The room seemed to shrink around Elena as the mirror-born version of herself—an echo, a shadow, a prophecy—solidified within the trembling dark. The air crackled with a tension that felt both sacred and terrifying, as if the house itself was holding its breath.
Kieran stepped forward, placing himself half in front of Elena, his hand inching toward the dagger strapped to his thigh. It wasn't a weapon meant for killing; they both knew nothing could kill what stood inside the mirror. It was a blade forged to sever ties between realms, a last resort they prayed they'd never need.
"Kieran," Elena whispered, her voice barely carrying. "Don't."
"She's not you," he replied, his tone tight. "And she's not here to help us."
The mirror-Elena tilted her head with unsettling grace, her dark hair cascading like spilled ink down her shoulders. She lifted her hand, her fingers brushing the inside of the glass as though she were tracing Elena's outline.
