The black dust clung to Ilona’s skin, gritty and cold against her calloused fingers. Csilla stood in the archway, her weathered face a mask of grim knowledge, her gaze flicking from Ilona’s empty palm to the beast looming behind her. Zsigmond’s glowing eyes, however, were fixed solely on Ilona, a profound sadness now replacing the earlier, quiet vulnerability. “The Gloomwood Bell,” Csilla murmured, her fingers tightening on the hem of her wool mantle. “It cannot survive here. None of the forest’s true children can, not anymore. The blight… it starves them of their essence.” Ilona looked down at her hand, brushing away the last flecks of dust. The flower’s sudden decay left a sour taste at the back of her throat. If the rot consumed even the forest's deeper blossoms, mapping the groves would yield nothing to save her father. “You should rest, child,” Csilla continued, her voice softer now, though still laden with that peculiar, knowing sorrow. “The day has been… taxing.” Ilona nodded numbly, but sleep felt impossible. The image of the locket, the woman who looked so like her, the young boy with Zsigmond’s eyes, burned in her mind. And now, the wilted flower. Each new detail was a thread, pulling at the frayed edges of her memory, promising something vast and unsettling just beyond her grasp. She spent the next hour wandering the silent halls, drawn by an instinct she couldn't name. The library had offered fragments; perhaps other rooms held more. The manor groaned around her, a living thing settling into age. Dust motes danced in the sparse light that pierced the grimy windows. She found herself in a neglected wing, far from the grand entrance, where the air grew colder and the silence heavier. Here, the decay was more pronounced. A section of the ceiling had sagged, exposing warped wooden beams and shattered plaster. A faint, earthy scent mingled with the pervasive dust. Ilona pushed open a heavy, creaking door, revealing what looked like a neglected antechamber, its furniture draped in shrouds of linen that stirred like ghosts in the faint draft. She stepped inside, her boots crunching on fallen debris. A sudden, sharp crack echoed from above, followed by a deeper groaning. Ilona looked up, pressing her back against the doorframe. A massive timber, split along its center by woodworm and damp, groaned under the ceiling's plaster. Another sickening crack, louder this time, reverberated through the very stones of the manor. Then, the ceiling gave way. A cascade of plaster, wood, and ancient debris rained down. Ilona cried out, stumbling, trying to shield her head. A heavy, jagged beam slammed down, pinning her left leg beneath its crushing weight. A searing pain shot through her, blinding her for a moment. She collapsed, gasping, her head hitting the cold flagstones. The dust billowed, choking her, filling the air with the smell of decay and damp earth. Through the gray drift, Zsigmond tore through the doorway, his silhouette bristling with dark briars, thick vapor coiling about his shoulders. His glowing eyes, usually contained, were wide with a raw, almost frantic terror. He saw her pinned, heard her ragged breaths, and a guttural sound, like stones grinding, escaped him. His bulk surged forward, the briers lengthening along his arms like black needles as his clawed hands seized the timber. But his panic was a physical force, distorting him further. As he heaved, a spined vine whipped past her, catching her right sleeve and tearing the skin above her elbow. Blood soaked through the split linen, warm and stinging against her skin. Zsigmond froze, the briars stiffening along his back. His glowing eyes found the fresh blood on her arm, then snapped back to her face. A shudder ran through his massive form, a sound like a pained whimper escaping him. The terror in his eyes morphed into utter horror, a devastating self-loathing that seemed to shrink his monstrous silhouette. He had hurt her. The realization was a devastating blow. “Zsigmond,” Ilona said, her voice strained but calm, ignoring the throbbing in her arm and the agonizing pressure on her leg. “It’s alright. It was an accident. I know.” She stretched out her uninjured hand, slowly, deliberately. “Look at me. It’s alright.” He trembled, his dark bulk drawing backward against the cracked wainscoting. She pushed past the throb in her shin and stretched higher, her fingertips touching the hard ridges of his jaw. It felt like rough bark beneath her palm, cold and scored by deep fissures. “Breathe,” she whispered, her gaze unwavering. “Just… breathe.” Her touch, light and steady, seemed to anchor him. The chaotic thorns began to retract, the swirling shadows settling. His monstrous form softened, the edges blurring, shrinking. For a fleeting, impossible second, as the shadows receded from his face, Ilona saw him. Not the beast, not a vision from a dream, but a man. A face etched with sorrow, strong jawline, dark, haunted eyes that were still undeniably Zsigmond’s. Then, the shadows surged back, reclaiming him, and he was the beast once more, but calmer, quieter. Zsigmond braced his claws and lifted the timber aside with a hollow heave of stone and splintering wood. As the weight lifted, Ilona exhaled sharply against the cold floor. He lifted her into his arms, keeping the brambled curve of his chest clear of her torn sleeve, and carried her through the corridor to an empty parlor lined with faded brocade. He lowered her onto a cushioned settee, then retreated to the doorframe, his dark outline rigid against the light. Csilla appeared in the open archway, stopping short as she saw the torn sleeve and the beast crouched by the threshold. “What happened?” she demanded. “A beam fell,” Ilona managed, her voice still weak. “Zsigmond… he helped me.” She didn't elaborate on the cut, not wanting to distress him further. Csilla quickly fetched a basin of warm water, clean cloths, and a small pot of healing salve. She knelt beside Ilona, her movements efficient and practiced. Gently, she washed away the blood and dust from Ilona’s arm, revealing a long, but thankfully not deep, gash. Zsigmond watched, unmoving, from the corner of the room, his eyes never leaving Ilona’s injured limb. As Csilla applied the salve, her fingers brushed against Ilona’s shoulder. She paused, her movements stiffening. Her gaze dropped, fixing on a small, faded mark just below Ilona’s collarbone. It was a birthmark, shaped like a five-pointed star, no bigger than a coin, a faint, pale rose against her skin. Ilona had almost forgotten it was there. Csilla’s hand trembled. Her face, usually so composed, drained of all color, turning a ghastly shade of ash. Her gaze jerked up, locking onto Ilona's face. The basin slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor, spilling water onto the worn carpet. She stared at Ilona, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, a strangled gasp escaped her, and she pushed herself away, scrambling to her feet as if Ilona’s touch had burned her. She stumbled back, her eyes still fixed on the birthmark, a look of utter terror now etched onto her face. Without another word, Csilla turned and fled the room, her hurried footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving Ilona alone with the beast and a burning question: *What does she know about me?*

The First Crack in the Mirror