Valtira.
I sat on a worn wooden seat positioned before an old mirror that barely remembered how to reflect.
Its surface was cloudy, veined with thin cracks at the edges, as though time itself had grown tired of looking into it.
Dust clung to its frame, and the glass carried a dull film that distorted everything it tried to hold.
I leaned forward slightly, attempting to catch even the faintest outline of my own face.
For a moment, all I could see was a blurred shape.
Then a shadow.
Then perhaps the faint glint of an eye.
Did my face reveal the fury that lived inside me?
Did my jaw betray the rage coiling beneath my skin?
Could anyone glance at me and see the fire licking at my ribs, begging for release?
Everything happening to me now traced back to one name.
Lyssandra.
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