Chapter 3 - Echoes Of Imperfection

The light was already waiting.

Not forming. Not rising. Not approaching with delicate suggestion. Just there. Already full. Already bright. Already wrong.

My lashes flicked open like stage curtains mistimed, revealing a world that hadn't paused to consider how I should first be seen. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't deliberate. The ceiling didn't blush with first-light. The air didn't hold its breath. It simply existed.

How vulgar.

My hand moved to summon the chillglass carafe—no need for voice command. But the tray was already out. Already poured.

Two cups.

Both filled.

No steam. No sister.

I sat upright, slowly, gracefully, like a dream remembered out of order. The robe had wrapped around me in my sleep—an offense I would have forgiven, if it had at least clung artfully. It had not. It bunched. Like cotton. Like democracy.

"Unacceptable," I murmured.

The mirror waited in silence. Bronze-framed, rose-inlaid, angled to catch me in profile. I turned my head. Slowly. It preserved the illusion that even movement required invitation.

My reflection blinked. So did I.

But not together.

Mine came second.

A fraction of a breath. Enough to imagine. Enough to doubt.

I rose. No stretch. No sigh. Just the act of rising—cold, barefoot, sovereign.

The robe obeyed this time. Draped cleanly. Flowed behind me like a loyal metaphor. Good. I needed a few of those today.

The water tasted like memory. A memory of being perfect once. I let it sit on my tongue and offered no thanks.

No footsteps. No door.

She was late.

Alaria had never been late.

I approached the mirror. Studied the frame. No dust. No flaw. Just defiance. The good kind. The kind I could name. Frame. Break.

I raised my hand. Held it near the glass.

In the reflection, I was already touching it.

The smile I wore wasn't the one I'd chosen.

I lowered my hand.

The door opened.

She entered. As always. But this time half a step off. She noticed. Adjusted.

"You're late."

"I know."

"Then fix it."

"I would," she said, "but time isn't mine."

Was that a joke?

I nodded toward the mirror. "He's been misbehaving."

She met her own reflection. No reaction.

"Is that so?"

"I blinked second."

She didn't smile.

"Would you like breakfast?"

"I'd like an apology."

"I'll bring both."

She turned. Left no scent behind.

I remained at the mirror.

The other me did not move.

The promenade blinked.

Not rose. Not stirred. Blinked.

Something in its posture had shifted. The angles were too conscious. The trees leaned just slightly more than I remembered. The walkway shone too evenly, as if scrubbed not clean but new.

Rewritten.

I stepped forward. Daring it to disobey.

Attendants flanked me in silence. Robes matched to the morning's light. Their eyes lowered. Good. If they noticed the sky had changed shade between blinks, they didn't say.

Alaria followed three paces behind.

As always.

Except now she watched with intent. Not admiration. Not protection.

Measurement.

Ahead, the children waited. Tribute in hand-folded flowers and glittering artifacts meant to bless the ground I walked.

I never touched them. I allowed them.

But today, one child stepped too close.

Small. Freckled. Steady.

She held up a white bloom, woven from paper and thread. Her tone was firm.

"For when the sky breaks."

I stopped.

The guards froze beside me.

The mother gasped. "She meant no—"

I raised one finger. She dropped to her knees.

"What did you say?"

The girl blinked. "It's for you. For when the sky breaks."

Not scared. Helpful.

I took the flower. It was wet.

"That's very thoughtful," I said. "And what breaks first? The sky, or the silence?"

"I don't know."

"Then you'll make a fine poet."

I turned. Tossed the flower behind me.

It landed in the reflection pool.

It did not float.

It did not sink.

It stood. Upright. Still. Staring.

"Would you like it removed?" Alaria asked.

"No. Let it see how things are supposed to look."

We continued.

One guard turned his head too fast.

He did not turn it back.

Three breakfast trays.

Identical. Perfect. Suspicious.

"Which," I asked, "is correct?"

"They all are, Your Radiance."

I waited. No clarification came.

"Three truths cannot coexist. Unless they are lies in formalwear."

Alaria arrived. I gestured.

"A puzzle. You enjoy those."

"They're all wrong," she said. "You didn't choose them."

That earned a smile. Thin. Cut-glass.

"You speak like someone who has never hosted a banquet."

I sat at the center tray. Ignored the rest.

The tea was correct. But it tasted like remembering.

She stood beside me.

"Not sitting?"

"I'm not invited."

"Pretend."

"I've never passed your tests."

"And yet you keep appearing in the grading chamber."

She didn't answer.

I reached for the berry dish. Let one slice dangle.

"Do you feel it?"

"What?"

"The world. Repeating itself. Improvising."

She tilted her head. "All writers plagiarize themselves."

"I meant the actual world."

"Then yes."

I placed the berry on the plate and did not eat it.

"None of them are correct," I said.

"The breakfasts?"

"No. The day."

The garden was too still.

Bloodlilies leaned without reason. The air had a taste. Sharp. Faintly metallic.

Copper.

One lily wept from the edge of a petal. Not dew. Not sap. Blood.

I touched it.

It cut me.

My fingertip stained. The blood didn't dry. It bloomed outward, veining into the air like performance art.

A leaf fell. Froze. Flickered. Disappeared.

"Are you bleeding?"

Alaria again.

"No."

"Yes," she said.

I looked. The stain was gone. My hand was clean. The flower intact.

She handed me a cloth.

It was already damp.

She held it just a moment too early.

The next day in my rehearsal chamber

Mirrors. Five. Rose-carved, script-etched, arranged in a star.

I stood at the center.

Raised one hand. The reflections followed.

Late.

Then early.

I faced the central mirror. Reserved for pronouncements.

"People of the Rose," I said. "You needn't be afraid. Only ashamed."

Nothing.

"You have doubted the sky. It bends for me. You mourn silence. It listens to me first."

Still nothing.

I turned slowly. Let the robe flare.

"Your fear is expected. Your confusion, forgivable. But your delay is theft. And I do not forgive thieves."

The mirrors stared.

One was already facing me before I turned.

I stepped closer.

Not quickly. Not in anger. In study.

"Are you mocking me?"

The reflection did not smile.

"Are you evolving?"

It blinked.

So did I.

But again, not at the same time.

I touched the glass.

It touched nothing.

The image followed late.

Then early.

Then mouthed a phrase.

"You needn't be afraid. Only ashamed."

I opened my mouth.

But the reflection was faster