Chapter 19 - The Shrike's Mirror

Anastasya: “Don’t lie to me tonight.”

She whispered it into the dark hall as she tiptoed barefoot through the shrine. Her voice barely stirred the air, but the walls heard her. The shrine always listened. Always answered, just never the way she wanted.

The charm in her hand pulsed once. Cold. Alive. Aurelya's energy, faint and distant now, like it was slipping from reach.

Anastasya’s notebook was tucked under her arm, pages dog-eared, smeared, scrawled with loops of planning, questions, incantations she didn’t understand, and underlined names she couldn't remember writing.

She turned the corner near the old bell tower, one of the dead ends she rarely approached. The dust here was undisturbed. Nothing moved, but the air… the air bent in wrong angles, as if the hallway was folding around her spine.

Anastasya: “This is where I go when I’m ready to be taken, huh?”

The shrine gave no answer. But her charm pulsed again.

She moved past the bell tower toward a room she’d only glimpsed once before, hidden behind rows of crumbling charms and burned talismans, the doorway sealed with waxen script and twine.

The seals had melted.

Anastasya stepped in.

...

The room inside felt colder than outside. It wasn’t just temperature, it was history. Layered, cracked, coiled like something long asleep.

There was a mirror at the center of the floor, encased in obsidian stone. Not standing. Lying down, embedded like a well. Its surface was clear, smooth, black, but not reflective.

Anastasya stepped toward it. Her foot crossed the edge, and instantly her head rang with whispers. Familiar voices, overlapping.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“You’ve always been here.”

“You will never leave.”

Anastasya: “No.”

She dropped to her knees beside the mirror and dug into her pocket, pulling out the stone she had taken from near the reflection pool, the one that glowed faintly when the shrine throbbed. She held it over the glass and closed her eyes.

The glass pulsed once. The stone shattered in her hand.

And then… she saw herself.

But not the version standing above the mirror.

The Anastasya in the mirror was asleep, pale, dressed in her school uniform, her face peaceful, too peaceful. Her lips didn’t move, but her voice filled the room:

Mirror Anastasya: “You’re too late.”

Anastasya stumbled back. Her body felt light, numb, like the blood in her limbs had stopped obeying her heart.

Anastasya: “No. You’re fake. I’m- this is real. This is real!”

The image blinked.

And then turned into Haruki.

But not her Haruki.

This one had black eyes. No crimson, no gold. Just void.

Mirror Haruki: “You’ll be with me soon.”

The mirror cracked.

...

She ran.

Through halls that shifted, walls that folded. The shrine wasn’t hiding anymore, it was reacting. Breathing faster. Chasing.

Her bare feet slapped across the floor. Her notebook burned in her hand.

She ran to the garden.

And stopped.

Haruki was there, real Haruki, sitting beneath the peach tree with a plate of something he probably tried to cook again. He looked up at her, expression unreadable.

Haruki: “You weren’t in bed.”

Anastasya: She pants. “The mirror. The black mirror room. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Haruki stood up slowly, brushing crumbs from his lap. He walked toward her, casual but tense, like a predator remembering how to be gentle.

Haruki: “Because it’s not for you.”

Anastasya: “Then why did it show me? Why did it show you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then-

Haruki: “Some reflections are promises. Some are warnings. Some are… doors.”

Anastasya: “Which was it?”

Haruki: “I don’t know anymore.”

...

That night, Aurelya visited her room, set down a bowl of warm soup, and sat beside her without a word.