Aurora woke to bells she didn't recognize. Not the sharp clang of alarm clocks, or the mechanical ring of class changes. These were deep and distant — mournful things, heavy with ancient purpose. They echoed through the stone like a summons, vibrating her bones long before her mind fully returned.
Her room in the Mirror Wing remained still and strange.
The window no longer showed sunlight, but rather a pale sheen of diffused violet-blue glow from the twin moons. They hadn't moved since she arrived. She touched the edge of the mirror that stood in the corner. It didn't reflect her properly — or at least, not as she was. Her eyes shimmered just slightly too bright. Her outline flickered, like it was caught between two exposures.
It made her stomach twist.
There was a soft knock at the door. Before she could answer, it creaked open.
A girl stepped inside — tall, pale, graceful in a way that made her seem half-dream. Her eyes were the color of spring leaves, her braid a river of silvery blond down her back.
"Your evaluation begins soon," she said calmly. "I was asked to escort you."
Aurora blinked. "I'm sorry — who are you?"
The girl smiled faintly. "Willow Everlyn. I'm a Dreambinder. Don't worry — I'm not here to look inside you. Not unless invited." That did not make Aurora feel better.
The hall outside was quiet, but never silent.
Whispers curled behind the walls. Lights dimmed and brightened without cause. They passed under floating globes of fire, each one pulsing in a slightly different rhythm. Other students were beginning to stir — most glanced at her, some pointed.
"You're already being talked about," Willow said, matter-of-factly.
Aurora tried not to flinch. "Because I'm… what, new?"
"Because you're unmarked. Unsorted. Unnamed." Willow looked at her curiously. "You're not supposed to be able to exist here. And yet, you're standing. That upsets a lot of people."
"I didn't ask for any of this," Aurora muttered.
Willow didn't answer. Instead, she opened a tall door with no handle and gestured her inside.
The Sanctum of Sorting was not what Aurora expected.
She had imagined a classroom, maybe an office — something administrative. But the room was circular, vast, and hollow, lined with archways leading into blackness. High above, the ceiling sparkled like a night sky. Floating sigils circled the air — symbols in languages she couldn't read, glowing softly in gold, silver, and shadow-blue.
At the center of the room hovered a pedestal of stone.
Atop it, a mirror — framed in obsidian roots, its glass darker than midnight.
Two robed figures waited beside it, both wearing high collars and mirrored masks. Their voices echoed unnaturally when they spoke.
"She approaches unmarked."
"She bears no crest, no house, no registered line."
"She must be tested."
Willow stepped aside, folding her hands. "Don't move unless told. Don't lie."
Aurora swallowed. "Why does everyone keep saying that?
Willow smiled sadly. "Because you don't know what kind of power you might have. And neither do we."
The masked figure raised a thin, gloved hand and gestured to the pedestal.
Aurora stepped forward, heart hammering.
"Place your hand on the glass," one of them said.
She did.
The mirror rippled
At first, nothing happened.
Then—light.
It flared. Then twisted. Then cracked.
A spiderweb of glowing fractures split the mirror surface. The sigils floating above the room flared violently, spinning faster. One of the archways groaned open with a sound like screaming metal
Aurora's fingers jerked back instinctively.
"What—what did I do?"
The masked figures turned to one another.
"She is not of the Codex."
"She is not of the Unmarked."
"She is… something else."
The mirror cracked fully. A piece broke loose and fell — but shattered midair, vanishing into sparks.
Aurora staggered backward. "What does that mean?"
Willow caught her gently. "It means you don't fit. Anywhere."
They didn't speak as they left the Sanctum.
Aurora's hands still trembled. Her breathing came in shallow bursts
She'd felt the mirror fighting her — as though it was trying to pull her apart and put her back together differently. Like it knew she didn't belong here. Like it hated her.
And yet… it hadn't rejected her.
It had recognized something. And that might be worse.
They reached the top of the stairs just as a boy leaned lazily against her doorframe — tall, sharp, tousled hair and a smile that didn't quite match his eyes.
He turned as they approached, and grinned wider.
"Ah," he said. "The mystery arrives."
Aurora stared at him, too raw to be polite. "Who are you?"
"Ethan," he said, bowing with exaggerated flourish. "Ethan Valesh. Emotion-crafter, minor enchantment prodigy, frequent detentions. Your door's across from mine."
Willow stepped between them slightly. "She's not ready for you, Ethan."
He raised his eyebrows. "Everyone's ready for me eventually."
Aurora crossed her arms. "You can manipulate emotions?"
He beamed. "Subtly. I'm not some consent-violating creep, if that's what you're worried about. I just… nudge people. Make them feel what they already want to."
She raised an eyebrow. "And what would you make me feel?"
He opened his mouth. Stopped. His eyes narrowed slightly.
Aurora watched his smile fade for half a second.
Then he chuckled — low, surprised.
"Well," he said, "That's new."
"What?"
"I… can't feel you." His voice was different now. Slower. Sincere. "It's like you're behind a wall."
Aurora didn't know what to say to that.
Ethan stepped back. "You're fascinating, Aurora Lane."
"I'm tired," she said flatly.
He grinned again, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Of course you are. Tomorrow, then."
He slipped away down the hall, humming softly.
Aurora turned to Willow. "Was that normal?"
Willow looked after him. "No."
That night, Aurora didn't dream.
She didn't sleep either.
Instead, she stared at the ceiling — watching the shifting shadows of the moons through her window, feeling the echo of the mirror in her bones.
In the corner, the glass of the tall mirror flickered faintly. Not with her reflection.
But with something else.
A figure
A woman with her face, but wrong.
Smiling.
Then gone.