Mirae

Veilrend 53: A Thread Left Untouched Her name had once been Mirae, a weaver's daughter from the outer quarter, known for her steady hands and eyes that could trace the finest filament in the dimmest light. Now, those hands trembled. Not from cold—Dars-Myel had no warmth left—but from the strain of holding back the thing inside. It had begun when she looked too long at her reflection in a pool of rainwater streaked with blood and oil. The mirror looked back... and blinked. Since then, something had crawled into her mind. A voice made of splintered glass. A pressure behind her eyes, like a needle waiting to pierce. She walked the back alleys, hood drawn low, avoiding any smooth surface. No mirrors. No windows. No still water. But reflections still found her. In the eyes of others. In the glint of a curved blade. In the glistening black blood of the horrors she fled. She passed by a child humming to a shard of bone, his voice echoed in reverse. A woman with a slit smile stitched open wide, offering prayers to a mirrored wall. Mirae ducked her head. She did not belong here. And yet, she did. Each day, the Mirror whispered more sweetly. You are beautiful beneath the cracks... just let us in. But she clung to something older. Her mother’s voice. A lullaby. The feel of real thread between her fingers. Tonight, her eye bled silver in the dark. But she wept red. She made it to the chapel ruins, where broken saints hung upside-down. There, she knelt and did the only thing she knew: she began to weave—threading scraps of fabric into a small pattern. A ward. A symbol. A prayer. A scream. The Mirror's voice screamed back. But she did not stop. Not yet.