THE QUEEN'S VOICE

Zina woke up in her bed.

Not the mirror vault.

Not the black hallway with the breathing walls.

Just her bed—satin sheets slightly tangled, the curtains drawn against a morning that felt too quiet. The fire in the hearth had long gone cold, and the usual rustling of servants beyond her door was gone. No tray clinking with tea. No scent of lavender.

Only silence.

And a tingling on her fingertips. The same fingers Kain had touched.

She sat up, eyes flicking toward the mirror—still covered, though the cloth was fluttering, as if something beneath it had exhaled.

Zina ran a hand down her face.

Had it been real?

The mirror room. Kain. The golden-eyed version of herself speaking through glass.

She lifted the hem of her nightgown and looked at the skin above her left hip.

The sigil glowed faintly.

Pulsing.

Not pain. Not fear.

Something worse.

Awareness.

She stepped into the hallway barefoot.

And paused.

There was no Laila. No shuffling from the other rooms. No muffled voices or slippered feet on stone.

The corridor stretched endlessly in both directions, lit only by dying sconces that cast long, thin shadows.

Even the portraits lining the walls felt different. Their eyes were no longer following her—because they were gone. Hollow sockets stared back from where painted faces had once been.

Something had changed.

And it wasn't the house.

It was her.

She found Laila in the southern chamber.

The maid—no, not just a maid, not anymore—was curled up on a window seat, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes fixed on the mist-choked gardens outside. Her hair was undone. Her shawl slipping from her shoulders.

Zina approached carefully.

"I thought something happened," she said softly.

Laila didn't turn.

> "Something did."

Zina sat beside her, the window cold against her back.

"You felt it too?"

Laila nodded once. Then again.

> "You touched the vault."

Zina's pulse quickened. "How do you know?"

> "The house whispers. But that room screams."

There was silence for a moment, heavy and metallic.

"Who was she?" Zina asked. "The girl in the mirror. With my face."

Laila finally looked at her.

> "Not a girl. Not anymore."

Zina frowned. "Then what is she?"

Laila hesitated. "A memory. A prophecy. A queen waiting to be remembered."

"I don't want to remember anything," Zina whispered.

Laila's voice was soft, but it didn't waver.

> "Then you shouldn't have signed."

Zina swallowed the lump in her throat.

"I just wanted to survive."

Laila stood. Her face was pale, drawn.

> "Survival isn't passive here," she said. "You either become part of the curse… or you end it."

And then she walked away, her steps soundless as ash.

That night, Zina sat alone at the long dining table.

The room was set for one.

No sign of Kain.

No flickering candles. No servant at her side.

Just a silver goblet of wine—deep red, almost black—and a plate of pomegranate seeds shaped into a crown.

She pushed the plate aside. The fruit gleamed wetly, like rubies soaked in blood.

She didn't eat.

She didn't drink.

Even the air felt wrong now. Heavier.

She stared at her reflection in the goblet.

Was that her? Or the other version?

The one with gold eyes and a voice like thunder.

A sound.

Soft. Slithering.

Zina's head jerked toward the western wall.

The largest mirror—usually covered in thick velvet—was bare.

And moving.

Not the glass. The air around it. Like heat shimmer, but colder. Hungrier.

She rose slowly, every nerve alert.

Then, she heard it.

A voice.

Not spoken aloud—but inside her head, behind her ears, inside her bones.

Feminine.

Velvety.

And ancient.

> "Do you remember me now?"

Zina's breath hitched.

She turned toward the mirror.

Her reflection didn't look back.

Instead, from within the glass, two gold eyes burned in the dark.

> "Say my name, Zina," the voice whispered.

"You knew it once. You wore it once."

Zina stepped back. "Who are you?"

> "I am what you left behind."

The shadows thickened in the corners of the room.

> "I want what was taken."

"I want my crown."

Zina fled.

She ran through the halls, skirts clutched in one hand, breath loud in her ears.

The house didn't stop her.

Didn't shift the corridors. Didn't seal the doors.

It let her run.

As if it was watching.

Waiting.

She burst into her bedroom, slammed the door shut, and locked it—even though she knew the lock meant nothing.

Her hands were shaking.

She turned to the wardrobe and threw it open.

And froze.

A new item rested on the bottom shelf.

Wrapped in dark silk.

Zina dropped to her knees, fingers trembling as she peeled the cloth back.

A mirror shard.

Jagged.

It pulsed in her hands like a living thing.

She lifted it slowly.

And saw herself.

But her face was cracked—like the mirror.

And her eyes…

Not brown. Not hers.

Gold.

The voice returned.

This time, it came from her own mouth.

But it wasn't her voice.

> "Soon, Zina," it whispered.

"Soon, you'll remember who we are."