Rui
The mirror expelled her unceremoniously onto the other side.
Rui collapsed onto the cold, hard floor, shaking as sobs racked her body. The sting from her other-mother’s words persisted in her heart. She didn’t know if she could ever forgive herself for what happened that night four years ago. But her father was right. Her mother had offered her life. It was a gift. One Rui had never wanted but couldn’t refuse or discard. All she could do was use it to lead a meaningful life, and it was up to her to define that meaning.
She glanced around the small room she’d fallen into. It was dimly lit like a theater, each wall covered with mirrors. There were mirrors you could fit in your pocket and larger ones the size of a tall cabinet. Some were plain and simply designed, the kind of mirrors you could get at a local discount store, but there was one wall on the far side where the mirrors were more ornate, with intricate carvings on the wooden and metal frames.
But it wasn’t the difference in sizes or design or even the presence of so many in one room that threw Rui off. The weirdest thing was that instead of reflecting what was in front of them, each piece of glass functioned like a screen, displaying moving images like scenes from a film.
She stared at the plain rectangular mirror-screen on the wall closest to her. A six-year-old Rui was slipping a small pouch with her tooth in it under her pillow. She remembered this moment: she’d lost her first baby tooth and was hoping to lay a trap to catch a tooth fairy to prove to her classmates at her mundane school that tooth fairies existed.
Rui went from mirror to mirror, revisiting her childhood and adolescence. There she was at the movies with her parents, stuffing her face with caramel popcorn; there she was with Ada, celebrating with soup dumplingsafter they both cast their very first spell. And there was Zizi doing one of his silly dances to make her laugh.
It didn’t escape her notice that the memories on this wall were happy ones.
As she moved to another wall, something tugged at her wrist. The red thread was glowing again. She was beginning to doubt that Zizi was the one who’d tied it there. The thread had saved her earlier by leading her to the mirror in the alleyway, and she didn’t think he had magic like that.
The tug drew her to the far wall with the ornate mirrors. The mirrors seemed older than the others.
Rui squinted. One mirror showed a figure standing in a frosty black pine forest.
Lei Ying?
The young woman was wearing a purple hanfu, just like in Rui’s dreams and in the painting in the Fourth King’s bedroom. The uncanny resemblance between Lei Ying and herself was too obvious to ignore. If the previous mirrors had shown her memories from when she was younger, did this memory also belong to her? Was it from a different lifeshehad led in the past?
The same disorienting feeling she’d had in the Fourth King’s bedroom rushed over her. The glass rippled, and her vision distorted. She felt her world slanting forward, and she was falling, snow spiraling around her in a hush of white.
47
Yiran
If someone had told him even a week ago that he would be watching his suddenly-not-dead father preparing breakfast for him, Yiran would have called that person delusional. But here they were, sitting in the kitchenette of a small suite at a local bed-and-breakfast along the coast.
This place wasn’t too far from the quaint town his mother lived in, and they’d come here the evening before instead of making the long drive back to the city. Yiran had been so exhausted that he’d lain down on one of the beds right away and slept through the night.
It was surreal now in the muted morning light, watching his father casually flip a pancake as he asked Yiran about his time at Xingshan Academy. The room smelled warm and golden. It felt like a normal weekend, or a normal family getaway, and Song Liming was a normal father who cared about his normal son’s well-being. Yiran hated to admit it, but it was nice. Normal was nice.
Liming was relaxed, charming, genuinely interested in what he had to say. Unlike Song Wei, there was no air of judgment or scrutiny. Conversation seemed to flow so easily between them. Was this what Yiran could have had? Was this the childhood that had been brutally stripped away from him? Yiran fiddled with his glove, grappling with the resentment building up inside him. The bitterness he felt for his grandfather was a fire in his chest—unrelenting and consuming.
“Eat up,” his father said, placing a plate in front of him.
Steam rose from the stack of pancakes. They were golden, fluffy, and drizzled with honey, reminding Yiran of the ones his mother used to make as a treat. He didn’t want to think about how his father might have cooked this for her at some point. The first bite went down sweet and smooth, and he was about take another when his father sat across from him.
“That glove of yours,” his father said, pouring himself a cup of coffee, “the craftsmanship is exquisite.”
Yiran put his fork down. “Tesha Mak made it.”
“Ah yes, the Mak clan is famous for their weapon work. The twin heirs are each gifted in their own way.” His father’s eyes narrowed as he sipped his drink. “It seems there are a fair number of other gifted cadets at present. Lin Ru Yi is exceptional, I hear.” He trailed off, seemingly deep in thought.
Did his father know that Rui was his old friend’s daughter? Hehadto.
Before Yiran could ask, his father said, “Why don’t you try it without the glove?”
Yiran knew at once he was talking about channeling, and he felt his body winding into a tight coil. “Now?”
His father nodded encouragingly, but there was something in his eyes—something a little too wild and hungry—that made Yiran pause. His father shifted in his seat, and the look vanished, gentle encouragement surfacing in its place.
You cast magic in the Simulator, and you cast it when you had the girl’s spiritual energy, didn’t you? There’s more to you.
