Fourteen

The mirror stopped smiling first. Autumn shattered it anyway.

The council met at midnight, deep beneath a hollowed-out basilica carved into the earth. Pillars wrapped in ivy framed a long obsidian table. Around it sat the supernatural elite—witches, vampires, spiritwalkers, and those who had survived too many blood moons. Autumn entered last, her pendant glowing. She felt their eyes on her, weighing her, testing the limits of what she had become. Tristan was at her side. Jade and Dominic sat across the chamber, both pale and serious. Jade’s power pulsed in waves, laced with something new—panic barely contained by bone.

Autumn spoke first. “I saw Mara.”

Whispers erupted. One of the elders, an albino vampire with no eyes, leaned forward. “The Hollow is waking.”

“She tried to pull me under,” Autumn said. “She’s inside the veil.”

“No,” Jade said softly. “She’s beneath it.”

That silenced the room.

“What does she want?” asked Dominic.

Autumn’s voice barely rose. “Me.”

---

Later, in the quiet sanctuary of the Mirabella library, Autumn traced her fingers over the open Book. Pages turned with the wind, but one stopped her—a prophecy she hadn’t seen before.

*When the blood moon bleeds and the breath of the last walker stills, the Hollow shall open. The Mirror will shatter. The soul will split. The thread will burn.*

The breath left her body. Tristan stood behind her. “It’s not just you, is it?”

“No,” she whispered. “It’s all of us.”

That night, the moon rose like an omen—fat and red, bleeding light across the sky. Autumn climbed the estate’s bell tower and looked out over the woods. Her ancestors whispered through the trees, through the stones, through the bones buried in the roots. The veil was thinning. Her soul bond with Tristan pulsed strong, but… unstable. Her own magic flickered like a candle before a storm. She closed her eyes and heard Mara’s voice inside her head.

*Burn it all. Become what I couldn’t.*

Autumn opened her eyes and said aloud: “No.” The pendant flared, and the Book sealed itself shut. Below her, the trees bent toward the house. The blood moon was rising.

The mirror stopped smiling first.

It had always smiled—a cruel, knowing twist in the silvered glass. A trick of light, or perhaps something older, older than glass or light. Autumn shattered it anyway.

The echo rang out like a warning bell.

Down beneath the estate, beneath the earth, beneath even memory, the council met at midnight. The hollowed-out basilica was carved from bone and basalt, roots threading through the ceiling like veins. Pillars wrapped in ivy framed a long obsidian table that pulsed faintly, alive in the way old things sometimes are.

Around it sat the supernatural elite—witches cloaked in stormlight, vampires with time-stained eyes, spiritwalkers veiled in smoke, and survivors of blood moons who no longer spoke in human tongue.

Autumn entered last.

Her boots echoed softly across the obsidian. The pendant at her throat pulsed once, then again—light flaring like a heartbeat. She felt their eyes rake over her like blades: assessing, doubting, measuring the weight of what she had become and what she had yet to lose.

Tristan walked beside her, shadows clinging to him like loyalty. His presence grounded her, but she could feel the fray in his tether. The bond they shared was strong—too strong. It shimmered with a power she didn’t yet understand.

Jade and Dominic sat near the far end, stone-faced. Jade’s aura trembled, her magic humming in sharp, erratic pulses—panic barely contained by bone and will. Dominic held her hand beneath the table, their fingers bloodless from the grip.

Autumn didn’t wait to be called upon. She stood tall, and the council leaned forward like vultures smelling change.

“I saw Mara.”

The words fell like iron.

Whispers surged—voices in old tongues, fractured dialects from long-fallen realms. A witch clutched her bone staff tighter. One of the elders, an eyeless albino vampire whose skin looked like carved marble, leaned forward. His voice was dry earth and forgotten scripture.

“The Hollow is waking.”

“She tried to pull me under,” Autumn said, her voice tight. “She’s inside the veil.”

Jade, barely audible, murmured, “No… she’s beneath it.”

Silence fell like snow—soft but suffocating.

Dominic exhaled slowly. “What does she want?”

Autumn’s gaze didn’t leave the table. “Me.”

A ripple ran through the air. Someone, somewhere in the chamber, hissed. The witch beside the elder whispered a warding incantation under her breath.

---

Later, in the sanctuary of the Mirabella library, Autumn sat cross-legged on the cold marble floor. The ancient Book lay open before her, its pages shifting in a breeze that didn’t touch anything else. Runes glowed faintly in the margins. She reached out, letting her fingers brush the vellum.

The wind stopped.

The Book stilled. One page curled forward, then back—then settled.

A prophecy stared up at her like an accusation:

When the blood moon bleeds and the breath of the last walker stills, the Hollow shall open. The Mirror will shatter. The soul will split. The thread will burn.

Autumn inhaled sharply. Something inside her chest cracked.

Tristan stood behind her. She hadn’t heard him enter, but she wasn’t surprised.

“It’s not just you, is it?” His voice was soft, wary.

She swallowed hard. “No,” she whispered. “It’s all of us.”

She closed the Book. It resisted for a moment, as if reluctant to end its warning, then sealed with a breathless hiss. Her pendant dimmed.

---

That night, the moon rose bloated and red—an omen bleeding across the sky.

Autumn climbed the bell tower. Wind whipped around her, biting. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared out over the forest. The trees writhed in the moonlight, their leaves whispering secrets only the dead would know.

Her ancestors were in the roots. In the stones. In the bones buried deep beneath the house. Their voices murmured in a cadence older than language.

The veil was thinning. She could feel it like a membrane stretching over her soul.

Her bond with Tristan surged again—fierce, almost painful. His presence brushed her mind like static, like longing, like danger. Her own magic flickered—sparking, burning, refusing to settle.

She closed her eyes. That was when Mara's voice returned.

Burn it all. Become what I couldn’t. Become what I sealed.

The words coiled inside her ribs like a snake.

“No,” Autumn said aloud, her voice shaking.

Her pendant flared, a sudden burst of searing light. The Book, downstairs, locked itself tight. She knew the sound by instinct now—the hiss of magic snapping closed.

Below her, the forest bent toward the estate. The blood moon cast its red eye wide. Somewhere beyond the veil, something laughed.

Something waited.

And Autumn, who had shattered the mirror, who had glimpsed the Hollow, who carried the weight of prophecy in her bones, stood alone in the tower and whispered:

“I am not yours.”

And the wind carried her defiance to the trees.