Chapter 1 – The girl in the Mirror

Warmth again.

Not heat—just… comfort. The kind that wraps around you without asking, soft and steady. Like a blanket fresh from the dryer on a cold afternoon. There was a smell in the air—lavender, maybe chamomile. The kind of scent that said, *someone cares enough to make this house feel lived in.*

Definitely not Tokyo.

I stirred. Slowly.

Or maybe it wasn't "I" exactly. Was I still Rei Akiyama? Japanese student, cosplay nerd, professional overthinker? I remembered her. Me. But my limbs didn't feel the same.

My body felt lighter. Smaller.

I blinked. The ceiling above me was wood—planks aged into dark hues, arranged in a diagonal slope that made the room feel more like an attic than a bedroom. The sunlight came in through a lattice window, gold dust hanging in the air like someone had paused time just for me.

Downstairs, something sizzled. Eggs maybe. Butter in a pan.

My stomach growled. Which was weird. Ghosts didn't get hungry. Then again, maybe I wasn't a ghost.

I sat up.

The sheets slipped off with a faint rustle. My pajama sleeves slid past hands that were too small. My balance felt… off. My center of gravity was too low, and when I stood, the floor was farther away than it should've been.

I padded over to the mirror in the corner—tall, iron-framed, faintly fogged with age—and stopped.

A little girl looked back.

Braided chestnut-brown hair, round hazel eyes, pale cheeks still warm from sleep. Maybe nine, maybe ten. Her face was open, quiet, watchful—not innocent exactly, but curious. Like she was still figuring out what parts of herself were real.

She tilted her head. I did the same.

"Reina Grimhart," I said aloud, trying the name on like an old coat I wasn't sure fit yet.

It didn't sound fake. Didn't sound *quite* like me either. But it didn't push me away.

It would do.

---

The door creaked open.

I turned too fast and nearly stumbled.

A tall woman entered—broad shoulders, a linen robe, hair in a frizzy bun that hadn't seen a brush since yesterday. She had laugh lines around her eyes and a tired softness that didn't seem forced.

"Well now," she said with a lilting sort of accent, warm and clipped. "Back from dreamland, are you?"

I blinked.

"You were out cold a whole day. Your father nearly panicked. Not every day his daughter sets off a kitchen full of spice jars just by sneezing at a window."

"…Sorry?"

"Don't be. Early signs. Cores shift and spark before they settle. You'll be eleven in a year, give or take—plenty of time."

She knelt down so we were eye level.

"I'm Lyra. Neighbor. Medi-witch. And occasional babysitter when your mum's away handling Muggle affairs. She said you might be disoriented."

I nodded. Not because I agreed—just because it was the easiest answer.

Lyra smiled and ruffled my hair like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And for her, maybe it was.

---

After she left, I sat by the window.

The garden outside was wild, but not unkempt. Herbs tangled in low beds. A small broom leaned against the stone fence. A raven hopped along the chimney of the neighbor's house like it owned the place.

Magic was here. Not flashy. Not loud. Just… part of things.

The way the curtain twitched without wind. The faint shimmer when I touched the wood of the bench and felt something resonate back. A low hum, buried deep under the skin.

Not Mascaromancy yet. Not the real thing. But the echo of it.

---

That night, after dinner—bangers and mash, surprisingly decent—I found an old sketchbook tucked behind a stack of reading primers and writing drills.

The kind of book no one remembered putting there.

The first page was blank.

I picked up a colored pencil. Green. The only one with a usable tip.

I didn't think. I just drew. Messy hair. Big hopeful eyes. Freckles. No costume. Just presence.

*Izuku Midoriya.*

The pencil glowed faintly.

Just for a moment.

Then nothing.

I stared down at him. Not perfect—my lines were still rough, the shading too soft—but he looked like a boy ready to jump into a fight for someone else's sake.

I closed the book carefully. Not today.

But soon.

---

Before sleep, I went back to the mirror.

Reina Grimhart looked back. Still small. Still quiet.

But her fingers curled with purpose.

And under the bed, beneath a loose floorboard I hadn't remembered stepping on until tonight, something waited.

A cloth bundle.

Three old masks. Painted wood. A fox. A lion. A swirl of water. Chips along the edges. Runic carvings hidden just behind the brow.

Not adult craftsmanship. But not toy-store junk either.

I held the fox one to my chest.

There was no glow. No pulse of magic.

I'd find out who made them.

But the mask in my hands didn't feel dead. Just… dormant. Like a door waiting for the right key. The wood was smooth beneath my fingers, the paint flaking at the edges in soft curls. Whoever carved it had taken care—maybe not professional, but focused. Someone wanted this to *mean* something.

I held it up to my face, just to feel the weight of it. It didn't pull, didn't shift, didn't whisper secrets into my mind like the anime sometimes pretended magic did. But it fit. Not perfectly—but well enough that I could imagine it someday coming to life.

I folded the cloth back over the three masks and tucked the bundle under my bed. Not hidden. Just… waiting. Like the rest of me.

---

The days after that were quiet.

I didn't rush. I didn't try to force anything. That wasn't how this magic worked.

I listened to my new parents' conversations over breakfast. Dad talked about the enchanted clock he was repairing for a Ministry office in Liverpool—"always fifteen minutes early, on purpose"—and Mum laughed about some poor intern who thought 'electrical outlet' was a Dark Object.

They were kind. Attentive. A little awkward with affection, but not cold. Dad always had ink or soot on his fingers. Mum liked to tie her hair with ribbons that shimmered in candlelight. They left books around the house, not as decorations, but as half-finished thoughts. This wasn't just a home—it was *lived in*.

When I asked about the masks under the floorboard, Dad paused.

"Sandra used to make those," he said, his eyes going a little distant. "Your great-aunt. She believed play helped young witches explore early magic safely. Used to say masks let the soul speak in new voices."

He didn't ask why I wanted to know.

He just smiled, ruffled my hair, and said, "You always liked the fox one best."

I tucked that away.

---

I didn't start drawing again right away.

Instead, I started building a place for it. A box, first. An old wooden crate from the shed, scrubbed clean and sanded with my sleeves. I padded the inside with old cloth scraps and stitched the edges down with Dad's spare wand thread.

My first real mask—my own, not a sketch or memory—wasn't based on an anime hero or a book legend.

It was just a fox. Plain white. Long ears. Three thin red strokes above each eye.

I made it from thick watercolor paper, folded and glued and layered like I remembered from school festivals. It wasn't perfect. The snout was lopsided, and the eye holes weren't symmetrical. But it felt *right*. Like something was moving inside it, just waiting for permission.

That night, I set it in the box and watched it.

No glow. No whisper.

But I felt something hum inside me. Not like a spell being cast, but like a breath being held.

*It's not ready yet,* I thought.

But I was getting there.

---

One morning, I caught my reflection in the window again. Not just the glass—something behind it. A shape.

Not a person. Not a creature.

A suggestion.

A presence.

It looked like me, but older. Dressed in flowing robes that shifted with light that wasn't real. A crown of feathers. A mask of gold. And behind it, wings that weren't wings—more like thoughts given shape.

It didn't scare me.

It just felt… distant. Like a version of myself walking ahead on the path, waiting for me to catch up.

I raised my hand.

The reflection didn't mimic it.

It waved back.

Then faded.

---

Weeks passed.

I kept drawing. Faces from memory. Masks that didn't exist yet. Some from stories. Some just feelings. I didn't try to activate anything.

I just kept making.

Each sketch got easier.

Each mask idea pulled a little more out of me.

My magic didn't surge. Didn't explode. It simmered, slow and steady. Like a kettle over low heat.

The fox mask stayed in its box.

I didn't wear it.

Not yet.

That was fine.

I didn't need it to happen all at once. I'd lived enough fiction to know that rushing a transformation just ended with fire, smoke, or embarrassment. Sometimes all three.

So I kept the fox mask in its box—wrapped in linen, nestled like something sacred. Every few days, I'd unwrap it, brush off any dust, and recheck the binding seams. I even reinforced the back with an extra layer of cloth and light wax. My magic stirred when I handled it, like it recognized my effort. Like it approved.

Still, no surge. No glow. But the hum beneath my skin grew warmer.

The mask wasn't sleeping.

It was watching me.

Waiting.

---

I started carving wood next.

Poorly.

The garden had an old apple tree with low-hanging branches, and after some awkward hinting, Dad helped me gather a few fallen limbs. He taught me how to strip the bark, how to feel the grain, how not to cut toward my thumb.

"You've got an odd little streak of stubborn in you," he said, passing me a whittling knife and a protective charm for splinters. "Like your mum when she tried to make a teacup that could sing."

That gave me an image I couldn't forget: a teacup warbling in off-key lullabies about chamomile and Earl Grey.

I laughed. Dad laughed too. It felt nice.

Later that night, I sat by the window with my knife, slowly shaving the curve of a blank mask base. I wasn't making a specific character—just shaping. Learning. Smoothing rough edges. Letting my hands remember what my heart already knew.

The wood was light. Soft. Imperfect.

So was I.

But that was okay.

---

Magic came in layers. I was beginning to understand that.

Wizards liked things flashy. Wands. Explosions. Instant effects. But Mascaromancy didn't behave like that. It crept. It brewed.

It whispered instead of shouting.

And every time I drew a new design or carved a blank, I felt something stretch inside me. Not painfully—more like a muscle being used for the first time.

My core was growing.

Not just in size. In depth. In clarity.

It wasn't power I was building. It was understanding.

Every mask I crafted, no matter how crude, gave me something. Not skills. Not spells. Just… presence. A little more weight to my steps. A little more resonance when I touched the air.

---

One morning, I woke before dawn. My head buzzed like a kettle forgotten on the stove. My hands tingled. My breath caught when I looked over at the fox mask.

It was glowing.

Not bright. Not blinding. Just a soft shimmer in the seams—like moonlight trapped in paper.

I didn't panic. I didn't celebrate either.

I just got up, unwrapped it carefully, and held it up.

The glow pulsed once, then settled.

I didn't feel afraid.

I felt… known.

The way you do when someone finally says your name the right way.

I pressed it to my face.

No chant. No command.

Just trust.

---

The world bent.

Only slightly. Like turning your head underwater. My bones didn't stretch. My skin didn't burn. There was no smoke, no flash of divine music.

But when I looked in the mirror—slowly, carefully—there was a fox staring back.

My height hadn't changed much. But my limbs were leaner. Fur shimmered along my forearms. My eyes slanted, golden at the edges. My nose felt sharper. My ears—yes, there—stood tall and flicked without my meaning to.

I opened my mouth.

My voice was mine, but lighter. Echoed by something else. Not another mind. Just an instinct.

A presence.

The fox spirit wasn't *in* the mask.

It was *in me.*

Not possessing.

Just… guiding.

A shape my magic recognized.

I took a breath.

And held it.

This was real.

I could move.

Run.

Smell the garden through closed windows.

Hear the pipes in the wall groaning gently with morning pressure.

I wasn't dreaming.

The mask didn't hurt. Didn't take.

It flowed.

But after a few minutes—maybe ten, maybe thirty—I felt the edges of myself start to fuzz. My magic drained steadily, like a candle burning in soft wind. It wasn't gone yet, but it warned me.

Not forever. Not yet.

I reached up.

Slid the mask free.

No resistance.

No snapback.

I was just me again.

Back in my flannel pajamas. Small hands. Bare feet. Still Reina.

Still home.

I touched my chest. My magic hummed—brighter now. Deeper. Like a string pulled tighter.

One use.

One full transformation.

And something inside me had grown.

---

The fox mask didn't crumble. It didn't vanish.

But it looked different now. More faded at the edges. One of the red strokes above the eye had flaked. The linen wrap felt warmer to the touch.

Used, but not broken.

A spell cast, not a spell lost.

I rewrapped it carefully and returned it to the box.