The morning came late, as if the sun itself hesitated to rise over the Loomspire.
The crimson light that had once streaked through the city's veins was gone now, replaced by a brittle gray dawn. Ash drifted in the air, carried from the lower wards where the wardsmiths had burned every mirror, every shard of polished metal. Even the fountains had been drained, their basins filled with sand.
But no one felt safe.
Least of all Mary.
She stood at the edge of the Loomspire's central hall, gazing up at the shattered glass dome. The fractures from the Queen's last manifestation hadn't healed; they pulsed faintly, like veins under pale skin. Each crack seemed to breathe, widening imperceptibly when she looked away.
Loosie came up behind her, wiping soot from her hands. "Els wants us in the council chamber," she said. "Half the Weavers are refusing to stay. They say the Loomspire's cursed."
Mary's voice was low. "They're not wrong."
Loosie frowned. "You're not helping."
Mary turned to her. "If the Queen's reflections were destroyed, how do you explain the whispers?"
Loosie hesitated. "You've been hearing her again?"
Mary's eyes flickered red in the dim light. "Not her voice. Not exactly."
The council chamber was nearly empty. Els sat at the far end of the long obsidian table, her normally neat braids now loose and unkempt. Two of the Weavers stood beside her, their thread-lights dim, trembling faintly in their palms.
As Mary and Loosie entered, Els gestured toward the center of the room.
There, laid out on the table, was a body.
It looked human — mostly. But its skin shimmered faintly, translucent, and the veins beneath it glowed a dull red, like dying embers.
Mary's breath caught. "Who is it?"
Els's expression darkened. "That's what I want you to tell me."
Mary stepped closer. The body's face was turned to the side, hair tangled across its cheek.
When she brushed it aside, her heart stopped.
It was her face.
Perfectly identical — down to the scar along her jaw, the faint silver threading of the veins beneath her skin. But this one's eyes were open, glassy, and when Mary looked closely, she saw that the pupils weren't round. They were fractal, branching like cracks in ice.
Loosie swore softly. "Another mirror copy?"
Els nodded grimly. "We found her — it — wandering the lower ward. The guards said she was calling your name."
Mary's throat felt dry. "What did she say?"
Els hesitated, then spoke. "'You wrote me.'"
The words struck Mary like a blow. She backed away from the table, shaking her head. "No. I erased the reflections. That shouldn't be possible."
"Unless something learned how to grow without them," Els said. "Something born from the rule you changed."
Mary stared at her double's face. The skin looked thin, like spun glass. Beneath it, faint lines of script pulsed — words in a language she recognized only from her nightmares.
The Queen's tongue.
"Burn it," one of the Weavers muttered. "Before it wakes."
But Mary reached out before Els could stop her. Her fingers brushed the glass-skin.
For a heartbeat, warmth pulsed through her hand. Then the clone's eyes snapped toward her.
Mary stumbled back. The reflection-girl sat up, glass joints cracking faintly as she moved.
"I am not a shadow," it said in a voice too soft, too familiar. "I am the remainder."
Els drew her dagger, the blade glowing with silver wardlight. "Mary, step back!"
But the double didn't move to attack. It looked directly at Mary — pleading, almost gentle. "You gave me words. You made me real."
Mary felt her pulse pound in her ears. "You're a reflection."
The double smiled faintly. "So are you."
Then its body began to fracture. Fine cracks spread across its skin, light bleeding from within. The Weavers backed away, muttering incantations. Loosie raised her hammer.
But the clone didn't explode.
It whispered: "She's not gone."
Then it collapsed into dust.
The silence afterward was unbearable.
Els sheathed her dagger slowly. "That's the third one this week," she said. "Each closer to the Loomspire."
Mary stared at the pile of glittering fragments, her voice trembling. "How many more?"
"Dozens. Maybe hundreds. We're calling them the Children of Glass."
Loosie leaned on her hammer. "And they all look like people we know."
Els nodded. "Copies. Imprints left behind when the mirrors shattered. The Queen used the reflections as anchors — and when Mary rewrote the rule, it… mutated them."
Mary looked at her bloodstained hands. "So this is my fault."
Loosie stepped forward. "Don't start with that—"
But Els cut her off. "No. She's right."
The words were sharp as blades. "You merged with the Codex. You changed the fundamental law of reflection. And now reality itself is trying to compensate."
Mary met her gaze, fire in her voice. "You think I don't know what I've done?"
Els slammed her palm on the table. "Then fix it!"
The Codex — resting at Mary's side — pulsed once, as if in answer. Its edges shimmered faintly red.
Mary looked down at it, and for an instant, she saw her own reflection on its surface again — but not her face. The Queen's. Smiling, serene.
Loosie saw it too. "Mary…"
Mary whispered, "She's still inside the Codex. Feeding on every rewrite."
Els's voice dropped. "Then you'll have to stop writing."
Mary shook her head slowly. "If I stop, she wins. The Codex doesn't belong to her anymore — it belongs to me."
The Queen's laughter echoed faintly in her mind.
"Are you sure?"
That night, the Loomspire held its breath.
No one slept. The corridors were patrolled by Weavers with dull-glowing wardlights, their eyes hollow with exhaustion. The air itself felt thinner, stretched like a web on the verge of tearing.
Mary sat by the great basin in the center of her chamber — once filled with water for scrying, now lined with salt and dust. The Codex rested open before her.
She stared into its pages, her own handwriting rippling faintly like water.
"I didn't mean for this," she said softly.
The words rearranged themselves in response: Meaning is not control.
She closed her eyes. "Then teach me."
The page went still. Then, slowly, new words bled across the parchment.
To master reflection, you must face what reflects.
Mary frowned. "Face…?"
Then she heard it — the soft crunch of glass beneath bare feet.
She turned.
There, in the far corner of the room, stood another of the Children. This one looked like Loosie — same scars, same tired eyes — but her movements were wrong. Too smooth, too quiet.
Mary rose, voice trembling. "Who sent you?"
The false Loosie smiled. "You did."
Then she moved — blindingly fast. The hammer in her hand shimmered into a blade of crimson light. Mary stumbled back, raising the Codex just in time. The air around it warped, deflecting the strike in a burst of red sparks.
The glass Loosie hissed, her face flickering between shapes — Loosie, Els, Mary herself, the Queen.
Mary's voice broke. "Stop it!"
The creature tilted its head. "You can't kill your own reflection."
Mary screamed — not in fear, but fury — and slammed her palm onto the Codex. The words on the page blazed red, the letters twisting into flame.
Erase.
The clone froze mid-strike. Its body cracked, fissures spreading across its form. But instead of shattering, it whispered in the Queen's voice:
"Erase yourself."
And then it dissolved — not into dust, but into a thousand tiny shards of mirror that embedded themselves in the walls, each reflecting Mary's face.
Each one smiling.
Mary fell to her knees. The Codex pulsed once more, and she felt it — the connection between her and the Queen tightening, threads of blood and memory weaving together.
The Queen's voice echoed softly, almost tender:
"You are learning, little one. Creation is destruction. Reflection is truth."
Mary whispered, "Then I'll destroy every reflection. Even myself if I have to."
"You will," the Queen murmured. "That's the beauty of it."
By dawn, the Loomspire's halls glittered faintly with embedded shards — each one showing a different version of Mary's face.
Some were crying.
Some were smiling.
And one — deep in the farthest wall — turned its head and whispered:
"She's almost here."