The floor hums with a waltz. The vibration rises through my slippers and into my bones. Perfume drifts in waves—crushed roses, honeyed wine, and something sharp and metallic beneath it. Laughter rings too brightly, then fades, swallowed by the vastness of the room.
Mariel sidles close, her mask a sweep of green leaves and gilt thorns. “If this place is cursed,” she whispers, “it’s very committed to the ambiance.”
“Committed to something,” I murmur.
The mirrors feel wrong. Not broken—misaligned. When I lift my hand, my reflections follow a second too late.
“Don’t,” Vivian breathes, appearing at my other side like smoke. She’s wrapped in pale lilac, her mask dusted with crushed pearls. Her fingers twitch at her skirt. “My grandmother said mirrors are doors to other worlds. The more beautiful the frame, the more dangerous the threshold.”
“Your grandmother also said garlic cures heartbreak,” Mariel replies lightly, trying to cut through the unease curling in our chests.
Ahead of us, Cassy drifts forward—a ribboned dove among wolves. Her simple cream mask makes her look even younger. She pauses before a tall mirror, peering into it as if hoping for a safer version of the world.
The glass throws her back in triplicate. Three Cassys. Three sets of wide, uncertain eyes.
And behind her shoulder—just for a breath—a fourth figure stands where none should.
I blink, and it’s gone.
At the far end of the ballroom, the courtiers wait—the Bound Four.
Mae glows in pale gold, candlelight caught in her golden curls, amber eyes steady as sanctuary lamps. Arther guards thearchway in black military dress, shoulders squared, jaw set like iron—holding back a tide no one else can see. Cassian moves through the crowd with easy warmth, bronze skin and a smile that draws people in like a hearth in winter. His twin, Lyra, drifts at the mirrored edges of the room, arrayed in silver. Her golden eyes catch the light and return it as starlight. When she turns her head, even the glass seems to lean closer.
The orchestra plays with cold precision. Beneath the silk and splendor, I feel the keep watching. Remembering. This court is not just beauty and secrets. It is power. It is judgment.
Then Seraphina arrives.
She sweeps in, wrapped in gold silk and danger, her mask a shard of onyx that drinks the light instead of reflecting it. Her gaze cuts straight to me, sharp with disdain.
“Try not to tremble, Fire,” she says. “Predators pounce on that.”
“Then you must feast every day,” I reply sweetly, holding her stare.
For a heartbeat, something like respect flickers in her eyes.
Farther down the hall, Elena studies her reflection like a prayer—hands folded at her waist, chin tilted just so. Every mirror loves her, returning her image perfect, perfect, perfect, until the perfection starts to feel like a lie.
The music swells. The crowd shifts.
He enters.
Keiren wears black, tailored to perfection. The fabric gleams like poured shadow, catching candlelight in subtle, iridescent ripples—stitched to echo the scales of a dragon’s hide. Silver threads his sleeves and collar, deliberate and restrained, mirroring the horns carved into the dragon mask that hides his face.
He moves as if the air itself yields to him.
His reflection multiplies in the mirrors until it feels as though a hundred kings stalk the hall at once.
My gown answers him. His colors. His mark.
The court sees it. The other brides see it. I feel it burn beneath my skin like a brand.
He steps forward, and for a heartbeat, the room forgets how to breathe. The mirrors tremble faintly. The candle flames bow toward him. My pulse stumbles—then steadies, but only because I force it to.
Every thread of my gown hums.
The crowd parts as though this moment belongs to us alone—the king and his chosen, predator and prey.
Our reflections tell the story first. A hundred Keirens advance across a hundred mirrored halls, masked silver eyes fixed on me. My breath catches. My fingers twitch as I imagine his hand closing around mine—the warmth, the weight, the whispers dissolving as he draws me in—
