Chapter 83 Mirror Milo and the Mo-narchy Crisis
The second shadow stepped out of the Rift like it was arriving fashionably late to a masquerade ball. It looked like Milo—same tousled hair, same smug smirk, same scarf that defied seasonal logic. It was like looking into a Mirror, same Milo, but this one seemed darker.
But something was off.
Shadow-Milo didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at me with eyes that shimmered like obsidian dipped in regret.
“Oh, good,” Kael muttered. “Now there are two of him. Just what we needed. If anything else comes out of this rift, I am going on holiday.”
“Technically,” Yuel said, “this one might be evil. So, it’s not quite the same.”
“I’m not evil,” Shadow-Milo said, voice smooth and cold. “I’m inevitable. Choices can only get you so far, with everything else there is fate, wrong decisions, and actions.”
“See?” Thessa said. “That’s evil. Real Milo just says things like ‘I’m misunderstood’ and ‘this scarf is vintage and fashionable.’”
Milo stepped forward, eyeing his shadow self. “What are you?”
“I’m what you become when you stop pretending,” Shadow-Milo replied. “When you stop following her.”
He pointed at me.
“Okay,” I said, “but have you considered not being cryptic for five minutes?”
Shadow-Milo ignored me. Rude.
The Rift pulsed again, and suddenly, there were three Mos standing in the clearing.
Me.
Mo-with-Milo.
Mo-without-Milo.
And now, Shadow-Mo.
“Is this a metaphor?” Zeke asked. “Because I hate metaphors.”
“It’s a magical identity crisis,” Ellira said. “With extra drama. And too many Mo’s and Milo’s”
The three Mos stared at each other. I stared at them. Everyone stared at everyone. It was like a very tense family reunion, minus the casserole.
Mo-with-Milo looked tired. Her eyes held the weight of choices made and regrets buried. Mo-without-Milo looked sharper, colder, like she’d carved her path with a blade and didn’t regret a single cut.
Shadow-Mo just smiled.
“I don’t like this,” Milo said. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”
“Which one?” I asked.
“All of them.”
Another scroll materialized, this time landing directly in Thessa’s hands. She didn’t even flinch.
“Royal mail,” she said. “Incoming shade.”
She read aloud:
Dear Rift Disasters,
We have received word of multiple versions of your party. We are not amused.
Lord Varnish is rehearsing. He has added puppets.
We suggest you resolve this before he arrives. Or don’t. But if you don’t, he will perform “The Mirror Flame: A Tragedy in Interpretive Mime.”
It is four hours long.
Sincerely (and with increasing despair),
The Queen and King of Aeloria
“I’m starting to think they’re threatening us with art,” Kael said.
“Weaponized theatre,” Yuel agreed. “It’s a bold strategy. No one can sit through a musical and not crack like an egg.”
I turned to the three versions of myself. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
Mo-with-Milo stepped forward. “You chose both flames. You saw both futures. But you didn’t choose either.”
Mo-without-Milo added, “So now you’re fractured. And so are we.”
Shadow-Mo smiled. “And soon, you’ll be erased.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why erase me?”
“Because you’re the glitch,” she said. “The mistake. The one who hesitated. You fought one shadow self and righted that wrong, but in doing so, you didn’t fully understand what was going to happen. With every crown that was broken, you made another crown in its place. Each fracture lives on, and we are the fracture you can’t escape.”
Milo stepped between us. “She’s not a mistake.”
Shadow-Milo laughed. “You would say that. You’re still clinging to her.”
“Better than clinging to a scarf,” Kael muttered.
Shadow-Milo turned to him. “Would you like to see your shadow?”
Kael blinked. “On second thought, I’m good, thanks.”
The Rift pulsed again, and the ground cracked beneath our feet. The black flame surged outward, forming a circle around the three Mos and two Milos.
“We need to choose,” Talon said. “Or the Rift will choose for us.”
“Choose what?” I asked. “Which version of me is real?”
“No,” Yuel said. “Which version of you survives?”
The silence that followed was heavy, like someone had dropped a piano made of guilt.
“I vote for the original,” Thessa said. “She’s annoying, but she’s ours.”
“Thanks?” I said.
“But we can’t just vote,” Ellira said. “This is magic. It’s not democratic.”
“Then we need to understand the third flame,” Lira said. “Where did it come from. What it wants.”
Shadow-Mo stepped forward. “It wants balance. It wants truth. It wants to burn away the lie.”
“What lie?” I asked.
“That you can have both,” she said. “That you can choose everything and lose nothing.”
Another scroll appeared, this time floating gently down like a passive-aggressive feather.
Kael caught it and read:
Dear Flame Fumblers,
We are now receiving reports of philosophical debates occurring near the Rift. We are deeply disappointed.
Lord Varnish has added a fog machine.
We suggest you stop talking and start fixing. Or don’t. But if you don’t, he will host a symposium titled “Identity and You: A Journey Through Interpretive Suffering.”
It includes audience participation.
Sincerely (and with a bottle of wine),
The Queen and King of Aeloria.
“I’m starting to root for the Void. They were the good old days.” Zeke said.
“I’m starting to root for the wine,” Thessa added.
I turned to the three versions of myself. “If I don’t choose, what happens?”
Shadow-Mo stepped closer. “You fade. We all fade. The Rift collapses. The third flame consumes everything.”
Mo-with-Milo looked at me. “You have to decide who you are.”
Mo-without-Milo nodded. “And who you’re not.”
I looked at Milo. The real one. The one who’d stood beside me through every disaster, every mistake, every sarcastic scroll.
“I don’t know who I am,” I said.
“Then find out,” he said. “Before the Rift does.”
The black flame surged again, and the ground beneath us split open.
A voice echoed from the Rift.
Choose. Or be chosen.
And then—
The Rift swallowed all three Mos.
And Milo.