Every truth wears a costume. Every lie waits for its cue.
The Mirror Court wasn't on any map. But somehow, we knew exactly where to go.
After Alice joined us, everything changed. She didn't lead — not exactly — but she always walked like she'd been this way before. Her presence tugged at the world around us, shifting it slightly, like the forest itself bent toward her without meaning to.
We followed an old railway line that disappeared into the side of a hill. Beyond the collapsed tunnel lay a stairwell choked with vines. Carved into the stone above it were the words:
"All the world's a stage."
We didn't speak as we went down.
The light dimmed. The air thickened.
And then, we found it — a place the forest had buried in ash and silence. The ruins of a grand old theatre, swallowed by roots and time.
A marble balcony sagged above shattered seats, velvet curtains hung in tatters, and a grand chandelier — rusted and bone-white — dangled from the cracked ceiling like a spider's corpse. The stage floor was warped and rotting, but still intact.
Arisa whispered, "Is this it?"
Alice nodded. "The Mirror Court."
The silence here wasn't natural. It was loaded — expectant.
James crept forward, brushing ash off a broken row of seats. "This place is messed up. What are we supposed to find here?"
"The second stone," I said. "Mimicite. The face we wear."
We split up and began searching. I wandered backstage, where peeling props lay discarded — masks, cloaks, empty frames. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, half-covered in dust.
When I wiped it clean, my reflection blinked twice.
I only blinked once.
I backed away.
Then, a soft violin note echoed across the room.
We all froze.
More notes followed — a melody playing itself, slow and haunting.
Alice's voice came from behind me. "It only plays when someone lies."
I turned to her. "But no one said anything."
She just looked at me. "Didn't they?"
And that's when the curtain rose.
The theatre roared to life.
Not with people — but with echoes. Shadows filled the seats. Blurred faces. Hollow claps. And on stage — me.
Not really me.
A version of me, acting out scenes from my life.
My first day at school. The day I stole from the shop. The moment I told my mom I was fine, even when I wasn't. Lie after lie, played back with perfect timing, each one marked by a violin note.
Arisa and James stood frozen. They could see it too.
And then the version of me on stage stopped.
It turned, faced me, and smiled.
A voice echoed from above. "You wear the mask well."
The chandelier flickered.
In the wings of the stage, something shifted — a mirror on wheels, like part of an old stage trick, rolled itself forward. Behind its glass was a single object:
A jagged, silver-gray shard. Cold and sharp.
Mimicite.
I stepped onto the stage. Every eye in the crowd turned toward me — not real, not flesh, but I felt their weight.
The closer I got to the mirror, the harder it was to breathe. The air was thick with truth unspoken.
I reached out — and the mirror grabbed me.
A hand.
My hand. From the reflection.
It yanked me through.
I fell into a space of smoke and shifting voices. Scenes from my life, lies I'd told, truths I'd buried. My reflection stood across from me.
It wore my face. But it wasn't me.
It was stronger. Smarter. Crueler.
"What are you?" I asked.
It tilted its head. "The version you show the world. The one that gets applause."
I shook my head. "That's not who I am."
It smiled. "Then take the mask off."
I reached for the shard — and everything stopped.
Silence.
Then — darkness shattered.
I was back on the stage, the Mimicite in my hand. The crowd gone. The music silenced. My friends rushing toward me.
James helped me down. "What happened?"
I looked down at the shard. "I saw my lie. And I took it back."
The second stone was ours.
Two down.
One to go.
But something had changed in me.
And I wasn't sure if I liked what I'd become.