It shifted behind her with a click, groaning low like some awakened beast.
Before she could react, Hazel fell backward into nothingness, with nothing solid to grasp until the hard, dusty floor rose to meet her. She coughed through the cloud of dust as she righted herself.
But to her horror, the wall she’d somehow fallen through was already closing, sealing her off from her room and leaving her in darkness.
She pushed to her feet, lunging at the wall where the door had been moments before. She searched for anything, any way back in, but there were no loose stones, no hidden buttons. Clearly, she wasn’t getting back the way she came.
Hazel turned to face the room she’d entered, surveying her surroundings once the dust cleared. She was in a small antechamber—high above her, a small, barred window allowed in a sliver of light. On the far wall, there was an opening about knee high.
After inspecting it, Hazel knew what she needed to do. It seemed safe enough, and her options were… limited, at best.
On the other side of the tunnel, Hazel brushed cobwebs away and dusted off her nightdress. This room was vast and long forgotten.
It was a library. An old, abandoned library, but a library, nonetheless. Notably missing… the books. Empty shelves filled the space, and the tables arranged near the looming windows were coated in a thick layer of dust.
Hazel walked down one dark aisle toward the center of the room. Something thumped to the floor several aisles up, and she froze, every fiber of her being on alert.What in the gods…Her locketthrummedagainst her skin, as if pulling her toward the sound. It had never urged hertowardsomething; only warned against it. So, she obeyed.
As she peered from behind a bookcase, Hazel found the culprit: a small leather-bound tome. At first glance, the shelves had appeared bare, but perhaps someone had missed a book or two in their clean out
She picked it up, noting the ancient runes along the spine, etched into the leather. She couldn’t make heads or tails of the symbols but thought the inside might hold more information. Except… it couldn’t be opened. Not by her, anyway. It was bound by an obsidian lock with no place for a physical key.Fascinating.She’d heard of magical locks before, but seeing one in use was something else.
Hazel slid the book into the pocket of her nightdress, trying to ignore the way her locket damn near vibrated beneath her shift. Was it related somehow to the book? Maybe, if she was lucky, her magic would gain her entry beyond the dusty cover. But that was a problem for later. She still needed to find a way out.
The space was grand, and at one point, probably spectacular. The dark emerald velvet curtains were sun-bleached. The oak tables were scratched and worn from years of use, covered in cobwebs and a thick layer of dust. But there were no doors to speak of, at least not that she’d seen.
Walking along the empty stacks wishing she’d grabbed a shawl, a strange object caught her attention. In a corner ensconced in shadow, a cream-colored sheet loomed. It was nearly touching the ceiling and as she approached, she felt asthough it could swallow her whole. She reached out to touch the sheet, and it fell.
Hazel yelped, unable to hold it in. But nothing could have prepared her for what was beneath.
It was a mirror, or at least looked as though itshouldbe a mirror. Except there was no reflection. The glass was as still and dark as a motionless lake at midnight. Its frame was wrought from fine silver, with twisting vines and leaves so intricate they might as well be alive. Woven in among the vines were roses and briarthorn. Unable to resist the childish temptation, Hazel reached out to touch a silver rose petal and pricked her finger on one of the thorny stems. She recoiled, sucking away the blood that pooled immediately at her fingertip.
The mirror’s surface came to life, rippling from the center outward as it formed her reflection. A visage drenched in moonlight, her hair was a wild, living flame as her gemstone eyes sparkled.
It spoke, then, in a language she’d never heard. Something visceral, vibrating down to the very marrow of her bones.
Then a booming voice came, deep and mysterious. Melodic and ancient.
“Who bares their soul to the Mirror of Truth?” the mirror asked.
What was she going to do, ignore it? It couldn’t be talking to anyone else. “Hazel,” she whimpered. “Hazel Callahan.”
The mirror groaned. It spoke again with contempt in its voice. “Interesting. I wonder… does she lie to me… or to herself? I know noHazel Callahan. But I do know the blood coursing through her veins. I have tasted it before. Hmm. No matter, though. I tell lies too.”
Hazel gulped audibly.
“I am the Mirror of Truth. Though if I am honest, as a Mirror of Truth should be, I don’t find my name all that fitting. You see,I don’tonlytell the truth. In fact, I promise to tell exactly one lie. Two truths and oneun-truth. But I’m not going to tell you which. That’s the fun of it. Though I suppose not everyone finds it enjoyable. In fact, I’ve driven a few mad over the years.” Hazel was completely taken aback, wondering if it would be rude to ask the mirror who it was, or used to be. It was far too human to not be a cursed being.
After a few quiet moments had passed, the mirror spoke again. “Are you ready, Hazel Callahan?”
She nodded. What choice did she have? Besides, her locket was abnormally calm in the presence of this enchanted mirror. Perhaps it was harmless.
The surface of the mirror swirled, distorting Hazel’s reflection until it was gone. “What you are about to see cannot be unseen. Two things are true, one make-believe, a glimpse of the past, or what is yet to be. Remember, the strongest are not those who can parse out the lie, but those who can live with the truth. And so, let us begin.”
An image formed on the mirror then. A somber, rainy day where dark clouds blotted out the sky. Men and women dressed in black huddled together beside a giant pile of kindling. Upon the pile… a body. A mourning dirge rose up from the crowd slowly, amidst choked sobs and wails and Hazel understood what she was witnessing; it was a funeral pyre. She approached the women at the front but did not recognize them. Her eyes landed upon the deceased woman, taking in her too-young face, evidence of a life cut short. A face framed by kohl black hair streaked with white, the long strands draped delicately past her shoulders to lie upon her white gown.
A stunning woman, even in death.
Hazel’s eyes snagged on a familiar face, and her heart fell into her stomach.
