Something felt deeply wrong with the mirror in Luge's house.
He stood before the antique glass, yet his reflection refused to materialize. The relic's bronze frame, crusted with verdigris, coiled with a serpentine dragon biting its own tail – a signature motif of the long-dead Sigel Dynasty, the last regime in Zezhou to worship totemic beasts. Twin agates embedded like bloodshot eyes leered from its edges, their eerie artistry multiplying the mirror's worth tenfold. But its yellowed surface resembled sandstone, utterly lightless.
Luge couldn't recall when this artifact had appeared in their home.
Backing out of the study, he called down the hall, "Mom? Where'd we get this Sigel-era… this valuable-looking mirror?" He rephrased mid-shout.
"What mirror?" Vivienne emerged from the kitchen, egg whisk clattering against a steel bowl. At forty-something, the former commoner turned police captain's wife clung to youthful fashions that made Luge's eye twitch. Her puzzled frown deepened.
"Never mind." Rubbing his temple, Luge retreated.
Two crashes later, he reappeared clutching a knotted cloth sack, fist clenched around crimson stones. "Sell these agates later," he said, dropping the gems into Vivienne's palm.
"What did you break?!" Her scolding died as the stones' glow lit her face. She thrust her mixing bowl at him. "Where'd you—? Never mind! Toss whatever's left before your father gets home!"
Typical petty-bourgeois greed, Luge mused. His police captain father's salary barely covered Thornbriar Academy's tuition, Zezhou's most elite institution.
Lacing his boots by the door, he didn't bother shaking off the mangy black hound tailing him. The mutt yawned theatrically as they hit the streets of Aroan District – all newly laid cobblestones and forced "historic charm," evidenced by wilting saplings and fresh mortar stench.
"Where are we dumping it?" The dog's voice rasped like rusted hinges.
Luge glared at the words scratched in gravel. "Shut your muzzle, Gehr. Unless you want occultists turning you into a rug."
Gehr spat out his writing pebble. "C'mon, tell me about your past life! Y'know, before you transmigrated—"
"No." Luge froze as the sack twitched like a live thing.
"Is the mirror cursed?!" Gehr cowered behind him.
"Probably a vengeance relic from Sigel's legendary Revenge Witch." Luge shook the bag viciously, silencing its tremors.
"How legendary?"
"Legendarily beautiful." The sack bulged violently.
"Burn it at the refuse yard?"
A metallic screech tore through the air. The sack fell still.
Luge arched a brow at the dog. "Good luck."
"Is she ALIVE?!" Gehr's cartoonish terror defied canine facial limits.
"Sigel fell four centuries ago."
"But the Eighth Revenge Witch emerged last month!" Luge added cheerfully. "Dad's files confirmed it."
"YOU STOLE HER ARTIFACT TOO!" Gehr howled.
"Meh." Hailing a carriage, Luge tossed two green "Old Man" coins to the driver. "Garbage incinerator, please."
The coachman eyed Gehr. "Sir, my daughter breeds prize-winning pine-rabbits. Fluffier than this mange-ball. Interested?"
"Is your daughter single?"
The driver's whip cracked with offended finality.