You're not real," Camille whispered, her breath fogging the cracked surface of the ornate mirror. The bedroom was drenched in blue moonlight, casting a cold pallor over everything, the bed's velvet canopy, the ivory carpet, the untouched silver brush on her vanity. Her eyes were wide, haunted, red-rimmed from sleepless nights and screaming silences.
But her reflection didn't match her trembling lips.
In the mirror, Camille stood taller. Straighter. Her skin was radiant, her belly round and glowing, and her eyes, those eyes, burned crimson, deep as blood clotted in snow.
"You know me," the voice from the glass said.
"No," Camille shook her head. "No, I don't."
"You carried me. You made me."
"You're not mine!"
The mirror image smiled, not kindly. It was the smirk of a queen, of a curse, of something ancient that had waited too long. "I am prophecy. I am the flame reborn."
