Chapter 4: The Spy in the Mirror

Elara lay on her cot in the servants' quarters, staring at the ceiling as the shadows of dusk crept along the cracked plaster. The letter from the Order of the Eternal Flame burned in her apron pocket like a brand.

"The girl lives. End her before the Equinox."

They knew. Or at least suspected. And someone inside the palace someone with authority was working with them.

The mysterious man from the hallway returned to her thoughts. His warning echoed in her mind.

"Not all shadows in this palace are harmless."

That wasn't just a warning.

It was a message.

Elara sat up. She couldn't waste another moment. If she wanted to survive, she had to understand who was moving pieces behind the scenes and she needed to start with that man.

She slipped out into the corridor, careful not to draw attention. Night was when the palace slumbered, but secrets didn't.

They thrived.

The Royal Archives were buried deep beneath the east tower, past rusted gates and stairwells that creaked with every step. Only scribes and royal stewards were permitted inside, and only under direct authorization. But Elara knew the servants' backways better than any noble ever could.

She donned a spare scribe's cloak and tucked her braid under a wool cap. Her maid's dress was hidden beneath, just in case she needed to vanish.

The door creaked open with a soft groan.

Rows of ancient scrolls, tomes, and ledgers stretched endlessly in every direction. The scent of dust and ink was overwhelming. Shadows danced between the bookcases like whispers of forgotten kings.

She made her way to the Royal Profiles section. If the man from the corridor was part of the court, there would be a record. She scanned the upper nobles no match.

Then a name caught her eye:

"General Corven Elandric Status: Classified. Access: Crown Seal Only."

The profile had no portrait. No history. No date of birth.

Just a red seal with the royal crest.

Elara's breath hitched.

She'd known every general during her time as Crown Princess and he wasn't one of them.

She glanced around the dark archive. The flickering wall torches cast long shadows, but no footsteps echoed. Still, she felt watched.

Quickly, she reached for the shelf labeled "Restricted: Former Royalty." Her fingers brushed over familiar names.

Then she froze.

A worn leather journal. Her crest etched into the spine.

"Elara Valeblume - Age 15- Private Thoughts"

Her hands trembled as she opened it. The first few pages were exactly what she expected: ramblings about court lessons, her disdain for Lady Fenrick's tea parties, irritation toward her strict etiquette tutors.

But then… near the center, she found a page with no date. The ink looked fresher. The handwriting sharper. More mature.

"I'm being watched. I've seen him twice now, near the chapel and again by the stables. He wears the face of a knight, but his eyes… they don't match his smile. There's a prophecy the High Priestess won't speak aloud. Something about fire, and mirrors, and someone who dies twice. I know it's about me."

Elara's pulse thundered in her ears. She never wrote that. Not at fifteen. Not ever.

And yet it was her handwriting.

Another entry followed:

"He warned me not to trust even my reflection. That there's more than one version of myself in this timeline. That if I remember too much too quickly, I'll go mad. But I already remember… the fire. The pain. The betrayal."

She staggered back, the book nearly slipping from her fingers.

More than one version of myself?

A noise.

She froze, then dropped behind a bookcase, heart slamming against her ribs.

Footsteps. Quiet. Confident. Not a guard.

She peeked through a gap in the shelves.

It was him. Corven Elandric.

The mystery man.

He walked with no torch, as if he could see in the dark. He moved to a far wall, pressed three fingers into the stonework and a hidden compartment clicked open.

Elara's eyes widened.

From the hollow, he retrieved a scroll wrapped in black velvet. He unfurled it just slightly, and even from this distance, Elara saw the shimmer of glowing red runes magic. Forbidden magic.

She didn't breathe.

Corven turned suddenly, head tilting as if he sensed something.

Elara ducked low.

Silence.

Then his voice, soft and deliberate, drifted into the space between shelves.

"You were never meant to wake up."

Her blood turned to ice.

He knew.

He knew she had come back. That she had escaped death. That she wasn't supposed to be alive.

She backed away slowly, stepping over the cracked stone tiles, every movement silent.

But as she reached the exit, her heel clipped a fallen quill.

It rolled. Clicked.

Corven turned sharply.

"Who's there?"

Elara bolted.

She fled up the steps, heart in her throat, lungs burning. She didn't stop until she burst through a hidden panel behind the servant's laundry hall.

She collapsed against the wall, gasping.

He knew.

He had been part of it her death, her execution, the prophecy.

And now, he was hunting her again.

Only this time, she remembered enough to fight back.

But was that version of herself the one who wrote the journal still inside her?

Or was something darker waking up?