Through Smoke and Ashes

Thirty Two||Shapeshifter

Apparently, my mind had decided to betray me at the worst possible moment.

One moment I was blissfully ignorant, convinced I had at least a few more days before anything of consequence demanded my attention, and the next, I was standing in front of an entire wall of mirrors while a small army of maids descended upon me like I was a problem that needed fixing immediately. Hands tugged at my hair, voices overlapped in clipped instructions, measurements were taken and adjusted as though my body were nothing more than a mannequin. I grimaced as someone poked my cheek and tilted my chin upward, resisting the urge to remind them that I did, in fact, possess a neck that worked perfectly well on its own.

So this was today. The ball. Of course it was.

Despite my irritation, my attention kept drifting to the mirrors. They were enormous, towering panes of polished glass that reflected me from every angle, merciless and brilliant. I had never seen anything like them before. In Acrine, mirrors were rare, expensive things, more rumor than reality. My mother had owned exactly one: a small, hand-held mirror framed in pure silver, a gift from my father. She kept it tucked safely in a wooden box, wrapped as if it were fragile enough to bruise under careless air. She used to tell me it wasn't the silver that made it precious, it was the fact that it came from someone she cared about dearly.

As a child, I'd adored that mirror. Not because it showed me my reflection, but because it meant something.

Now, standing here surrounded by glass and gold and far too many hands, I hardly recognized the woman staring back at me.

I had seen pieces of myself before, fragmented reflections in Aeberuthey's waters, warped by waves and poor light, but those glimpses never told the full story. The mirrors here did not allow for mercy. They showed everything. The girl I once was had been narrow and fragile, all sharp bones and stubborn baby fat in my cheeks. That softness was gone now. Muscle shaped my arms and shoulders, subtle but unmistakable, earned through endurance rather than training halls. I wasn't built like the men of the Academy, but I no longer looked breakable. There was a firmness to me now, a quiet declaration that I would not bend easily.

My eyes held my attention longest.

The blue surrounding the brown had deepened, glowing with something older than I understood. I used to think I'd inherited that color from my mother—but looking at myself now, I knew better. That light wasn't hers. It was Naxan's. Ancient and watchful, resting just beneath the surface of my gaze.

I felt like the girl from Acrine was eons ago, and whether I was ready or not, the world seemed determined to remind me exactly how far I had come.

Naxan shifted in the back of my mind the moment my thoughts began to spiral, his presence unfurling like a shadow stretching in the sun. "Twoleg," he hummed, the word vibrating with quiet curiosity.

"Nax," I answered silently, grounding myself in the familiar weight of his voice.

"Bustling dragon's den," he observed. Through his eyes, the Academy came into focus. Its wide doors thrown open, people flowing in and out in steady streams. They moved with purpose and urgency, their paths intersecting without collision, as if each of them knew exactly where they were meant to be. The sight reminded me of a beehive, alive with order beneath the chaos, every individual a necessary piece of a much larger machine.

"Tonight's one of their ceremonial gatherings," I explained, keeping my tone calm for his sake. "They host it every year. There will be far more of them than this." And I detested the idea of it.

"Swarm," Naxan replied, the word heavy with instinct.

The thought made my stomach tighten. A crowd of that size pressed into one space—so many unfamiliar scents, sounds, and emotions tangled together—would it overwhelm him? I tucked the worry away carefully, not wanting it to bleed through the bond.