But of course, none of that matters to a man lost in his own desires. Just as the revelers meant nothing to me, my titles mean nothing to him. He is ensnared, his gaze swallowed whole by the mirror’s promise.
From behind the male, I see nothing. Not what he sees. Not what I need. Only the tarnished surface of the mirror.
I must get closer.
I must move him.
I set a firm hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t so much as breathe in acknowledgment.
My fingers tighten. I step forward.
“You must move,” I say, my voice edged with command. No patience. No politeness.
Still, he stays.
For a moment, I wonder… is he truly lost? Or does he dare to ignore me? Either choice will end poorly for him.
I lean in, my lips near his ear. “Move. Now. Or I will move you myself. You do not want that.”
A breath of silence.
Then, in a snap of motion, he turns his head and what I see is not Fae.
The face before me is gray, hollow-cheeked, its skin stretched too thin over bone. Bulging, glassy eyes roll in their sockets, unfocused and wild. A mouth, dry and cracked, splits open to reveal rows of razored teeth. It hisses, then screeches, a jagged, unnatural sound, and lunges at me with gnarled claws.
Smoke curls instinctively at my fingertips. The void stirs, waiting, whispering the promise of Death Singer. But I do not draw it. Not yet. Not unless her life depends on it.
Instead, I strike.
My hand snaps to its throat, closing around the sinewy column. The creature writhes, clawing at my wrist, but I do not loosen my hold. I squeeze.
And then… it changes.
The monstrous features ripple, distorting. The bulging eyes recede. The jagged teeth dull and shrink. The sallow, corpse-like skin flushes, softening back into something familiar. Something Fae.
By the time I release him, he is gasping, staggering backward, his chest rising and falling in ragged desperation.
I watch him, my gaze cutting over his form, then flicking back to the mirror. I have always known its power, the way it can ensnare, consume, devour. But this?ThisI have never seen.
A soul so lost that it forgets itself entirely.
The male collapses at my feet.
“Leave,” I command.
He nods weakly, his body shaking as he staggers from the room. He does not look back at the mirror, though I can see the battle warring in his eyes, the desperate pull of whatever he saw. He folds into himself as he stumbles through the doorway, a broken thing, sobbing.
I turn to the mirror, and doubt flickers like a cold ember behind my eyes. What if I become lost as he did? I like to think myself stronger, immune to such enchantments. But the House of Taramethos is wise and wicked, their power of creation unrivaled, their methods unknown. That secrecy is what makes their artifacts so coveted and so feared.
I step closer, my eyes half-lidded, as if only offering a sliver of myself to its call. The mirror’s tarnished surface remains still, unremarkable, reflecting nothing more than my own face at first. But then, subtle as a breath, the image shifts.
The room behind me is not the one I stand in. Gone are the velvet-draped settees with their gilded edges, the sweeping tapestries, the grandeur of this forgotten house. In its place, something I know well. A massive hearth, its mantle carved with writhing serpents and grim-faced gargoyles. And above it… a painting.
A Fae female, her flowing gown gathered over the gentle swell of her belly.
I swallow hard. My pulse trips over itself.
“Mother?”
