reflection staring back at her shifted. The eyes weren't hers. The mouth curled faintly—not into a smile, but something close. A shimmer hovered above the head in the glass: not a crown exactly, but something meant to be worn.
Then it was gone.
She exhaled, voice barely audible. "Still me," she whispered. "Still Amara."
The reflection didn't respond.
Across the room, Luke stirred in bed. His breathing was steady, but his eyes were open.
He watched her for a moment before turning away.
He didn't know what was happening to her.
But he wanted to help.