Another strange detail to add to the list.
The mirror hung at the end of the hall.
It was archaic, salvaged from the ruins of some pre-Shift palace and brought here by my great-great-grandfather.
Twelve feet tall and six feet wide, its frame carved from black wood in the shape of intertwining serpents. Its surface was flawless silver, polished every week by servants who feared what they might see if they let it tarnish.
I watched my bride’s reflection as we approached.
She looked straight ahead. Chin lifted. Shoulders back. The posture of a woman who had learned not to show fear, even when she felt it.
I wondered what had taught her that. What had happened in her life before the Bride Market that had stripped the reactions from her face and left this smooth, frozen mask behind.
We passed the mirror.
CRACK.
The sound was sharp and sudden, like glass fracturing. I stopped. Turned. Looked at the damage.
A network of cracks split my bride’s reflection down the middle. Her face was divided, shattered, multiplied into a dozen fragments that didn’t quite align.
The rest of the mirror was untouched. My reflection stood whole and clear beside the ruin of hers.
She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t gasped. Hadn’t even turned to look.
“Bad luck,” I said. Testing.
She kept walking, careful not to look back at the damage. She knew. “Only if you believe in luck.”
I stood there for a moment, staring at the fractured glass. At the way her reflection had shattered while mine remained whole.
Mirrors didn’t lie. That was the old knowledge, the deep knowledge, the truth that even humans remembered from the world before the Shift. Mirrors reflected what was real. What was true.
I followed her down the hall, my boots echoing on the marble while her bare feet made no sound at all.
Dinner was the first test.
I’d had the kitchens prepare a feast. Roasted venison from the mountain herds, glazed with honey and black pepper. Root vegetables baked in clay. Fresh bread from the morning’s baking, still warm, steam rising when you broke the crust.
A soup made from bone broth and winter herbs, thick enough to coat a spoon.
Food for a human. Rich and heavy and designed to tempt.
My bride sat across from me at the long table, her plate full, her goblet filled with dark wine. Candles burned between us, their flames steady in the still air.
The dining hall was empty except for the two of us. I’d dismissed the servants.
She was performing.
I watched her cut a small piece of venison. Lift it to her lips. Chew. Mechanically. Precisely.
The same number of movements each time, the same rhythm, the same careful placement of the fork when she set it down. She swallowed. Reached for her goblet. Sipped.
Then her hand moved to her napkin.
Casual. Natural. The gesture of a woman dabbing at her lips after a sip of wine.
But I was watching. And I saw her spit the meat into the fabric before pushing it back to her lap.
