Page 16 of The Scars of War (Of Ruin and Fire #1)

The Mirror Lies

I wake up cold and the bed feels larger than it did. Too still. The sheets smell like sex and ash, but the fire’s gone out and the air’s turned brittle. There’s no weight beside me. No warmth. Riven’s gone.

I sit up slowly. My muscles ache but not in the soft, satisfied way they usually do after I fuck him into the floor, but like I’ve been used. Like something borrowed my body while I slept and left my bones in the wrong order.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. No wind through the windows. No distant hum of the city. No ticking from the strange, spiral-marked clock above the door. It’s like time just…stopped.

The air is heavy. The kind of heavy that sits on your chest and asks you to notice it. I notice it. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and freeze. My sketchbook is open on the floor .

The pages are fluttering…not from the wind.

There is no wind. They just…move, like something’s breathing through them.

I kneel. The page is covered in graphite.

Soft smudges. Precise lines. And then I realize what I’m looking at.

It’s my face. Far from the version of myself I’m used to seeing.

This version is smoother. Hollow, with eyes wide and empty.

Skin too perfect. Lips just barely curled into a smile that doesn’t belong to me.

And below it, written in handwriting that I know isn’t mine… “She won’t notice.”

My blood goes cold. I back up fast, knocking into the edge of the bed. My heart’s thudding now, loud enough to drown out everything else. I stare at the glass wall across the room.

The mirror. It’s fogged from the inside.

I push to my feet. Step closer. There’s a handprint in the middle of it, faint, like someone pressed their palm to the mirror while I slept.

Not mine. Too long in the fingers. Too narrow in the palm.

I blink. My reflection is there. But…it’s not right.

Her arms hang too still. Her face too relaxed.

Her expression blank when I know mine is twisted in co nfusion.

And when I move? She moves half a second late.

I stagger back. “Nope,” I whisper. “Fuck no.”

I snatch up the towel from the foot of the bed, wipe the mirror hard, but there’s no fog. No condensation. No moisture at all. The handprint stays. And the reflection? She’s smiling. I’m not. I turn my head and move fast. She doesn't follow. Just stares. Still smiling. Still me…but not.

Behind her, the wall ripples. Just slightly. Like a curtain pulled too tight across something that wants to see through. The spirals carved into the ceiling catch my eye. They’re twisting again. Not just the illusion of movement. They’re crawling, slowly, like they’re trying to reach the corners.

I bolt from the room barefoot, still half-naked in one of Riven’s button-downs, and don’t stop until I’m in the hallway. The mansion is silent. I don’t call out. I don’t want to see him right now. Not because I don’t trust him, because I don’t trust myself.

I pass a wall sconce. The flame inside flickers blue for just a moment, then goes out entirely.

My shadow lags behind like it’s drunk. Like it’s being pulled.

The hallway splits, and I head left, instinct more than memory.

Back toward the main entry. I catch my reflection again in a gilded picture frame’s glass. It’s watching me.

This one isn’t smiling. She’s crying. I touch my cheek. Dry.

The reflection blinks. I don’t. I don’t scream.

I don’t break the glass. I run. Down the marble staircase, across the foyer, through the massive carved doors that lead out into the still-damp morning light.

The moment I cross the threshold, the pressure lifts like I’ve escaped a sealed vault.

The sun hits my skin and I breathe like I haven’t since last night.

Even out here, the silence stretches. The world feels thinner.

Wrong. Like something’s still watching. Still learning how to be me.

The gate swings shut behind me with a heavy metallic groan that echoes far too long.

I stand in the middle of the courtyard with bare feet.

The stone path is wet. Cold. The kind of cold that wakes something primal in your bones, fight or flight.

I choose neither. I just…stand there. Breathing.

Trying to remember what real is supposed to feel like.

The sun should help. It doesn’t. The sky is clear but wrong. Too bright. Like a backdrop. Like someone tried to paint a normal morning but forgot how light works. The birds aren’t singing. The trees don’t rustle.

The silence is uncanny. Like something’s holding its breath to see what I’ll do next.

I stare down at my hands. They’re shaking again.

There’s no blood. Not this time. Just a faint gray smudge across the knuckles of my right hand, graphite maybe.

Leftover from the sketch. I didn’t draw it.

I know I didn’t. I press my palms to my eyes and force my breath to steady.

One. Two. Three.

It doesn’t help. My thoughts are a chorus of echoes: “She won’t notice.”

How long has something been wearing my skin when I’m not looking?

I reach for the wall beside the gate and lean against the ivy-covered stone.

The vines are warm…alive, but they twitch against my skin like they recognize me.

Like they’re trying to pull me in. “Fuck.” It’s barely a whisper.

I sit down on the cold stone steps and hug my knees to my chest like a child.

I haven’t felt small in a long time. Right now?

The world feels bigger than it did yesterday. Hungrier .

I stare at the gravel walk in front of me.

Every little stone is in place. Perfect.

Like Riven’s mansion is too controlled. Too curated.

And maybe it wasn’t always like this. Maybe I changed it.

Maybe everything’s responding to me now.

I don’t know if that’s power or infection.

I hear a voice. Distant. Fading. Just my name. “Lux…”

The voice is strange and unfamiliar. Unlike Riven and not like Elias. It sounds like no one I’ve heard before, but they’re calling like they already know who I am. It's not calling from outside the gate, it’s coming from inside the house, from the mirror.

I shove myself to my feet, wipe my face even though I’m not crying, and breathe deep through my nose. This can’t be my breaking point. I won’t let it be. I straighten my spine and button the shirt. Slowly. Precisely. Like it’s armor.

Then I turn toward the street. Toward the noise, the people, the real world, or at least the version of it that still plays by the old rules. If I stay here another second, I’m not sure what’ll come out of that mirror next.

The subway ride is hell. I'm barefoot, wearing only his shirt, no bra, no socks…

and trying not to fold in on myself under a dozen pairs of eyes.

Every flickering overhead light feels like a spotlight.

Every bump feels like punishment. My phone buzzes once in my pocket, then dies again before I can check it. No bars. No signal. Of course.

The bar’s a ten-minute walk from the station, but I make it in eight.

Somewhere between the station and the block before the bar, I stopped in a corner store.

Threw cash at the clerk and walked out with a too-tight pair of leggings, a hoodie, and a pair of slip-on boots that I wouldn’t normally buy because they are ugly as fuck.They don’t fit.

I don’t care. I just need to look normal enough to pass.

Every footstep hits harder than it should. My reflection in the glass windows stutters as I pass. For a moment, it lags, just like the mirrors in Riven’s mansion. I don’t stop to look. If I do, I might not walk in.

The second I push through the door, it hits me.

Something feels amiss. Not something big.

Not dramatic. Just off. The place looks the same.

Smells the same. Music’s a little louder than usual for early afternoon, but not unusual.

Dragana’s behind the bar, wiping down a bottle like it personally offended her.

She sees me and freezes for just a moment, as if her brain’s taking too long to place me. “Hey,” I say, sliding behind the bar. “Sorry I’m late.” Dragana doesn’t move.

“You’re…back?”

I frown. “What do you mean? Did I miss something?” She squints at me, like she’s trying to work something out.

“You were here last night.” I laugh, but it comes out strange.

“No, I wasn’t.” Her face shifts, caution bleeding into concern.

“You sure?”

“I was…not here,” I say. My throat goes tight. “I spent the night at…” I stop. “I wasn’t here.” She’s quiet for a beat too long. Then nods like she doesn’t want to push it.

“Okay.” But she doesn’t mean it.

And now I can’t stop seeing it, the way her hands are too steady, the way her eyes flick to my neck like she’s looking for confirmation of something she won’t say out loud.

Before I can press it, a voice cuts in from the side of the bar. “Hey, Red.”

I turn. It’s Jesse. One of our weekday regulars.

Friendly, soft-spoken, always tips in exact change.

His smile is tentative. “I was hoping you were okay,” he says.

“You looked…off last night.” I stare at him.

He doesn’t falter. “You served me. Same drink. Same glass. You even teased me about my shirt.” I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

“I wasn’t here,” I say again, quieter this time. Jesse’s smile falters.

“Maybe I’m confused, then. Long week, you know?” He lifts his drink in apology and walks away. I don’t move.

Dragana’s gone back to polishing glasses. The music seems louder now, vibrations from the speakers pulsing through my body, like it’s pressing in on my ears. I make it to the back cooler before my legs threaten to give out.