Every mirror in the corridor was cracked.
Each pane, from smallest to largest, bore a spiderweb of fine fractures, like frost etched in an instant. The central oval, the one I’d stood at, had a single, clean line running from top to bottom—like a scar.
In that mirror, reflected faintly amid the fractured images of the corridor, one sigil glowed.
Not the priestess’s thorned circle.
Something else.
Something I didn’t recognize.
My butterfly mark pulsed once, hard, in answer.
“Maeve?” Keegan’s voice was gentle now, wary. “What did they say?”
I opened my mouth.
And realized I couldn’t quite remember.
Not all of it. Not in order. Just shards like half phrases, the echo of Elira’s urgency, the priestess’s cool emphasis, muddled together like words seen underwater.
Don’t trust…
The circle.
In four days.
Gate.
Hunger…
And that new sigil humming in the corner of my eye.
I swallowed, throat tight.
“I… don’t know yet,” I whispered.
Nova followed my gaze to the cracked mirror. Her mouth pressed into a line.
“We’ll find out,” she said. “But not while you’re still half in the floor.”
Twobble straightened, trying to look brave and failing at the ears.
“Don’t worry,” he told me. “While you were unconscious, I took detailed notes.”
He held up a notepad.
It was blank.
“…Meaningful notes,” I croaked.
“I was emotionally taking notes,” he said defensively.
Keegan slipped an arm under my shoulders and helped me sit. My head swam.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Keegan said.
I managed a weak smile. “You think distance is going to stop them?”
