Chapter 13 - The Monster in the Mirror

Ashtoria Belmore.

The Queen of the Belmore Kingdom.

The last ruler of the royal bloodline still standing.

A woman both worshipped and despised, often in the same breath.

Each of her heavy steps echoed along the main road of the fortress, drawing every gaze toward her. The surviving soldiers stood in formation, backs straight, hands trembling slightly as they stepped aside. Fear lingered in their eyes. Among them, the civilians who had chosen to remain said nothing. Some lowered their faces. Others exchanged whispers with barely parted lips.

Ashtoria heard every word.

"Her face is completely ruined. That's why she wears that terrifying mask."

Silence followed.

At first, Ashtoria ignored them. These whispers were nothing new.

"I heard she tortures her prisoners until they lose their minds. Her dungeon walls are covered with body parts."

"She's a monster."

Then she stopped.

Three people stood at the right side of the road, two men and a middle-aged woman. It was the woman who had spoken last. The one who dared to call her a monster. And the moment Ashtoria came to a halt, it felt as if the entire street froze. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

Ashtoria slowly turned her head.

She said nothing.

She simply raised one hand.

A heartbeat passed. Then the woman exploded.

There was no warning, no incantation, no flash of light. Her body burst apart, torn into raw pieces of flesh and blood. The two men beside her were splashed red. The stone walls caught the rest. Her remains clung to everything—clothes, cobblestones, skin.

But no one screamed.

Not a single cry rose from the crowd.

They understood. One sound. One gasp. That was all it would take.

They could be next.

Stillness returned. The air felt heavier than before.

Ashtoria lowered her hand and resumed walking, her pace as steady as before.

As if nothing had happened.

As if that blood were only dust kicked up by her boots.

Above her, the sky remained heavy, suffocating in its silence. The clouds threatened rain, but none fell. She glanced up through the narrow slits of her mask, her eyes steady, unwavering. It was a gaze that seemed to pierce the heavens themselves.

Her steps carried her toward the heart of the fortress. The residence of the local lord, long since abandoned to make room for her. When she approached the gate, the tall wooden doors creaked open without being touched.

Inside, a line of servants stood waiting in the corridor. Their expressions were stiff with fear. One of them, a young woman, bowed so low she nearly collapsed to the floor. Her voice trembled.

"Y-Your Majesty… Everything is prepared."

Ashtoria gave a faint nod. No reply, no glance.

Without speaking, she stepped inside the towering stone residence. The doors closed behind her, sealing the silence within.

.

.

.

Ashtoria moved through the corridors like a ghost. Her footsteps barely made a sound against the polished floors as she approached the bathing chamber.

It was a wide room of pale stone. At its center sat a steaming bath infused with herbs and flowers. Large candles flickered from every corner, their flames stretching shadows across the walls.

Before entering, she turned to the servants who still waited behind her in the hall. They kept their eyes on the floor, backs bent in fear.

"Whatever happens," she said, her voice low and even, "do not enter. Unless I call for you."

They nodded quickly. None of them dared speak. Their retreat was swift and silent, as if even a breath too loud might cost them their lives.

Once the door shut, the helmet on her head began to glow. It dissolved into golden particles and vanished into the air.

Her fiery red hair spilled free, falling across her back like a cascade of blood.

She stepped toward the mirror.

Her reflection stared back at her: tall, scarred, silent. Slowly, she tilted her head, her eyes scanning her own face with suspicion, as if seeing a stranger.

Am I really that hideous?

Am I… a monster?

She raised a hand and brushed her fingers against the glass. It was cold. Smooth. Lifeless.

It offered no answer.

But then, her reflection changed.

It smiled.

Her breath caught.

Her lips hadn't moved… yet the reflection spoke.

"Monster…"

"You enjoyed it, didn't you? Watching her explode. Hearing her flesh tear apart. Feeling the blood hit the ground."

"You're cruel, Ashtoria. Even demons fear you."

"You kill because you can."

Her eyes widened.

"No!" she screamed.

Her fist crashed into the mirror with inhuman force.

CRAAKK!!

Glass shattered. Shards scattered across the floor like fallen stars. Some lodged into her skin, but she didn't even blink. Her eyes glowed red. Her chest heaved. Her breath turned ragged.

"It wasn't my fault…" she whispered. "It was them. They're the ungrateful ones. I saved them. I saved everyone…"

She turned, searching the floor.

But in the broken fragments of glass, she didn't see her reflection anymore.

She saw faces.

Faces of the people she had killed.

One after another.

Too many to count.

Her father's face, frozen in hatred.

Her mother's, filled with quiet disappointment.

Her younger sibling… so small, so innocent. Once calling her "big sister." Now calling her:

"Monster."

Their voices rose from the shards, whispering together like a curse:

"You should've died, Ashtoria."

"You don't deserve to live."

"The world would be better without you."

"No!!" she cried again, clutching her ears.

A sudden wave of power burst from within her.

Every remaining shard of glass disintegrated into dust.

Nothing remained. Not even the reflection.

Silence returned, ringing in her ears. Her body trembled. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

And finally, tears began to fall.

Slowly. One by one. Tracing paths down her scarred cheeks.

A cry escaped her lips—silent, but deep.

A pain with no wound. A wound that could never heal.

"…I am a monster…" she whispered.

Her body trembled.

Not from rage.

Not from power.

But from something colder.

A loneliness that wrapped around her soul and refused to let go.

Wordlessly, she began to undress.

The black armor. The crimson cloak. The protective layers that had shielded her for years.

Piece by piece, they fell away onto the cold stone floor.

Her body stood bare beneath the flickering light.

Covered in scars—some old, some recent.

But many wounds could not be seen with eyes.

She walked toward the bath. The water still steamed gently, the scent of flowers and herbs lingering in the air.

Ashtoria stepped in.

One foot, then the other.

Slowly.

Silently.

Warmth touched her skin.

It spread across her body, washing over the bruises no one else could see.

When she finally submerged herself, only her head remained above the surface.

Her crimson hair floated, spreading out across the water like blood blooming in silence.

She closed her eyes.

And for a moment, the Queen of Belmore let herself vanish beneath the warmth.