Mirajane Strauss Novels & Stories

“Because nothing is resolved.” Mira closed her eyes briefly. Not to escape. To focus. “This is not just emotional,” Mira said. “It is structural.” Kade frowned. “Explain.” Mira opened her eyes. “The bond is reacting like a system under strain. Too many opposing pulls.” Alder nodded slowly. “Then reducing the pull may stabilize it.” Kade looked at him. “You agree with her.” “I agree with the pattern,” Alder replied. Mira stepped forward slightly. “If we keep pushing in different directions, it will collapse.”

Then the loop triggered collapse. The simulation crashed. At Crane’s compound, Mirra watched the system blink red. Simulation instability detected. Asset Liora: Degraded. Asset Prime: Mismatch identified. She turned to Crane, who was already staring at the screen with dead eyes. “She rewrote the program,” he said. “No,” Mirra said quietly. “She rewrote the mirror. They didn’t just fight back. They changed the reflection.” Crane turned slowly. And for the first time in months, his voice cracked with something other than contempt.

Mirage’s P.O.V “If you see the blood-works closely, both Mirage and Alpha Krimson have the same proteins in their blood in higher quantities.” Daisy pointed out to the projector screen, which had an image of several circular or oval shaped bug-like “cells” swimming in a pit of more such bug-like cells. “The two images are nearly identical. The only difference is the amount of adrenaline in definitely higher for both of them, but more so in case of Mirage.”

Don't thank me for accuracy. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> Mira had almost smiled. Not the almost — the real one. Her own version of it, which was Kade's almost-smile and something Zara did not have a name for and something entirely Mira's own, all three simultaneously in the specific way of a face that had been formed by multiple inheritances and was entirely itself. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3">

The specific quality of twelve years of choosing the same thing so many times that the choice had become the default, and the default was warm and solid and entirely itself. Mira. The bone stylus, the compass, the silver-grey eyes, the complete absence of performance in everything she did. Fifteen now and already someone who had done significant things and would do more significant things and who still asked for more tea with the same directness she had asked for porridge at seven. The person who had been built by the specific sequence of events that the exile had made possible — not because the exile was good, but because what had grown from it was.

Zara stared at it, something primal in her blood waking. “This isn’t just a mirror,” she breathed. “No,” Maxim said. “It’s called the Umbraglass. One of the last magical relics from the Age of the Thirteen Clans. It shows truth… and threat.” As she watched, her reflection flickered. Not one Zara—but many. In one, she wore a crown of moonlight. In another, she bled from a wound she couldn't see. One version burned in violet fire. One stood alone.

Darius stared at her in disbelief, his voice rising. “Listen to yourself! You endangered the entire clan, risked all of us… for what? Your petty jealousy? That thorn you speak of is Anana… the Luna of Crimson Blood. Alpha Lucien’s mate.” Mira’s eyes narrowed, a twisted smile curling her lips. “Exactly. That’s why she has to die.” With a roar, Darius slammed his fist into the wall, stone cracking beneath his strength. “Do you want a death wish, Mira? That is Lucien Kael… the God of War! Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Mirae stood frozen at the edge of the firelight, her reflection rippling in the dark water. “Do you hear that?” she whispered. “Hear what?” Eastin asked. “The voices.” Lira’s hand went to her weapon automatically. “There’s no one out there.” Mirae didn’t move. “You don’t hear them?” Her eyes looked wrong in the dim light — distant, glassy, almost glowing. The air around her shimmered faintly, heat without warmth. Lira stepped forward. “Mirae.” That snapped her out of it. She blinked hard, shaking her head like she’d surfaced from deep water. “Sorry. I just— thought I heard something.”

“Can you tell me your name?” Morrigan inquired as she stared at the eyes of the child. Those eyes are dark and blank, almost lifeless. A gaze that is all familiar to her. The child didn’t respond to her but instead reached out for a handheld mirror ornate with pearls. “Can you understand me?” She asked. The child looked at her and nodded, after that brief nod the child went back to appreciate the details in the mirror. “Can you talk?” This time even though the child didn’t look at her it timidly nodded its head.

I am walking through the stomach of the god that ate my freedom, and the man I love is the one who holds the keys. "Jinyan," I said, stopping in the center of the pulsing hall. "Who is she? The one at the center of this? You said it’s the original subject. You said she holds the secret to destroying the Adriatic." Jinyan didn't look at me. He looked at the floor, his shoulders slumped as if the pressure of the five miles of water above us were finally breaking his spine. "Her name was Mira. She was the woman the first Architect loved. And she was the first woman he destroyed to keep her forever."