WHISPERS OF THE OBSIDIAN MIRROR

he Blood Moo

ning. Too quiet. Like something ancient

al tucked beneath her coat. The town's narrow alleys and crooked chimneys felt more like a labyri

eded a

s one place

ve Historic

oned shops, it was filled with brittle books, forbidden

er dared go

, she

cracked glass, met her at the door. She said

e'd been

no one else ever entered. It smelled of par

the table, along with the sk

is," she said aloud, thoug

rom the shadows b

the Lang

a book bound in red leather. She opened it, reve

sn't just a relic," sh

te to

omes after

mouth w

pped by a forgotten sect that believed reflection was sacred-and dangerous. They thought

d in. "Wha

ge memories-it *devours* them. Identity, emotion,

eams. The alternate se

eep it?"

ike a fire-terrible and useful. Unwatched, it con

want to be

eve

. "The Blood Moon...

he veil between reflection and reality grows thin. If i

her jaw. "How

t. Then, softly, "You must offer

oes tha

without image. A g

pulse

withou

without

. Her mother. The memory

he give

questions than answers, the journal clut

Blood Moon began to stain the horizon, Ki

. Softly. Slowly.

blinked-and ste

nd to the insid

't flinch

hispered with her voice.

tared

she

smi

ady started

she realized she couldn't

d of her mo