Chapter 14 - The mirror flame

Eirian sat cross-legged on her bed, the Mugu bell resting in her lap. The house was quiet—Sera and Orlen had gone to sleep hours ago. Moonlight filtered in through the window, painting the floorboards silver.

She closed her eyes, steadying her breath as her mana threads stirred. Since the ritual at the lake, a question had burned in her chest like a coal that wouldn’t cool: ‘Who was that man? Why did he know me?’

And every time she tried to reach her mother again, she felt the memory of that severed thread, the echo of fury in his voice.

She had tried to leave behind that encounter, but it was difficult not to think about it; even when Eirian thought about the fairies, something deep inside her was telling her that everything was connected.

‘I need answers.’ She thought.

Eirian let her mana drift inward. The threads bent, curling toward the place she had come to know as her soulspace—a world inside and behind her, stitched from memory and will.

At first, it was dark as always. But tonight, something moved within it.

A flickering flame.

“Askariel,” she whispered.

The flame twisted—and for the briefest moment, it mirrored her own form, like a shadow stretched too thin. Two hands, wrong at the joints. A face—almost hers—then melting away.

“Little thread-walker,” Askariel’s voice rolled out like a purr dragged across broken glass. “You’ve been calling for me.”

“You’re changing,” she said, her chest tight, every day that pass in this world, Askariel recovered more information about who he truly was, sometimes, Eirian dreamt with that life, and with that knowledge, she started to be more wary and terrified of him, Askariel wasn’t a simple demon, he was extremely powerful in his world.

“I am remembering,” he replied. “Memories return piece by piece. The time when I had a body… when my will shaped more than whispers.”

His tone unsettled her. There was hunger in it, and something sharper—plans he hadn’t shared.

“You’re planning something,” she accused softly.

The flame pulsed, and she swore it smirked. “I am dreaming, girl. Isn’t that what you do when you close your eyes?”

Eirian’s fingers dug into her knees. “What are you hiding from me?”

Instead of answering, Askariel’s flame swelled, heat licking at the edges of her soulspace.

“I want to know who that priest was,” she demanded. “Why did he attack me? What did he mean by trespassing?” He had made a pact with her, in which he needed to help her.

The flame stilled.

“Those who walk between souls, and even between worlds,” Askariel said slowly, “draw the gaze of hunters. You are not the first, you will not be the last, but the others…”

His voice dropped to a low hum.

“…the others are part of an organization; if they refuse to be in it, they die.”

A chill ran down her spine.

“You could have warned me.”

“I am warning you now,” he said.

Her jaw clenched. “No—you knew. You let me walk blind into danger. You’ve been manipulating me from the start.”

Laughter crackled through the flame, harsh and amused.

“And you, girl, hold threads mortals should never touch. Do you think yourself innocent? We are both thieves of what is forbidden.”

The threads around her quivered. Her anger surged—and with it, something inside her cracked open.

The flame bent toward her; she reached out without meaning to, her fingers brushing its edge.

There was a sharp pull—like breath sucked from her chest—and a second flame bloomed in her hands.

It hovered above her palms, soft yet impossibly bright, a floating lantern of blue-white fire. The threads around her shone in its light, and faint glimmers moved in the corners of the soulspace—spirits, watching.

Eirian gasped. “What is this?”

Askariel’s own flame stretched taller, shivering with something like delight.

“You copy a piece of me,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “And shaped it into something new, a lantern to light the paths others fear to walk.”

The second flame spun gently, casting pale reflections on her fingers.

Her chest heaved. “I… didn’t mean to.”

“Meaning has never mattered,” Askariel murmured. “But relax, I’m not mad, girl; the only thing you did was to copy something. If you had taken it from me…” The last part sent chills to Eirian; he didn’t threaten her, but it wasn’t necessary—she understood.

She could feel it—the spell listening, ready to obey. Its presence was warm but not burning, steady as a heartbeat.

And when she looked up, Askariel was smiling in that distorted way again—like this was what he had wanted all along.

***

The Soul Lantern floated above Eirian’s hand, its pale-blue light breathing in and out like a second heartbeat. She had summoned it three nights in a row now, just to see if she could. Each time, it came more easily, responding to her will as if it had been waiting for her all along.

Tonight, the moon hid behind clouds, and the wind hummed through the eaves of the house. The rest of the family was asleep. Eirian sat at the window, her chin resting on her knees, watching as the lantern’s glow stretched faint ribbons of silver into the night air.

And that was when she saw them again.

Little lights—smaller than candle flames—flickered at the edge of her vision. They hovered near the herb beds, darting like fireflies. Each time she turned her head to look directly, they scattered, melting into the shadows.

“Fairies,” she whispered.

The Soul Lantern pulsed softly in her hand, as if affirming her thought.

She had seen them once before, in the glade. Back then, they had approached her freely, dancing around her like sparks of joy. But now, every time she took a step toward them, they fled.

Eirian slipped quietly outside. The grass was damp beneath her feet.

“Please…” she said softly, holding out her hand. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The fairies lingered at a distance, their tiny lights swaying like petals in a breeze. But the moment she stepped closer, they vanished again, scattering like spilled beads into the night.

It became a pattern.

Every night, she tried.

She set out small dishes of honey, pieces of fruit, and even sweet bread Sera had baked that morning. The food went untouched.

Another night, she left toys—a tiny wooden bird, a doll she had stitched herself, and Tomas’ sisters’ favorite marble. Again, nothing.

“Why won’t you come closer?” She murmured to the empty air.

From the porch, a small voice answered, “Who are you talking to?”

Eirian turned sharply. Tomas’ sisters—Mira and Luma—stood in their nightclothes, hair mussed from sleep.

“No one,” Eirian said too quickly.

Mira tilted her head. “You’re talking to the lights, aren’t you?”

Eirian froze. “…You see them?”

Both girls nodded.

“They’re pretty,” Luma said. “They play near the garden sometimes. But whenever we try to catch them, they go away.”

Eirian stared at the twins; Sera and Orlen couldn’t see them, and not even Tomas had mentioned them.

“You… don’t see the threads?” Eirian asked carefully.

“The what?” Ria asked, brow furrowing.

So they could see the fairies—but not the threads.

Askariel’s voice coiled from the shadows of her mind, amused. ‘Curious, isn’t it? You’ve marked them.’

‘Marked them?’

‘The sigil you drew in the forest,’ he explained, his tone like smoke curling in her ears. ‘It marked you when the fairies first came to you. And when these little ones saw you with it, it marked them as well. Fairies remember signs older than your kind.’

Eirian looked at the girls, her heart skipping.

“They’re like me,” she whispered.

“That’s impossible,” Askariel replied. “But there is something old in their blood that must taste delicious, even if it’s faded, as if after many generations it had been almost erased, but the mark stirs it awake.”

Eirian’s fingers curled.

She went back inside and rummaged through her satchel until she found a scrap of bark. On it, she carved the same sigil she had drawn that day in the glade—the one that had called the fairies to her in the first place.

She pressed it into the earth, right where the fairies’ lights had been dancing.

The Soul Lantern hovered, threads vibrating faintly around her.

But nothing happened, no wind or shimmer of lights.

The fairies did not come.

Eirian stared at the sigil, frustration building like pressure behind her eyes.

“They don’t answer,” she muttered.

‘They’ve grown cautious,’ Askariel said. ‘Even the smallest spirits know when they are being hunted. You are no longer simply a child playing with threads. You’ve become a lantern in the dark. And light always draws eyes—wanted and unwanted.’

Eirian tightened her grip on the lantern.

Mira tugged at her sleeve. “Why don’t they like us anymore?”

“They do,” Eirian said softly. “They’re just afraid.”

She didn’t add what Askariel had said—because it made too much sense.

The fairies know.

That night, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, the Soul Lantern hovering dimly beside her.

The sigil was supposed to mean welcome. She remembered tracing it with her mother’s hand, years ago in another life.

But here, it was powerless.

And the fairies, the ones who had once given her a flower that showed her the world’s secrets, would not come.

‘Why?’

She reached out with her threads, brushing the lantern’s glow across the rafters. Nothing answered.

Askariel laughed quietly in the recesses of her soul.

‘Little thread-walker,’ he said, ‘not every door opens twice.’

***

Eirian couldn’t sleep; the sigil had failed, the fairies had fled, and Askariel’s voice still coiled through her head like smoke.

Not every door opens twice.

She sat cross-legged on the floor of her room, the Mugu bell in her lap and her owl mask beside her. The Soul Lantern hovered dimly above her hand, casting ripples of blue across the walls.

There had to be another way.

Her thoughts kept circling back to the owl dance—the ritual that had bridged worlds. That had let her see her mother one last time.

But that ritual had come at a cost. The white-robed man. The severed thread. The hate in his eyes.

If she tried the same thing again, she knew what would happen.

‘Then I won’t.’

Her fingers curled around the Mugu.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She could still dance, still call, but she wouldn’t reach; instead, she would build something new.

***

She left the house just before dawn, mask tied to her belt and Mugu hanging from her wrist. The morning air was cool and heavy with dew. Mist clung to the grass as she made her way to the edge of the forest.

Here, in the clearing where the moonlight often pooled, she knelt and began to draw.

With the edge of a stick, she carved the sigil into the soil—broad strokes, careful curves. The mark was simple, but every line carried weight.

“This isn’t the same; I’m not trying to reach another world,” she whispered to herself. “What I want is to create a door for the fairies.”

The Mugu bell chimed softly as she shifted, placing flowers and feathers along the edges of the sigil. She added fox feathers, ash bark, and even a thread from the foxtail charm she had tied to the mask weeks ago.

When the circle was ready, she stood and tied the mask over her face.

Her breath slowed. Her threads stirred.

She rang the Mugu.

Once. Twice. Three times.

The sound rolled outward like ripples across water.

Then she began to dance.

The movements came naturally now. Arms raised, lowered, sweeping in arcs that carved invisible shapes through the air. Her feet traced patterns in the soil, pressing rhythm into the earth.

The mask settled like a second face, and with every turn, the Mugu gave its low, echoing chime.

Light shifted.

The Soul Lantern appeared beside her without her even summoning it, hovering just above the circle’s edge. Its glow deepened, pulling faint threads out of the air.

The fairies came.

At first, only one. Then three. Then dozens.

Tiny glimmers floated between the trees, chiming like bells. They circled her in widening spirals, their light weaving patterns with her movements.

Eirian’s heart raced—but this time, she didn’t stop.

The forest changed.

Threads shimmered, more than she had ever seen at once. Silver, green, and red, twisting through branches and roots. The moss at her feet glowed faintly, as if starlight had pooled within it.

Rocks nearby shifted hue—one paling to a luminous white, another deepening into a vivid, cold blue.

The air felt alive.

***

POV Sera:

Sera had woken early to check the herb beds. She wasn’t expecting to find the glade alive with light.

She froze at the tree line, her breath catching.

The girl in the circle wasn’t just Eirian anymore.

The mask covered her face, and her cloak flowed with the turn of her steps. Fairies danced around her in playful arcs, their tiny voices chiming like wind through crystal.

The Soul Lantern hovered above, casting long ribbons of blue-white glow that caught the threads only Eirian could see.

The clearing itself seemed to breathe.

Flowers swayed though there was no wind. Rocks shimmered, their colors shifting faintly as though remembering what they once had been.

Sera couldn’t move, but she was sure that Eirian had disobeyed their warnings about not trying to dance in a ritual by herself; she would need to put some sense in that girl.

***

POV Eirian:

Eirian turned once more, the final steps of the dance flowing like water, the fairies answered in kind, swirling faster, leaving streaks of light behind them, and her Mugu rang a final time, its chime harmonizing with the tiny bell-voices.

And then—stillness.

The fairies floated in place, their lights pulsing softly, like hearts beating in unison.

Eirian lowered her arms slowly, breath coming fast. The mask felt warm against her skin, as though it had absorbed every movement she had made.

The rocks at the circle’s edge glowed faintly—blue and white, they had transformed from simple rocks to something else, something more valuable.

Sera finally stepped forward.

“Eirian…”

The girl turned toward her, mask still on. For a moment, Sera swore she wasn’t looking at her daughter but at something far older, far wilder.

Then Eirian lifted the mask away, sweat on her brow, eyes bright.

“It worked,” she said simply, voice trembling with awe.

Sera stared at the stones, her stomach twisting. She knew what they were.

Mana stones—worth fortunes. And holy stones—things only the church should possess.

The fairies hovered nearby, their bell-like sounds soft and almost approving. Eirian looked at them, then back at the mask in her hand. This time, the door had opened—without chains—and she could feel it deep in her chest.

This was only the beginning.

Eirian crouched near the edge of the circle, where the moss still glowed faintly from the ritual’s power.

Two stones rested there—one deep blue, veins of light flickering faintly beneath its surface like trapped lightning. The other was pale as bone, its glow soft but unyielding, as though it carried the light of the moon itself.

Eirian reached out.

The blue one was cool in her hand, thrumming faintly, a steady rhythm like a heartbeat. The threads around it bent toward her touch, all trembling as if drawn to it.

The white one… She hesitated before picking it up. It was warm. Almost alive. As her fingers closed around it, a faint echo pulsed through her, not like mana, but like a presence watching silently from afar.

“What are they?” she asked softly.

Sera knelt beside her, staring at the stones as though she couldn’t trust her own eyes. She picked up the blue one, turning it in her hand.

“Eirian… this is a mana stone.” Her voice was hushed.

Eirian tilted her head. “Like… in books?”

Sera nodded, her face pale. “These aren’t just rare. They’re fought over. Wars have been started for veins of stones like this. Kingdoms crumble when a new mine is found.”

Eirian’s fingers tightened around the white stone. “And this one?”

Sera’s expression changed completely. Her lips parted, and for a long moment she didn’t speak at all.

Finally, she whispered, “That… is a holy stone.”

Eirian blinked.

Sera looked at her sharply, as if the words might vanish if she didn’t say them fast enough.

“No one is supposed to have these. The Church claims every single one they find. They say only their priests can ‘safely wield the Light.’”

“Why?”

“Because they’re afraid,” Sera said bitterly. “Afraid that someone else might prove they’re not as holy as they pretend.”

Eirian glanced down at the stone in her hand. Its glow was soft, almost innocent—but she could feel the weight of power within it.

“If they find out we have this,” Sera continued, voice trembling, “they won’t just take it. They’ll take you. They’ll tear apart the village looking for whoever made these appear.”

Eirian’s stomach turned.

“You can’t let anyone see these,” Sera said sharply. “We need to hide them; maybe your dad can think of a plan.”

“We could sell them if they are valuable…” There was clear confusion in Eirian’s voice.

“We could do it if we could protect against powerful people like nobles or the church, but we can’t, especially now that we live in a small village.”

Sera wasn’t behaving like she used to be; it was as if she was afraid of something. Eirian didn’t understand that what she had managed to do was something that should be impossible and could put the world upside down.

She looked at the fairies, still lingering at the edges of the clearing. They hovered in silence, lights pulsing faintly, as though they knew exactly what they had helped her create.

***

By the time they returned to the house, Orlen was already awake, his broad frame bent over his workbench, hammer in hand.

He looked up when Sera entered.

“What happened?” His tone was sharp—too sharp.

Sera set the two stones down on the table between them.

For a moment, Orlen didn’t react. Then his face went grim.

“Where did these come from?”

“She made them.” Sera’s voice was quiet but steady.

Orlen turned to Eirian. His jaw tightened. “Explain.”

Eirian swallowed. “I… I just danced, like before. This time I didn’t want to cross the bridge between worlds; I wanted the fairies to come, but the ground changed. And then—these were just there.”

Orlen didn’t curse, but the way his hand closed around the blue stone made Eirian’s chest tighten.

“I’ve seen villages burned for less,” he said flatly. “If nobles hear of this, they’ll come for the stones—and for whoever made them appear.”

He picked up the white stone next, turning it over in his thick fingers.

“And this one… Gods above, this is worse. If the Church learns you have this, Eirian, they won’t just take it. They’ll take you.” He repeated the exact same words that had come out from Sera.

Eirian flinched at the weight in his tone.

Orlen strode to the far corner of the workshop, crouching to pull up a floorboard. Beneath it was a small compartment lined with waxed cloth and steel nails.

He placed both stones inside, his movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. Then he replaced the board and pressed it flat until it clicked.

When he stood, his expression was set like iron.

“No one speaks of this,” he said, his gaze fixed on Sera. Then on Eirian. “Not to the merchant. Not to Tomas’ sisters. Not even to the village elder. Understand?”

Eirian nodded slowly.

Sera crossed her arms. “And if someone asks?”

“They won’t,” Orlen said firmly. “Because they’ll never know.”

He set his hands on the table, leaning forward slightly.

“This is not a game, Eirian. We need to be careful with these things.”

Eirian’s stomach twisted.

“What about all the others?” Eirian asked his dad.

“What others?”

“This…” Eirian grabbed the bag beside her and took all the stones inside.

“For God’s sake!” Orlen was having a hard time looking at all the stones. “I thought it was just one of each; this many stones for a dance…”

“Let’s hide it in my garden for the moment; what do you think?” Sera asked Orlen.

“Yeah… that could work.”

Her parents took all the stones and started hiding every single one of them, burying them under Sera’s garden.

Eirian thought of the Soul Lantern, of the priest’s furious eyes, of the power humming in her veins.

She’d wanted answers. She’d wanted to understand the threads.

But now, she understood something else: every step she took, every ritual she performed, wasn’t just shaping her own path; it was shaping the world around her.

And the world was already watching.

***

Eirian sat cross-legged on her bedroll, the small flame of the Soul Lantern drifting beside her like a patient moon. Its glow painted the walls, flickering just enough to remind her that it wasn’t truly fire. It was part of her, drawn out during that strange clash with Askariel—born from both fear and defiance.

The journal lay open across her knees, half‑filled pages curling slightly at the edges. Ink stains dotted her fingers; her quill trembled faintly as she wrote.

‘The fairies led me here. The stones answered my dance. Askariel says trust him—but what if he is the greatest danger of all?’

She paused, staring at the words. Writing them didn’t ease the tightness in her chest.

Her fingers hovered above the page, then pressed harder as she scrawled a final line:

‘Every thread I touch feels like a door, and every door demands a price.’

A faint chill swept through the room, a ripple in the air like breath where breath shouldn’t be.

“You’re brooding again,” came the whisper.

Eirian stiffened. The Soul Lantern flickered, elongating its shape. A second flame unfurled just beside it—darker, unstable, like smoke trying to catch fire.

“Askariel,” she said, voice low.

The demon’s flame pulsed once. “Girl.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“You called me. You always do, even if you don’t know it.”

She scowled. “I didn’t call you. I was writing.”

“Words are doors too,” Askariel murmured, her voice curling like smoke through her thoughts. “Especially yours.”

Eirian closed the journal, clutching it to her chest. “What do you want?”

He chuckled softly, the sound carrying something ancient and cruel.

“I told you before. Help me find a vessel. Flesh and breath, even a dying one, will do. Do that, and I’ll show you how to wield power even gods fear.”

His words coiled around her like chains she couldn’t see.

“You’re planning something,” she said, meeting the dark shape of the flame. “I can feel it. Every time you talk about power, it’s like you’re waiting for me to say yes.”

“I’m patient,” Askariel said. “I waited centuries. I can wait longer.”

She shivered. “What if trusting you is a mistake?”

“Trust?” He laughed softly, the sound like glass breaking under silk. “Girl, you already made the only choice that mattered when you let me in. Now we’re just… negotiating the price.”

Eirian’s throat tightened.

“If the Church finds out…” she whispered.

“They won’t—unless you let them.”

The Soul Lantern pulsed, as if reacting to her unease.

Outside, faint laughter tinkled through the air—like tiny bells caught in the wind. The fairies again.

Eirian turned toward the window. Their lights hovered just beyond the glass, a scattering of sparks moving playfully through the night.

“Why are they still here?” she murmured.

“Because they’re watching,” Askariel said. “Fairies remember more than mortals think. They saw what you did. And they know you’re not done yet.”

She hugged the journal tighter, the paper edges pressing into her palms. “Maybe they just… like me.”

Askariel’s flame shifted, almost like a smirk. “Or maybe they’re waiting. Just like me.”

Eirian didn’t answer.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the faint hum of the Soul Lantern and the bells of the fairies outside.

Then—

A glimmer in the air.

Her breath caught.

It was silver.

A thread, faint and delicate, hanging at the edge of her vision like spun moonlight.

This one wasn’t tangled in memory. It wasn’t anchored to the past. It stretched forward, humming with potential—pulling her gaze toward the dark line of forest beyond the village.

Askariel noticed too. His flame pulsed with interest. “You see it.”

“I’m not touching it,” she said quickly.

“You will,” he murmured. “Eventually.”

Eirian’s fingers tightened around her journal. She forced herself to look away, focusing on the lantern instead.

“I don’t have to follow every thread,” she whispered, almost as if convincing herself. She wanted to touch them again when she had learned the correct way to do it, not before.

“You don’t,” Askariel said, voice soft but laced with hunger. “But fate is… persuasive.”

The fairies’ laughter rose again, a chorus of bell‑tones that felt almost mocking.

Eirian shut her journal with a snap and set it aside.

“I won’t do it tonight.”

“No,” Askariel said, fading slowly back into the Soul Lantern’s light. “But tomorrow… perhaps you will.”

His presence receded like a tide, leaving the room feeling both colder and emptier.

Eirian lay back on her bedroll, staring up at the ceiling.

The Soul Lantern hovered beside her, steady and warm, like a heartbeat she wasn’t sure was hers anymore.

She closed her eyes.

But even as sleep came, she couldn’t stop seeing it—

That single silver thread, stretching into the forest, promising something she wasn’t sure she wanted to find.