Scarlett
The mirror is cracked.
Hairline fractures running from the bottom corner like something tried to claw its way through. I stare at it anyway, because the reflection is worse.
It’s me. But not. There’s something in my eyes now. Too sharp. Too bright. Like fire lit behind glass.
When I think about Erik’s confession, it burns red.
I touch my chest. The mark Loki left hasn’t spread, but it pulses. Faint and constant. A second heartbeat that doesn’t belong to me.
I want to scream. Or punch something. Quite possibly both, with a side order of wild sobbing.
But I don’t. Because who knows what will happen if I give in to the multitude of emotions fighting to be heard.
Instead, I walk back to the center of the room and sink to my knees.
Cerelia’s wards shimmer faintly across the walls. Woven with old magic, protective and careful. They don’t burn when I touch them. That’s something at least.
It means I’m still me. Right?
The door creaks behind me. I don’t look. I already know who it is
