Mirror Bound

Chapter One: The Glass Between Worlds

Protagonist Name: Elira Wren

---

Elira Wren had always felt like the world passed her by, as if she was watching life from behind glass—close enough to see it, but never quite able to touch it.

She moved like a shadow through the halls of Blackridge High, her footsteps soundless against linoleum tiles worn smooth by generations of indifferent students. Teachers barely remembered her name. Classmates never invited her out. The only person who had ever truly seen her was her grandmother, and she’d died the year Elira turned eleven.

Since then, silence had been her companion.

And now, five years later, Elira sat alone again—perched at the farthest edge of the school’s abandoned library basement, a place forgotten by everyone except for the dust.

She shouldn’t have been there. No one should have.

The entrance had been sealed years ago with heavy chains and a rusted “Condemned” sign bolted across the stairwell. But Elira, with her too-quiet presence and clever fingers, had found a way inside. A loose window behind the janitor’s shed, high enough to keep out most students. Just low enough to tempt someone like her.

The basement smelled of mildew and ancient paper. Cobwebs curled in the corners like skeletal hands. But she liked it there. It was the only place where the air didn’t buzz with judgment or the loud emptiness of other people’s lives.

And it was there, tucked beneath a collapsed bookshelf near the back wall, that she found the book.

It hadn’t looked like much at first. Thin, almost weightless, bound in black leather so faded it seemed more gray than anything. There was no title, no author, no library tag or barcode. Just a strange sigil burned into the front cover—an eye encircled by thorns.

She should have left it alone.

But something about the book called to her. Not with sound—but with a kind of gravity, as if the moment her fingers brushed it, the world leaned in.

---

She brought it home in her backpack beneath a stack of unrelated textbooks, careful not to crease its spine. That night, she locked her bedroom door and turned off the overhead lights. Her desk lamp flickered once, then steadied.

Outside, the sky was thick with clouds, and thunder rumbled distantly like the earth sighing in its sleep.

Elira opened the book.

The pages were hand-written, filled with runes and looping symbols she didn’t understand. Some had translations scrawled beneath them—Latin phrases, or what looked like them, and strange diagrams that seemed to shift when viewed too long.

It wasn’t until she reached the last page that her breath caught.

Unlike the rest, this one was written in crimson ink that had soaked deep into the parchment. The edges of the page were burned. At the center, circled in delicate script, was a single word:

Ashkar.

And below it, a chant:

> “Umbra vocat, et ego respondeo…

Oculos claudo, cor meum tibi do.

Sanguis meus fluit, veritas revelatur.

Audi me, Ashkar… ex speculo surge.”

She whispered the words aloud, once, tasting them.

Then again, louder.

---

At first, nothing happened.

She sat in silence, watching the mirror across the room—the old one her grandmother had gifted her, framed in peeling white wood shaped like ivy vines. It had always made her feel safe. Somehow gentler than her reflection should allow.

Minutes passed. The candles flickered.

A whisper of wind danced across the room, even though the window was shut. The temperature dropped. Elira pulled her sweater tighter.

Then it happened.

The surface of the mirror quivered.

Just slightly. Like water.

Elira blinked.

The glass rippled again, and a fine crack spread from the center outward, delicate and soundless like frost blooming across ice.

She stood, heart thundering. “What—?”

The candle flames guttered.

And then—he stepped through

---

He emerged like a shadow given form.

Not all at once—first the outline of a hand, long-fingered and graceful, followed by the silhouette of a tall figure cloaked in black, his robes moving like

---

He emerged like a shadow given form.

Not all at once—first the outline of a hand, long-fingered and graceful, followed by the silhouette of a tall figure cloaked in black, his robes moving like smoke caught in wind. And then, finally, the eyes.

They glowed like embers buried in ash. Not bright. Just enough to burn.

Elira stepped back until her knees hit the edge of her bed. Her breath came shallow and fast, fogging in the air.

The man—or whatever he was—took a slow step forward, barefoot on her bedroom floor. He was barefoot. Elira didn’t know why that detail mattered, only that it made him seem... real. Not an illusion or a ghost, but something ancient wrapped in human skin.

He studied her. No words. Just silence, stretched and thick.

Elira found her voice. “Who are you?”

A smile curled at the edge of his mouth. It was not warm.

> “Ashkar,” he said simply. “You called me.”

His voice was low—like distant thunder. Soft, but impossible to ignore.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said quickly. “It was just words from a book. I didn’t think—”

> “Intent is a mortal luxury,” he interrupted. “And magic does not care what you think.”

Elira took a half step back.

Ashkar’s gaze drifted to the open book still lying on the desk behind her. He tilted his head. “That book,” he murmured. “It should have been lost long ago.”

“I found it in the library,” Elira said, still clutching her sleeves. “In the basement.”

Ashkar turned his head toward the mirror. Its surface now looked solid again, though faintly distorted—like the surface of a pond disturbed by a stone.

> “That mirror is older than you know,” he said softly. “Older than this house. Older than your bloodline.”

Elira swallowed. “Are you a demon?”

Ashkar smiled. “That is one word for what I am. There are others. Not all of them are lies.”

Silence stretched between them.

Elira stared. There was no denying what he was. No dream could conjure this level of detail. His features were too precise. The way his long hair fell around his face, the pale silver tone of his skin, the strange way his robes didn’t quite cast shadows. He did not belong in her world.

And yet, he had come through.

“I didn’t think magic was real,” she whispered.

Ashkar's smile faded.

> “Magic is a language. Forgotten by most. Twisted by others. But it is real, girl. As real as your heartbeat.”

He paused. “Or the fear in your throat.”

Elira didn’t deny it. Her pulse thundered. But what surprised her most… was the absence of terror. She should have been afraid. Terrified, even. But her curiosity outweighed the panic. Something deep within her had been waiting for this—for him—even if she didn’t understand why.

Ashkar took another step forward, his movements soundless.

> “What do you want from me?” she asked.

He regarded her for a moment, then replied simply,

> “I don’t know yet.”

---

Elira sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight in her lap. Ashkar remained standing, arms loosely at his sides, watching her with a kind of wary amusement.

She asked the question that had been building inside her since the mirror cracked:

> “Why me?”

Ashkar didn’t answer right away. He glanced around the room—at the flickering candles, the old books on her desk, the quiet, faded loneliness painted into every corner.

> “Because you were listening,” he said. “The world speaks. Most humans forget how to hear it. But you… you were listening. And the mirror listens, too.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “There is more to you than you know, Elira Wren.”

The way he said her name sent shivers down her spine.

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” she murmured.

Ashkar chuckled—low, dark, and unexpected.

> “No. It’s supposed to be true.”

---

The candles dimmed, and for a long time, they didn’t speak. Elira didn’t know what to do with him. Could she send him back? Should she try?

As if reading her thoughts, Ashkar turned back toward the mirror and laid a hand against it. The glass rippled beneath his fingers—but did not open.

> “This door closes behind me,” he said. “At least… for a while.”

“For how long?”

Ashkar’s gaze lingered on her face. “That depends on you.”

She looked down. “I didn’t mean to bring you here.”

> “Intent,” he repeated, his voice almost amused, “is irrelevant. You did bring me here. That cannot be undone.”

Elira’s hands curled into fists on her lap.

“But what do you want now? What are you going to do?”

Ashkar walked to the edge of her desk and picked up the book. He turned it over once, then set it down with a sigh.

> “That depends on what kind of girl you are.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at her—really looked. His voice was calm, but there was an edge buried beneath it.

> “Most who summon me seek power. Or revenge. Or love.”

Elira blinked. “I didn’t summon you for any of those.”

Ashkar smiled faintly. “I know.”

“So what do I want, then?”

He leaned forward, just slightly, and his glowing eyes held hers.

> “That, Elira Wren… is what I intend to find out.”

---Elira didn’t sleep that night.

Even after Ashkar had settled—if what he did could be called settling—she remained perched on her bed, arms around her knees, watching him from across the room like one might watch a sleeping wolf.

Not that he slept.

He stood still for hours, near the mirror, head slightly bowed. Occasionally he would move—study the chipped paint on the walls, run his fingers along the woodgrain of her desk, or trace the cracked windowsill with idle curiosity.

Once, Elira dared to ask, “Don’t you ever sit down?”

He only smiled and said, “Do you want me to?”

She hadn’t answered. She wasn’t sure yet.

At some point, she must have dozed off because when the soft glow of dawn seeped through the curtains, she was still curled on the bed. Her neck ached from sleeping upright. Her candles had long burned out, leaving puddles of wax on her desk.

But Ashkar was still there.

Only now, he was sitting in the desk chair, turned to face her, one leg crossed over the other with the stillness of a statue. His coal-like eyes caught the sunlight and shimmered faintly gold.

“Did you watch me sleep?” she asked, rubbing at her eyes.

He nodded. No shame. No irony. “I watch everything.”

Elira pulled the blanket tighter around her. “That’s not creepy at all.”

Ashkar tilted his head, as if considering the word. “Your kind fears being seen. That’s… interesting.”

There was something in his voice—an odd, almost wistful edge that didn’t belong to the image he projected. Elira sat up straighter, uncertain whether to speak or remain quiet. The air between them held something fragile and sharp, like a thread pulled taut.

“I have to go to school,” she said, eventually.

Ashkar rose with fluid grace. “Then go.”

“You’ll stay here?”

He looked at her for a moment, as if the question surprised him. Then he gestured toward the mirror. “I cannot return through the portal yet. And I won’t follow you. I do not belong outside this room.”

Elira nodded once, grabbed her backpack, and paused at the door. “Don’t touch anything.”

Ashkar’s smile was pure mischief. “No promises.”

---

That day at school, everything felt different.

The colors of the world were sharper. The hallway noises louder. People seemed more real, somehow—and yet more distant than ever. Elira moved through it all as if she’d been peeled away from her body and pressed into another layer of reality.

Pearl, her lab partner in Chemistry, waved to her. “Hey! You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“I didn’t,” Elira said, surprised to hear her voice crack slightly. She wasn’t used to people asking about her. Especially not with concern.

“Rough night?”

“Something like that.”

Pearl hesitated, then offered a half-smile. “Well, if you need help with the homework—”

“I’m fine,” Elira said, a little too fast.

The rest of the day passed in a strange blur. Teachers seemed to glance her way more often. Students who had never spoken to her whispered when she walked past. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d changed, even if she looked exactly the same in every mirror she passed.

---

When Elira returned home, the house was empty, as usual. Her parents were always away—working late, traveling, sending texts instead of coming home.

She climbed the stairs two at a time, heart beating with a strange anticipation.

Ashkar was where she left him.

He sat on the floor near her bookshelf now, legs folded, thumbing through one of her grandmother’s old poetry books with the quiet intensity of someone deciphering ancient scripture.

“You’re still here,” she said softly, closing the door behind her.

Ashkar didn’t look up. “Where else would I go?”

She crossed the room and stood beside him, hesitating. “You can read?”

“I can read all languages,” he said simply. “But this one is… beautiful in a way I didn’t expect. The words hide more than they say.”

Elira smiled faintly. “That’s what poetry is for.”

Ashkar looked up at her then—those burning eyes briefly gentled. “Your world is loud. But your room… is very quiet.”

“I like the quiet,” she said.

“I know.”

---

They spoke little that evening, and Elira didn’t push for answers. She sensed that if she pried too much, Ashkar would retreat—not physically, but inwardly.

The next few days blurred into a rhythm that Elira never could have predicted.

She would wake. Go to school. Come home. And find Ashkar still there, like some impossible shadow stitched into the fabric of her room. He never demanded anything. Never left the mirror’s reach. But his presence was undeniable, like the weight of a storm just beneath the horizon.

She learned small things about him.

He liked silence—but not because he hated sound. He said it was the only time he could remember his own voice.

He didn’t eat. Didn’t drink. Didn’t sleep.

And yet, he could touch things. He would trace her bookshelf, pick up objects, stare at them like he was trying to remember what they meant.

He once held her music box in his hands for over an hour. When she asked why, he said softly, “The sound is broken… but something inside still sings.”

She wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the music box—or her.

---

Elira noticed other changes too.

Her dreams became vivid—filled with symbols and faces she didn’t recognize. Sometimes she’d wake with faint markings on her hands, like bruises shaped like runes. They faded before she could show anyone.

Birds had started to land on the windowsill outside her room. Black-feathered, bright-eyed, still as statues. They didn’t move until Ashkar looked at them. And when he did, they always flew away.

One night, she found a red flower blooming on her pillow. No stem. No root. Just the flower. She stared at it for a long time, then held it in her palm. It smelled like winter.

When she asked Ashkar where it came from, he didn’t answer. He only said, “My world leaks.”

---

One evening—four nights after the summoning—she returned home from school and closed the bedroom door behind her. Her backpack hit the floor with a dull thud.

Ashkar was sitting on the floor, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees.

Elira watched him for a long moment, then sat opposite him, mirroring his posture.

He opened one eye and raised a brow. “Imitating me?”

“Studying you,” she replied.

Ashkar’s smile was a brief flicker. “You should be careful. Curiosity is dangerous.”

“I live with a demon. I think I’m past careful.”

“You don’t live with me, Elira. I live because of you.”

Her breath caught at the weight of those words.

“You’re bound to me, aren’t you?” she asked quietly.

Ashkar nodded. “Not by chains. Not by spells. But something… older.”

Elira frowned. “The book never mentioned a price.”

“It never does.”

“Then what did I give?”

Ashkar opened both eyes, and for a moment, they glowed brighter than she’d ever seen.

“You gave your voice to the mirror.”

“What does that mean?”

He reached toward her—not to touch her, but to hover his hand just above hers, his fingers trembling slightly.

“It means,” he said slowly, “that something inside you called out… and the mirror answered. You summoned me not with words—but with longing. That is the most dangerous magic of all.”

Elira was quiet for a long time. “Can I undo it?”

Ashkar’s expression didn’t change, but his voice grew softer.

“Would you want to?”

---

Later that night, Elira lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Ashkar remained near the window, standing so still he could have been carved from stone.

She couldn’t sleep.

The feeling was spreading—that strange tether between them. She didn’t know if it was magic or madness, but it clung to her like smoke. Not heavy. But inesc

The next morning, Elira didn’t want to get out of bed.

She stared at the ceiling for a long time, her arms folded beneath her head. The house was silent. No footsteps downstairs. No voices on the phone. Her parents hadn’t returned home the night before, but that was nothing new.

Outside her window, the sky was overcast. Pale and washed out, as if the world itself had turned cold overnight.

Ashkar hadn’t moved from where he sat, near the mirror. He didn’t sleep, but he also didn’t speak unless spoken to. He simply existed — still and steady, like he had all the time in the world.

“Do you miss it?” Elira asked.

Ashkar turned his head slightly. “Miss what?”

“Your world. Whatever it was before it became a wound.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, softly:

> “No. There is nothing left to miss.”

That should have been the end of it.

But something in his voice pulled at her.

Elira rose slowly from the bed, crossed the room, and sat beside him — not too close, but not far either. Her knees bent, her arms draped loosely over them. The room felt different when she was near him. Still, yes, but charged. Like the air just before a thunderstorm.

They sat together in silence for a long time. When Ashkar finally spoke, his voice was lower than usual. Less like a demon. More like something broken trying not to shatter.

> “There were cities once. Not made of stone. Not of fire. They grew like coral — alive, ancient, echoing the will of their creators. My kind ruled them. Or believed we did. But even our dominion was borrowed. Everything... fades.”

Elira looked down at her hands. “Then why come here? Why answer me at all?”

Ashkar tilted his head, watching her in profile.

> “Because you said my name. Because something inside you broke the silence.”

“You make it sound like it’s my fault.”

“It isn’t,” he said, with something close to regret. “But it is your burden now.”

---

That evening, Elira made her first mistake.

It was small. Harmless, even.

She’d been sitting at her desk, flipping through the black book again — the one that had started all of this. Most of the pages were incomprehensible to her, filled with glyphs and diagrams that made her head ache. But one page — a circular diagram with an open eye in the center — had begun to draw her attention more and more.

A spell of some kind.

There were words written beside it, faint and jagged, half-burned at the edge.

She shouldn’t have tried to read them aloud.

But she did.

> “Ego video. Ego aperio. Quod latet, surgat…”

“I see. I open. What is hidden… rise.”

A sharp wind tore through the room.

The candles she hadn’t lit suddenly flared to life, then extinguished with a hiss. Her mirror trembled. Not shattered — just a ripple, like something beneath the surface had heard her and stirred.

Ashkar stood instantly.

He was in front of her in seconds, his hand gripping her wrist, not cruelly, but with urgent strength.

“Do not speak what you do not understand.”

Elira flinched. “I didn’t know it would do anything—”

“That is exactly the problem,” he said, voice low, burning. “There are things in this book that should never be spoken aloud. Words that remember. Doors that wait for a breath, a sound — and then open.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “I just wanted to know more.”

Ashkar stepped back, his expression unreadable.

“You will,” he said. “But not like this.”

---

That night, Elira didn’t dream of fire or crowns.

She dreamed of eyes.

A thousand of them.

All watching her from the dark.

---

In the days that followed, she didn’t speak any more spells. She barely touched the book. The ripple in the mirror hadn’t returned, but she noticed things.

Shadows lingered longer than they should. Her reflection occasionally moved just half a second too late. And the birds that once sat still outside her window no longer came at all.

Ashkar remained close, though distant. Not cold — never that — but careful.

And yet, the bond between them continued to thrum beneath every word they shared.

Sometimes, he would catch her watching him. Studying his movements. Memorizing the sound of his voice, the rhythm of his presence. She didn’t know why. Only that something about him called to her in a way that made her chest ache.

And sometimes, though rarely, Ashkar would look at her as though he was remembering something he’d spent centuries trying to forget.

---

One evening, a storm rolled in. The kind of storm that didn’t just darken the sky, but soaked it in ink. The rain hit the windows like fingers tapping. The wind howled.

Elira sat on her bed, listening.

Ashkar stood by the mirror, silent as always.

She turned to him. “Do you regret being here?”

He didn’t answer for a long time.

Then, “No.”

She blinked. “Why not?”

Ashkar looked at her, and this time, there was no mask behind his eyes.

> “Because even forbidden things... are still beautiful.”

Elira felt the words settle over her like snow. Soft. Cold. Unshakable.

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, something passed between them that couldn’t be named. Not desire. Not love. Not yet.