The Mirror and the Pyre

The blizzard howled through Houfam's frostbitten alleys as Araya's cruiser rolled out of Penelope's district, its engine purring low under the weight of snow and memory. The world behind him faded into storm — warmth swallowed by grey and white.

The road ahead was narrow. The last streetlamp blinked once, twice… then darkness swallowed all.

His wipers fought the swirling frost, but the snow seemed alive now — weaving, pulsing, dancing sideways across his vision.

He turned the heater to its highest setting. Steam hissed from the vents, but the cold pressed in deeper, like fingers beneath the skin.

> "Why is it so cold in here? The heater's on full blast…"

He checked the mirror. Nothing but haze.

And then—

A figure.

At the edge of the headlights.

Tall. Wrong. Frozen in place.

He blinked. It was gone.

> "Did I just see something move in the mirror? No, it's just the snow—just the snow."

His grip on the wheel tightened.

The radio crackled.

Static, then silence.

Then a voice — no, several voices — speaking in a language that shouldn't exist, thick with consonants, layered atop one another like a chorus of dead tongues.

> "Hello? Is someone out there? This isn't funny!"

He slammed the radio off. The sound didn't stop.

The chant continued.

From behind him.

> "The radio… what language is that? It's not possible…"

His eyes darted across the dashboard. The lights flickered — red, then violet, then blank.

The high-beams died.

Fog swallowed the road.

Only the dashboard glow remained — and even that trembled, sickly and green.

> "I can't see the road—where did the lights go?"

A shriek of metal echoed somewhere distant — like an entire bridge collapsing underwater.

The rearview mirror began to frost over — not from outside, but from within.

Behind him, the shadows thickened.

He didn't dare turn.

> "There's something in the back seat. I know I'm alone—I locked the doors."

The whisper came again.

Not from the car.

From his mind.

A slithering presence, threading through thought like needles through silk.

> "Stop! Get out of my head—stop whispering!"

He finally looked.

And there it was.

Reflected in the mirror.

A form stitched together from void and motion. Tentacles that faded into ash. A face that rewrote itself with every blink — eyes opening and closing in impossible sequences, bending in on each other like fractals.

> "What is that in the mirror? It's not real—it can't be real."

He tried to scream. Nothing came out.

His limbs wouldn't respond.

The frost crept over the inside of the windshield, carving patterns — no, letters. Not his language. Not any language.

And yet—

He understood.

> "Please, let me wake up. This can't be happening."

The words on the glass pulsed once.

Then shifted into something older. Deeper.

Something meant for him.

He didn't read them.

He couldn't.

Because—

It spoke.

A voice, low and vast, echoed behind his ear. It didn't scrape against his mind like the whispers had — this one pierced.

> "So you are the one."

"I have finally found you."

"You will lose everything you have gained."

His breath caught in his throat.

Eyes wide.

Chest tight.

He tried to move. To run. To cry. Anything.

But the car had stopped. The world outside was gone. There was only fog.

Only cold.

And the mirror.

Where the Hingcha stared into him — not at him — into him.

And for the first time in years—

Araya felt powerless.

The frost bloomed across his lungs.

And everything… went still.

---

Beneath the Pale Flame

Beneath a sky swollen with roiling, thunder-heavy clouds, the frozen land lay still — but not at peace.

Howling snow swept fiercely through the air, driven by winds that tore across the plains like restless spirits. Ice clung to every surface. The world shimmered in a ghostlight glow, fractured and surreal beneath the storm's fury.

It was as if the land itself mourned.

The snow fell quietly over Penelope's shoulders, gathering in the folds of her coat, her hair, the trembling line of her jaw.

She stood alone.

Still.

Staring.

The body of the man she loved — pale, unmoving — lay not far from her, barely shielded from the storm. He had collapsed on the road back home. No signs of struggle. No final words. Just… a stopped heart.

And silence.

Is it really true?

I shouldn't have called him…

Her voice never left her lips, but the ache behind her eyes was loud enough to scream.

There were no tears on her face. Not yet. She stood in the storm like a frozen statue, half-expecting him to get up. To laugh. To say it was all a joke. That this was another prank, another lesson, another strange twist in his endless riddles.

"You can't go," she whispered.

"You said you love me, jerk..."

The wind answered with a soft gust, brushing past her cheek like a hand no longer there.

---

Among the gathered mourners stood Atiya. Silent. Distant.

He had seen Araya with Penelope many times. Shared brief nods, exchanged small words. A mutual respect had grown between them. Maybe even something close to friendship.

But not enough.

Not now.

He kept his distance.

Pain like this, he thought, can only be mended by the one who carries it.

So he watched her. Just for a while.

And then he turned and left — boots crunching softly against the snow.

---

The rites were held swiftly.

As was tradition in Ellejort, nobles were returned to flame — the purest form of departure, believed to cleanse the soul and guide it through the Chain of Rebirth. Araya, adopted son of a Count, was given such a funeral.

The pyre rose, its heart devouring him in silence.

But the fire struggled.

The flame was strangely hungry that day — requiring more wood, more power, as though reluctant to consume him. The heat bloomed unnaturally high before it finally settled.

Among the gathered mourners, whispers stirred:

"He was the Count's heir, wasn't he?"

"Then where is the Count?"

"Couldn't spare an hour for his son's last rites?"

"Work must be very important…"

"Maybe the Count never really saw him as a son…"

Penelope heard them. Every word. But she didn't move. She didn't answer.

She stood still.

Wind clawed at her shawl. The snow blurred the edges of the firelight.

Eventually, only two people remained at the ashes: Penelope and Lukas.

He stepped forward hesitantly, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth.

"Araya used to talk about you," Lukas said, voice low. "Said you hated morning tea… but still made it for him. Every day."

Penelope's gaze didn't leave the ashes.

"Said he liked how you always pay for for meals when on a date. Because it meant you cared."

She said nothing.

Lukas shifted his weight.

"He… he wouldn't want you blaming yourself. Just so you know."

A pause.

"I hope you'll be okay."

Then he turned and left.

His footsteps disappeared into the storm.

---

As the flames died and the sky darkened further, Penelope remained where she was.

Not moving.

Not speaking.

The world had emptied.

She looked down at the last of the embers — soft, flickering, barely breathing.

And finally, she whispered:

"You always vanish before I can stop you…"

"But this time… you didn't even say goodbye."

"You said I'd never lose you.

Liar."

Her words vanished into the wind — unheard by any but the snow.

---

She had always hoped he'd wake up. Even when they laid him on the pyre. Even when the fire took him.

But now, there was nothing left to wake.

Only ashes.

Only silence.

Only her.

And the weight of a grief no one else could carry.

---