Chapter 71 The Sound of Myself

Chapter 71 The Sound of Myself
Silence is not empty.

It has texture.

It presses against my ears like water, thick and cool, swallowing echoes before they can form. When I inhale, I expect to feel the bond—Malachi’s presence, the low familiar hum that steadies my blood.

There is nothing.

No warmth braided through my veins.

No answering pull.

No quiet reassurance that I am not alone.

I stagger, catching myself on a surface that feels like glass but doesn’t cut. The mirror closes behind me with a sigh, sealing the conservatory away like a dream I’ve already woken from.

The Mirror Court unfolds around me.

It’s vast—far larger than the conservatory could ever be—an impossible architecture of arches and corridors built entirely of reflection. Walls curve inward and outward at the same time, showing versions of the space that don’t quite align. Floors gleam like polished obsidian, reflecting me back from beneath my feet.

But the reflections are… wrong.

They lag a fraction of a second behind my movements.

They tilt their heads at angles I don’t.

One of them smiles when I don’t.

I still.

All the reflections still with me.

My pulse hammers loud in my ears—too loud without the bond buffering my fear.

Focus, I tell myself.

This is what you asked for.

A breath without him.

I straighten my spine and step forward.

The air here smells faintly sweet, like burned sugar and cold rain—his signature. But it’s thinner, less oppressive, like a ghost of a scent instead of the thing itself.

“Welcome,” the Glassmaker’s voice echoes—not from one direction, but from everywhere at once. “How does it feel?”

I don’t answer immediately.

Because the truth is complicated.

“I feel… alone,” I say finally.

A pause.

Then a soft chuckle. “Honest.”

“I didn’t say I liked it,” I add.

The reflections ripple.

The space reshapes subtly, corridors sliding, walls stretching. The Mirror Court responds to attention the way water responds to movement.

“You asked for silence,” the Glassmaker says. “You have it. No king. No bond. No one humming approval or fear in your blood.”

A figure forms ahead—his outline shimmering, incomplete, like he’s being rendered by light instead of flesh.

“And?” he prompts.

I take another step, then another, my boots clicking softly against the reflective floor.

“And I feel… exposed,” I say. “Like someone took off a layer of armor I didn’t realize I’d been wearing.”

His smile curves, satisfied. “Yes.”

“But also,” I continue, “lighter.”

The word surprises me as it leaves my mouth.

The Glassmaker’s eyes gleam. “There it is.”

I stop walking.

“No,” I say. “You don’t get to claim that.”

He tilts his head. “Claim what?”

“That feeling,” I reply. “It’s not freedom. It’s shock. You yanked something away that my body’s learned to live with. Of course it feels light. Anything does when you drop weight suddenly.”

His smile thins. “You’re very determined not to enjoy this.”

“I’m determined not to let you narrate it,” I counter.

The reflections around us shift again.

Now they show scenes.

Not illusions—memories.

Me in Smoky Briar, wiping down the bar after closing, pretending not to notice the way vampires watched my throat.

Me the first night Malachi touched my mind—panic and heat tangling together.

Me standing in the throne room as he knelt, the weight of the Court crashing down on my shoulders.

The bond hums in none of them.

I watch myself handle each moment alone.

“Look at you,” the Glassmaker murmurs. “Surviving. Choosing. Without him.”

My chest tightens.

“I survived before him,” I say quietly. “That doesn’t mean I’m diminished with him.”

He circles me slowly, his presence barely disturbing the reflections.

“But are you more?” he asks softly. “Or have you simply traded one kind of cage for another?”

The word cage lands sharp.

I turn to face him fully.

“You don’t get to call it that,” I say. “You don’t know how he holds space.”

His gaze flickers, irritated.

“Oh, I know kings,” he replies. “I know anchors. I know how devotion curdles into expectation. How choice erodes under need.”

He gestures, and the reflections change again.

This time, they show futures.

Malachi standing alone on a battlefield, bloodied and cold.

Me crowned, surrounded by kneeling nobles, Malachi absent.

Me beside Malachi, his hand heavy on my shoulder, my smile tight, my eyes tired.

My pulse stutters.

“Stop,” I say.

The Glassmaker pauses.

“Why?” he asks gently. “They’re only possibilities.”

“They’re curated,” I snap. “You’re showing me what you want me to fear.”

“And what do you fear?” he asks, voice softening. “That loving him will cost you yourself?”

The silence makes the question louder.

I swallow.

“I fear,” I admit slowly, “that if I don’t stay conscious of my own edges, power will decide for me. That being chosen feels good enough that I’ll stop choosing.”

His smile returns—slow, approving.

“There,” he murmurs. “Truth.”

“But you don’t get to be the answer,” I continue. “You’re not offering me myself. You’re offering me an absence and calling it clarity.”

The reflections ripple, disturbed.

The Glassmaker studies me, something sharper now in his gaze.

“You think you’re immune to manipulation,” he says. “You’re not. Silence is seductive.”

“Yes,” I agree. “That’s why I didn’t ask for forever.”

I step closer to him, close enough that the air between us feels charged.

“I asked for one night,” I say. “Because silence is a tool. Not a home.”

His eyes narrow. “And what will you do with it?”

I don’t answer immediately.

Because the truth sits heavy and bright in my chest, and without the bond to soften it, it feels almost too big.

“I’m going to listen,” I say finally. “To myself. To what I want that isn’t shaped by reaction or defense.”

“And if what you want is incompatible with your king?” he asks.

I meet his gaze steadily.

“Then I’ll tell him,” I say. “And we’ll decide together what survives.”

The Glassmaker’s smile fades.

That wasn’t the answer he wanted.

“You’re wasting this,” he says quietly.

“No,” I reply. “I’m using it correctly.”

The Mirror Court hums around us, agitated.

“You expected me to unravel,” I say. “To panic without the bond. To mistake quiet for liberation and run toward you because you named it.”

I shake my head.

“But silence doesn’t belong to you,” I say. “It belongs to me. And I’ll decide when it ends.”

He stares at me for a long moment.

Then he laughs—sharp, brittle.

“You are inconvenient,” he says.

I smile, small and fierce. “I’ve been told.”

The reflections begin to dim, the scenes fading.

“Enjoy your night,” the Glassmaker murmurs. “Walk the Court. Listen to yourself. I’ll be watching.”

“I know,” I say.

He dissolves into shimmer and light, leaving me alone in the vast mirrored space.

Truly alone.

I stand there, heart pounding, and let the silence settle again—not as a weapon, not as a promise, but as a pause.

I place a hand over my chest.

I can feel my own pulse.

Strong.

Steady.

Mine.

And somewhere beyond the mirror, beyond the wards and the waiting eyes and the king who loves me hard enough to kneel—

I know he’s still there.

Not humming in my blood.

But present.

Waiting.

And for the first time since this began, I understand something with painful clarity:

I don’t need the bond to know who I am.

I choose the bond because of who I am.

The Mirror Court can keep its silence.

When I leave this place, I will carry my voice back with me.

And no one—king, court, or glass-born monster—

will ever take it again.