THE MIRROR ARCHIVE.
The storm arrived at midnight.
Not rain.
Information.
It came in the form of a letter.
Handwritten, sealed in black wax, slipped under the door of the Thirteenth Room without a sound.
Zina opened it with steady fingers, heart thrumming.
> "To the Keeper of the Black Rose,
If you've broken two, you can break them all.
But you need the map.
Come alone.
Come before moonrise.
— The Mirror Archivist"
She didn't hesitate.
🕯️ The Journey to the Archive
Zina wore no sigil.
No veil.
Just a knife tucked into her boot and the rose pinned to her blouse.
The directions were maddening—twist left at a mango tree that no longer bloomed, cross a dry river where goats once drowned. But somehow, her feet knew where to go.
She reached the place before sunrise.
A single building carved into a hill.
It didn't have doors.
Just reflections.
Zina stepped through a wall of glass.
And entered the Archive.
🕯️ Inside the Mirror Archive
It wasn't a library.
It was a labyrinth.
Hallways made of mirrors. Staircases that doubled back into memory. Reflections of herself from different years — as a child, as a bride, as a shadow.
And in the center of it all—
A woman in a long white robe, face veiled in silver thread.
She sat at a desk made of polished obsidian.
"Are you the Archivist?" Zina asked.
The woman nodded.
Then, without lifting her veil, she said,
> "You've undone two Houses."
> "There are four hundred and thirty-seven more."
Zina didn't flinch.
She just exhaled.
"Then tell me everything."
The Archivist stood and walked to a great mirror behind her.
It flickered alive like a living map.
Across Nigeria — dots of light.
Some red.
Some black.
Some flickering.
Zina's stomach twisted. "All of those are Houses?"
"Cursed places," the Archivist said. "Some disguised as churches. Some as schools. Some… still calling themselves homes."
Zina stepped closer.
"These dots—what's the difference?"
"Red are active. Black are dormant. Flickering are transforming."
Zina blinked. "Into what?"
The Archivist finally lifted her veil.
Her face wasn't human.
It was fractured glass.
And in every shard—faces of brides.
"You already know," she whispered.
Zina's throat tightened. "They're evolving. They're adapting to survive."
The Archivist nodded. "You're not just saving women anymore."
"You're interrupting a system."
🕯️ A Dangerous Revelation
The Archivist handed her a book.
Bound in skin. Etched with names.
Each one a bride.
Each one… disappeared.
"You must find the First House," the Archivist said. "The one that birthed all the others."
"Where is it?"
The woman's eyes glinted.
"It isn't marked."
Zina opened the book to the final page.
There, in smeared ink:
> "Bride Zero – Zuri of Arochukwu."
Status: Bound to Root Mirror.
Location: Unknown.
"Root Mirror?" Zina asked.
"It's the original portal," the Archivist said. "The very first one cursed. The one every other house copies."
Zina closed the book.
"And if I find it?"
"You'll find her."
"Zuri?"
"No," the Archivist whispered.
> "The one who made the deal."
Zina didn't ask more.
She tucked the book into her bag, turned to leave—
But stopped.
"How do I know you're not one of them?"
The Archivist tilted her head.
Then removed a shard of mirror from her chest and handed it to Zina.
It didn't reflect her.
It reflected the house.
The first house.
And it was still alive.
🕯️ Back at the Thirteenth Room – Later That Night
Zina returned to find Laila awake, arms crossed.
"You said you'd be gone an hour."
"I was."
"It's been three days."
Zina stared.
The house had held her again. Slipped time around her like a second skin.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "But I found… something."
She placed the mirror shard on the table.
It pulsed.
The other girls gathered.
And in the glass—
The image of a new house.
Not salt.
Not silk.
This one was made of teeth.