The mirror had stopped reflecting her properly.
Aurora stared into it the morning after the Moonwell meeting, the sigil beneath her skin still warm. Her reflection blinked back — but delayed, like it lagged behind time. When she moved, the image followed half a breath too late. And sometimes — just for a flash — it wasn't her reflection at all.
It was a version of her she didn't recognize.
Eyes darker. Hair longer. Expression cold.
Unflinching.
She didn't know which was worse: that it stared back… or that part of her understood it.
A soft knock pulled her from the mirror's gaze.
She opened the door to find Atlas standing in the hall, hands behind his back, posture crisp.
"I need a word," he said.
"Of course you do."
She stepped aside, letting him in.
He didn't look around — didn't examine the room like Ethan did, didn't hover with curiosity. He stood in the center like a shadow had walked in.
"You were seen near the archives last night," he said.
Aurora arched a brow. "Spying again?"
"Protecting."
She laughed once, mirthless. "Still not sure from what? Or from whom?"
Atlas studied her.
"There are relics sealed beneath the Sigil Archives," he said. "Ones that only respond to certain bloodlines. The kind no one should be able to touch anymore."
Her heart pounded. "And if someone did touch one?"
"It would mean one of two things," he said, voice low. "Either the relic is failing… or the bloodline was never truly gone."
She looked at him fully now, eyes burning.
"I remember a name," she said. "Do you?"
His expression didn't change. "Aestrael."
The word hung between them like a blade.
Atlas stepped closer.
"When I was younger," he said, "I found a sealed scroll in the north tower library. It had no crest, no ink, no house. Just a name burned into the parchment. When I read it… I bled."
Aurora stared.
"I didn't understand why then. But I do now. The seal wasn't meant to keep you out. It was meant to keep the world safe from remembering you."
He hesitated.
"I think… I helped write that seal."
Aurora's blood ran cold.
"What?"
Atlas looked sick with the confession.
"I don't remember everything. I was young. Part of an advanced binding trial. The council chose initiates with memory-resistant traits — children who could perform the ritual but wouldn't remember it fully afterward."
"And you were one of them."
"I think so. You were just a child then. I don't know what they saw in you, or why they feared it. But they were terrified."
He looked at her now, not with suspicion — but with something like guilt.
"I think I helped erase you."
Aurora couldn't speak.
Her hands trembled at her sides, fists clenched.
"And now?" she asked, voice raw.
"I don't know," he said.
She stepped back.
"I don't need your protection," she said coldly. "I need the truth."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
She opened the door and nodded toward the hallway
Atlas lingered — for just a moment — then left without another word.
Alone again, Aurora returned to the mirror.
This time, she pressed her hand to the glass.
"Show me," she whispered.
The surface rippled.
Images bloomed like smoke.
Not memories.
Possibilities.
Aetherwyn burning.
Atlas kneeling, blood on his hands.
Ethan reaching for her, his eyes blazing with fear and something else.
A crown of light and ash on her head.
And behind her… the seal breaking. Something immense awakening beyond the Veil.
She pulled her hand back.
The mirror stilled.
But the echoes remained.
Later that evening, Ethan found her in the observatory courtyard, watching the moons drift.
"You look like hell," he said, sitting beside her.
"I feel worse."
He glanced at her face. "What happened?"
"Atlas remembers helping erase me."
Ethan didn't speak for a long moment.
Then, finally, he said, "Do you want me to break his jaw?"
She smiled. Just barely.
"No."
"Because I will."
"I know."
Silence again.
Then Ethan reached into his pocket and handed her something.
A chain. Delicate. Silver-veined obsidian. At its end: a pendant bearing a familiar sigil.
The spiral-thorn.
"Where did you get this?" she asked.
"Negasi," he said. "Said you'd need it soon."
Aurora stared at the pendant.
It pulsed — faintly, like a second heartbeat
"They're afraid of you," Ethan said. "Because you could end everything they've built."
She looked at him.
"And you?"
"I'm not afraid," he said quietly. "I'm curious."
"Curious people die first."
Ethan leaned closer, his voice a whisper against her skin.
"Then let me die knowing what you are."
That night, she wore the pendant to sleep.
And for the first time, the mirror didn't reflect her at all.
It showed only fire.