Amoura had laboured months now at Castle Lustgardt, dressed in meagre clothing yet far superior to the ragged oilskin she bound around herself for protection.

Now, her protection was the stones of the walls and the steel of its defenders. The fire filled her with warmth rather than fear, and the food was hearty and filling rather than lean or absent entirely.

Life was not good. But it was better than her past.

As she worked to scrub the moulder from one of the castle’s battlements, she felt a force creep through her. That presence, that Voice.

It was Her.

‘Find Me a mirror, Pretty Little Thing,’ it said in flickering tongues, ‘And find solace in your room.’

The feeling vanished as quickly as it pressed upon her. She knew what would happen should she not satiate these urges. They were not hers, she told herself, but she could not bear to run again.

She would have to give in. But first she must work.

The life of a handmaiden was one of many roles in Lustgardt. Aside from the upkeep of the stronghold, assigned to every menial task Mistress Nihil had thought to hand her, she had been told to keep her mind occupied however she could. Sewing, repairing clothes, washing crockery, even helping sharpen tools and weapons.

She looked into her reflection in the tip of the pike she’d sharpened, seeing her eye flash yellow for but a moment.

‘Pretty Little Thing, Stupid Little Thing,’ the Voice hissed, the mouth in her reflection moving when hers did not, ‘A mirror, fool. A mirror! A glass of silver to see thine true self.’

Amoura did not know what to do. This was Lusgardt. Softness and beauty did not flourish here, lest it was clad in impervious armour.

Wait. Unless? Dare she?

You must, Pretty Little Thing.

Her heart beat like the paws of rats in the walls of a plagued house, her unwilling steps drawing her closer to the door of the true master of Lusgardt. Amoura feared whose demesne she intruded upon.

The Heretic Queen.

Royal Among Royals.

Renegade Monarch of Elvenkind.

The High Magus of Burning Emeralds.

She was a legend, only thought to be a myth conspired by Lusgardt to frighten those already foolish to assault the stronghold. But Amoura knew her true, terrifying power. She remembered when she first saw her, arms held aloft with the great green jewel she held in her Hand of Power, the burning green and orange flames she cast upon the wyvern swarm which had raided them that night.

It was by the Magus’ spell that the wyvern whose poison stinger found her breast had not slain her.

But she could not ignore the Voice which Compelled her.

She reached for the door and – to her terror – found the handle unlocked. She had no excuse for retreat.

As if a vermin, she slowly peeked through the crack she opened a the door, and saw her. The Magus, slouched by the window filled with sky, softly snoring. Oh, to be as her, to know peace in such a way.

Amoura felt poison in her heart.

She crept forth, eyes and hands seeking a prize she felt compelled to want. But her eyes soon fell upon far more than what she expected.

The vanity mirror shone in the sunlight, bright and vibrant, perfectly reflective of the truth of the world. Amoura stepped closer to the mercurial window, seeing her own form as it was.

Her gown was plain undyed cotton cloth, sturdy for function, but better than anything she’d made by her hands. An apron was tied around her waist, made thin by wasting on the road but slowly growing once more. Her cheeks were gaunt, pocked and marred from blisters and pimples in her youth which grew in the shadow of her high cheekbones and hawkish nose. A headscarf covered the widows peak she was embarrassed by, her unwashed hair a peaty brown.

But her eyes. Oh what were once grey and blue like stony water were burning now with yellow desire. Selfishness, Lust, Want. How She longed to feel it all.

Amoura shut her eyes and turned away. She could not release Her here.

There was the sound of slipping silk behind her and Amoura turned, to see the Magus stretch and yawn, and ice burned in the strings of Amoura’s flesh.

The Magus, however, smiled disarmingly and spoke with the softness of snowmelt.

‘Oh, you must have gotten lost. Poor creature. Humans can be so,’ she stifled another yawn, ‘So flighty sometimes.’

‘Your Highness, forgive me for disturbing you,’ Amoura bowed, ‘I must go.’

‘Stay, little magpie,’ the Magus commanded, and it was so. She froze, her body betraying her as the Queen rose to stand, ‘I know your intent was to pilfer; your heart is laid bare. But I am not upset. Tell me, desperate creature, doomed to such a short life, speak your desire.’

Words were arcane to Amoura now, thoughts illegible scriptures. But with leaden tongue she spake; ‘A mirror, Highness.’

Bemusement alighted on the Magister’s expression.

‘Is that all?’

Amoura felt her body released as the Magus strode behind her, producing from her drawers a hand mirror backed with engraved pewter and embossed silver.

‘A gift, once upon me, once more a gift upon you,’ her Majesty said, bidding Amoura to take it.

With a reluctant hand she accepted, bowed to the Renegade Monarch who held the chains which shackled her wrists, those chains which had caught her and held her above the chasm of fate, without which she would most surely be dashed upon its cruel depths, and hastened away.

Amoura clutched the mirror with bleached knuckles as she returned to her room, furnished sparsely but as well enough as she deserved. Every door, every window, every crack she closed and covered as she sat in darkness, a candle on her bedside the only light she permitted.

She gazed upon the Sorceress.

Even in this small reflection, she saw what burned inside her. That pale yellow flame that promised power, if only she could submit to it. The Voice Within spake, but now spake from Without.

‘Mirror, Mirror, in my Hand. Seize the Power You Command.’

Amoura felt herself change. Her irises prickled and burned, now yellow eyes like stolen halos eclipsed by Her pitch pupils. She drew shadows around Her to loom a silken, shimmering gown of ephemeral cloth, a shawl of black fog draping from Her limbs bedecked with stars plucked from the very heavens. Her hair curled and grew, flowing and bending as a river down Her back. And Her face, now so stoic and beautiful, was cloaked in avian visage, a beaked mask that grew into silvered claws which clung to Her skull.

Her Power was True. Her Desires within Grasp. Her Control was Absolute.

Holding Her palm outward before Her face, an orb of crackling yellow fire danced within Her palm, manipulated, dancing with energy, compelled only by Her own thought.

The Sorceress smiled.

Footsteps approached.

Angry at Her fear, the Sorceress crushed the fire in Her hand and whirled with Her shawl, the gust extinguishing the meagre flame.

The door was forced inward, wrath itself guiding Nihil’s steps as she advanced upon Amoura, her shocked expression turning to pained gasps as Nihil grasped her collar and yanked her forward, lifting her and slamming her against the stone wall and pinning her with the forearm of her gauntlet.

‘Sneakthief!’ she spat, ‘Don’t think your deceptions go unseen, vermin! You will return the tome you stole, lest your broken oath be shamed further!’

Amoura choked out her words, ‘Mistress Nihil I-’

‘Do not stain the air with your lies, the scent of them makes me sick!’ Nihil roared into her face.

‘I know not of what you speak!’ Amoura cried as tears fell, ‘I beg of you Mistress, I … I was attending to her Majesty!’

Nihil permitted Amoura slight reprieve, no longer pinning her to the stones as her gauntlet held an iron grip on Amoura’s collar.

‘You speak true? You swear of it?’

‘Yes Mistress, I beg you, believe my words! And if not mine then those of the Queen you permit me serve!’

Nihil considered her words, her stare unbroken. Amoura felt herself lifted from the ground once more as she was thrown, like a discarded ragdoll, to her bed.

The Champion of Lusgardt turned to leave, ‘Sleep. You have service to my Queen in the morn.’

The door closed, and Amoura was alone. But the Voice Within remained.

‘She knows not. The fool. But this new fiend threatens us. Find them. Dispose of them. For Me. For you. For Uus.’

The Voice Within retreated, and Amoura found only fitful, aching slumber.