POV: Mara
---
They always forget the mirror loves her, too.
Not just Irlenne. Not just Lucien.
Her.
Mara was the first to feed it a secret. The first to carve her name into its glass throat. Long before Irlenne ever learned how to smile without apology.
She stands now in the room behind the room — the mirror's spine — where reflections are born like whispers, and lies are forged like promises.
And the glass is angry.
Because Irlenne came back whole.
Because Lucien followed her, and didn't unravel.
Because the truth Mara bled for is crumbling.
---
> "I gave you everything," she says to the mirror, voice quiet, trembling.
The room doesn't answer. It never answers. But it listens.
It always listens.
Mara steps closer.
Behind her, dozens of distorted versions of herself flicker in suspended frames of light.
One is queen of the house, married to Lucien.
One wears Irlenne's skin like a dress.
One is laughing, always laughing, as blood rains from a skylight.
> "I was loyal. I gave you her trust. Her fears. Her love."
The mirror ripples, faintly.
A crack appears in Mara's favorite version.
The one where she wins.
---
For the first time, Mara feels it:
The mirror turning against her.
She's no longer the favored lie.
Irlenne has become something stronger.
A truth that refuses to die.
---
> "No," she whispers, panic bleeding into her voice. "No, this is wrong. I was promised—I was told—"
The room darkens.
The other Maras begin to fade.
She's alone.
Truly alone.
Until—
A new reflection rises.
Not of her.
Of Irlenne.
Standing in the gilded halls of the real world. Holding Lucien's hand. Eyes clear. Heart heavy, but hers.
> "You were never meant to be me," the reflection says.
Mara takes a step back.
> "You don't belong here."
> "Neither do you," the glass Irlenne replies. "Not anymore."
---
The glass beneath Mara's feet fractures.
A spiderweb of cracks races outward, shimmering with sharp silver light.
And then—she's falling.
Not through space.
Through versions.
Through every lie she ever told.
---
✴︎
She hits the bottom hard.
A cold, silver plain.
Empty.
Except for the mirror.
Just one.
Standing alone, like a gravestone.
She crawls toward it.
Her hands shake.
Inside, she sees herself—
But not beautiful.
Not worshiped.
Not wanted.
Just a girl.
Small. Envious. Forgotten.
The kind of girl no one ever chooses.
> "Please," she whispers. "I did everything for love."
The mirror flickers.
And shows her the truth:
She did everything for power.
---
She screams.
The glass doesn't break.
Because this time, she's not looking at a lie.
She's looking at the only version the mirror ever refused to show her:
The one where she's just herself.
Unloved.
Unseen.
Unfinished.
---
And slowly—
The edges of the mirror begin to burn.
A quiet kind of fire. Not cruel. Not fast.
But consuming.
Because there's nothing left to reflect.
Only ashes.