The Phantom Of The Opera: The Mirror นิยาย & เรื่องราว

If a Fear Monger attacked, he’d be the one it would try to goad with its fear tactics. “Will the mirror work tonight with the moon in a different phase?” Everyone heard Gemma’s confusion in her voice. “If you look more closely around, you’ll realize there are several more niches around the arbour. Those are there for different times of the year when the moon is in a different place in the sky. Now you understand how lucky I was that you not only chose to set the mirror into a niche at the right time, but you chose the correct niche too.”

She turned. At the far wall, half-buried in fallen stone, a mirror leaned—eight feet tall, gothic-arched, the frame a tangle of carved angels and demons locked in eternal collision. The glass was cracked, most of it intact. Burgundy veins marbled the surface like something old had dried there. “It’s beautiful,” she said, stepping closer despite herself. Her fingertips came away dark. Not paint. Blood. Michael brushed at the base. “Even with the crack, craftsmanship’s perfect. It looks sealed-yesterday fresh.”

Gone. I stood there, rooted in place, drenched and trembling, unable to breathe. I had seen a mirror, a living, breathing mirror, not just someone who looked like me. This was me, and she had seen me first. I couldn’t move. I felt frozen. The rain kept pouring, running into my eyes and trickling down my neck, but I remained still, staring at the boutique’s glowing door long after it had closed behind her. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one trembling as if the air itself had turned heavy. It wasn’t just shock. It felt deeper. Something primal. When her gaze locked with mine, a connection formed between us. I sensed that this was more than just a coincidence.

It's not like I was in a rush to see my blind date who was on the third floor. "Ann, I already told you,” The woman in the wheelchair whispered, her voice weak and… familiar… too familiar. “I know what to do.” She kept her chin low, hair hiding most of her face. No matter how carefully I tried to look, I couldn’t see her face. “I hope so, young lady. This is not the first time you claim you know what to do, Mira." The standing woman said sharply. My breath caught. Mira? I stared harder at the bent figure in the chair.

“Conjuro potenti. Patefacio a porta ad inferos. Et tua deamones transire. Sic urantar mundi.” With a gate, yet in a form of a mirror that emerges out from thin air in a puzzle-like stance building its way from below up to the top and completing it into its perfect shape. She draws a smile as she bit her thump drawing her blood as she wrote a name unto the surface of the mirror acting as the link and the exchange price to see someone’s current state. “Show her to me.” Whispering her command as the mirror heeds.

The hot water provided a physical release, relaxing his tense muscles, but his mind remained a cauldron of seething anger. Steam enveloped the bathroom, a visual representation of the heated emotions coursing through Asher. In a fit of rage, he directed his anger towards a decorative mirror on the wall, pounding it again and again. The bathroom echoed with the sounds of shattered glass, a stark contrast to the calm facade Asher usually presented. This was not the person he wanted to be, and the realization fueled his frustration even more. All of this, he believed, was a consequence of Ezra's actions.

Always give the blade a reason. I also left an open room for awe. Awe is a corridor through which allegiance marches without chains. I quoted poetry in the garden and pretended I believed in fate the way humans do, like weather, not architecture. Meanwhile, in the wings, my engineers finished the mirror-room. The mirror-room is a Stage-II theater: walls of silvered glass with their mercury buried beneath ash and salt, edges caulked with beeswax stolen from hives that nest in church domes, a floor mapped with a nine-pointed star that does not announce itself to the careless eye.

“You seek freedom, but you are still chained.” “I broke the bond,” I hissed, though even I didn’t believe it anymore. “I paid in blood.” The shadows thickened. A mirror rose from the floor. Not glass—liquid obsidian that shimmered and curled. It showed me not myself, but Leofric. Not now, but a future. His mouth open in a scream, chest pierced by a bone-white spear. “No,” I breathed. “That’s not real.” The mirror twisted, showing me the battlefield. Fire consuming the horizon. Wolves falling. A robed figure laughing, her face obscured but her voice unmistakable.

The gate was open. In the center of the courtyard stood a massive mirror. It was ten feet tall, framed in jagged black obsidian. It shouldn't have been there. It looked like it had grown out of the cobblestones. The surface of the glass wasn't reflecting the courtyard; it was a swirling vortex of violet and grey. "The Mirror of Souls," Hala’s voice drifted from the ranks. She pushed her way forward, her staff trembling. "It’s a Coven relic. Selene has left us a parting gift."