Cassia dreamed of mirrors.
They stretched endlessly in both directions, tall and silver-edged, their surfaces rippling like water. She stood barefoot on a floor that felt like glass, though it made no sound beneath her steps. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and something older—dust, maybe, or parchment left too long in the sun.
She turned slowly, unsure of where she was or how she had arrived. Her reflection was nowhere to be seen. The mirrors showed other things instead: a forest of black trees swaying under a violet sky, a staircase spiraling into clouds, a girl running barefoot through fog, her hair tangled with leaves.
Then came the voice.
'Cassia.'
It was soft, but it echoed through the corridor like a bell tolling underwater.
She turned again.
At the far end of the mirrored hall stood a girl. Her figure was blurred at the edges, like smoke caught in moonlight, but Cassia knew her instantly.
'Lucy?' she whispered.
Lucy looked older than she had in memory. Her dress was torn at the hem, her arms scratched, her eyes wide and glowing faintly blue. She held something in her hands—a single page, yellowed and trembling like it was afraid.
'You have to take it,' Lucy said. Her voice was urgent, but her face was calm. 'Before they find me.'
Cassia took a step forward. The mirrors around her began to hum, a low vibration that made her teeth ache. She looked down at her feet. The floor was cracking beneath her, thin lines of light spreading like veins.
'What is this place?' she asked.
Lucy didn't answer. She pressed the page into Cassia's hands. It was warm. The ink on it moved, not like it was wet, but like it was alive.
'Magland is real,' Lucy said. 'And it is dying.'
Cassia opened her mouth to speak, but the mirrors shattered all at once. The sound was like thunder and bells and screaming wind.
She woke up gasping.
The ceiling fan spun lazily above her, casting slow-moving shadows across the walls. Her room was dark, the kind of dark that feels thick, like velvet pulled over the eyes. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—3:17 AM.
She sat up slowly, her breath catching in her throat.
Her hands were clenched around something.
She opened them.
The page was still there.
It was real.
It was warm.
And the ink was still moving.
—
She didn't sleep again that night.
She sat at her desk with the lamp on low, the page laid out before her like a secret. The symbols were strange—curved lines, spirals, dots that seemed to shift when she blinked. They reminded her of constellations, or the way rivers looked from above.
She tried to copy them into her notebook, but the lines refused to stay still. Every time she looked away, they rearranged themselves.
By morning, the page had cooled. The ink no longer shimmered, but it still pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat buried deep in the paper.
She tucked it into her notebook and closed the cover.
Downstairs, her parents were packing for their trip. Her mother was folding sweaters into a suitcase, her father checking the car keys twice.
'You sure you'll be okay alone for the weekend?' her mother asked, brushing a strand of hair from Cassia's face.
Cassia nodded. 'I've got that paper due for Professor Lin. I'll be at the library most of the time.'
Her father smiled. 'No parties.'
'No people,' she said, and they both laughed.
By noon, the house was quiet.
Cassia stood at the window and watched the car disappear down the road. The silence that followed was thick and unfamiliar. She turned away and picked up her bag.
The library was waiting.
—
The third floor was nearly empty. Just the way she liked it.
Cassia chose her usual seat by the tall window, the one that overlooked the street. The sky outside was the color of wet ash. Rain tapped gently against the glass, slow and steady.
She opened her books, spread them out like a ritual. Ancient languages. Forgotten scripts. She flipped through the pages, eyes scanning for anything that resembled the symbols on the page.
Nothing matched.
Her coffee cooled beside her. Her fingers drummed against the table.
She looked up.
And froze.
Across the street, just beyond the glass, a figure stood motionless on the sidewalk. Cloaked in black, face hidden beneath a deep hood. He was staring directly at her.
Cassia's breath caught.
The figure raised one hand, palm open.
The lights above her flickered.
She blinked.
He was gone.
—
She told herself it was nothing. A trick of the light. A tired mind.
But when she got home, the page was gone.
She tore through her bag, her books, the kitchen table. Nothing.
Then she heard it.
A sound from above.
A soft thump.
The attic.
She hadn't been up there in years.
The ladder creaked beneath her weight. Dust swirled in the beam of her flashlight. Boxes loomed like sleeping animals. She stepped carefully, her foot brushing against something soft.
A velvet-wrapped bundle sat atop an old chest.
She knelt and unwrapped it.
A book.
Thick. Leather-bound. No title.
She opened it.
The first page was blank.
The second was not.
The same symbols.
And her name.
Written in ink that shimmered like moonlight.