Broken Mirrors Novels & Stories

I didn’t hesitate. The chamber below was suffocating—lit only by veins of glowing quartz embedded in the walls. At the center stood the mirror. It was not constructed as a normal glass. It was ten feet high and its very edges were of obsidian teeth, and glimmered it did with a silver so deep it seemed to fall. The Mirror of Mercy. I approached it slowly. “What do I give?” “Blood,” Killian whispered behind me, his voice distant. I drew my knife, and cut my hand. When the blood spilt on the bottom of the mirror it became absorbed by the obsidian, just as water settles in the sandy desert.

“Lead the way.” We moved fast, sticking to the high corridors, avoiding the main halls. The observatory was crumbling, it was cracked, the stars bleeding through like silver wounds. Dust coated everything. In the center stood the mirror,tall, black-framed, its surface like still water. I stepped in front of it. “Stay back,” I said. “This might not be safe.” I pressed my palm to the glass. Fire moved through my veins. The mirror cracked. And the.... I saw the crypt.

One of the mirrors cracked — not shattered, just a spiderweb fissure blooming outward from the center, the glass pulsing softly like a heartbeat. The drones continued their silent routines, blind to the change. The system, however, noticed. Red icons flared on the engineers’ monitors. Cooling pumps stuttered and howled. The lights above flickered and dimmed. And then one of the mirrors blinked. Its reflection no longer showed the lab. Instead, a street scene bled through: cracked pavement slick with rain, the flicker of a passing bus, a sliver of city sky through heavy clouds. The image looped once, froze, then dissolved into static.

Her hands slowly cover her mouth, finding herself taking a few steps back. The mirrors placed inside the punishment room had been there for as long as she could remember. It was older than her, older than her professor, and older than her professor’s professor. It was so old that even though it had fallen off the hooks it was placed on, it wouldn’t break. And yet, almost every mirror that was within Amara’s reach had cracks on them. The mirrors inside were made of strong metal, but she could see indentations on its casing. It looked like strong nails were run through it, making it look like Amara had scratched on the doors, trying to get out.

Lucien flickers in and out of torchlight, a blade in each hand, ghosting through mirrors before they fully form. Seren burns. But even her flame hesitates. Because mirrors do not fear fire. They feed on it. “Fall back!” she calls. “They drink identity, don’t speak your names! Don’t remember too loudly!” Too late. A young hybrid screams for his sister. The mirror echoes him, perfectly. And then eviscerates him with a smile. By the third hour, the ground is a slick mosaic of blood and glass dust. The mirrors crack under force, but never stop smiling. They do not speak.

I closed my eyes and the memories of that night played back in my mind like I was in a cinema but the difference was that I was watching my life on a screen. It was on a Tuesday morning and I had just finished scrubbing Gerald's bathroom floor when he walked in with his mistress. He tapped her ass and she giggled in response. I looked away and quickly made steps to walk out when he called me. “Mira”. My heartbeat was loud enough for the whole world to hear. I was scared for my life. His voice was terrifying for me,it was my biggest nightmare.

It was so concentrated that it restored my depleted mana in a few minutes. I felt chilled to the bone, but a strange heat burned inside me like fire trapped beneath ice. At first, I thought the walls were made of black obsidian stones. They shimmered faintly, like they were drinking the light around us instead of reflecting it. But then I realized they weren’t stone at all. They were mirrors. Only, they didn’t show reflections. Just shadows. In the middle of it all, a huge mirror rose from the floor like a living thing. It looked ancient with a frame made of what looked like scorched iron, twisted into sharp, jagged runes. Its surface wasn’t glass. No reflection shimmered back at us. Instead

Because for him, it has. “Prepare them,” he says casually. The guards move instantly. Not rushing. Not hesitating. Obedient. A massive object is brought into the chamber. It takes several warriors to carry it—an obsidian mirror framed in jagged stone that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. The surface ripples faintly, as if something beneath it is aware of being used. A communication relic. Old. Unstable. Powerful. It is set upright before Malrik. He steps in front of it, adjusting nothing, waiting for nothing. The mirror responds immediately to his presence, dark energy curling across its surface like smoke trapped behind glass.

The Mirror Room occupied the entire third floor of the club, a single vast chamber where every surface—walls, ceiling, floor—had been replaced with seamless, high-clarity mirrors. Soft recessed lighting eliminated almost every shadow. The result was a infinite, shifting kaleidoscope of naked flesh. Couples and trios moved throughout the space, their bodies reflected a hundred times over in every direction, so that a single thrust became a corridor of identical thrusts stretching into endless distance.

To Alaric, Caleb wasn't a hero, he was a reminder of the mistakes that led to the Thorne downfall. ​Suddenly, the lead vault sitting on the table in the center of the room began to hum. ​The silver mercury that had leaked from its seams didn't dry. It began to rise from the floor, defying gravity, swirling into a perfect, vertical circle. It formed a Silver Mirror, the surface rippling like a pond in a storm. ​“Don’t touch it!” Ryker shouted, moving to put himself between Elara and the mirror. ​But the mirror didn't attack. It began to show images nof the war, but of the past.