“I carry what you fear to see—and what I cannot forget.”
Among the many wandering figures of the Pale Courts, none are spoken of with such uneasy reverence as the Crownless Mirrorbearer. Always seen at the edges of rituals, duels, and dances—never invited, never removed—they carry a tall, warped mirror bound to their back with chains of dream-silver. The mirror is cracked, but never breaks. Each fissure gleams with shifting images: some show past court scandals, others flicker with possible futures. Occasionally, it simply reflects you—but not now.
The Mirrorbearer’s true name is long forgotten, but some whisper they were once destined to rule alongside Queen Elidore, or perhaps to replace her. Others claim they are her discarded first attempt at creation—a flawed prototype still walking, still remembering. They wear a tarnished circlet that refuses to shine, and every time they approach the throne, the court subtly resets—rituals rewind, dances repeat, duels begin again.
They speak rarely, and when they do, their voice is not entirely their own. Each phrase carries echoes: a mother calling a child home, a lover whispering farewell, a scream caught in a cavern of glass. To meet the Mirrorbearer’s gaze is to confront the self you tried to forget. Many flee. A few break.
But they are not malicious. The Mirrorbearer is not a predator, but a vessel: burdened with memory, desperate for release. They seek someone—anyone—who can look into the mirror and name the reflection. No one ever has. The closest came centuries ago, when a mortal violinist wept and said, “That was me before the music.” The mirror shimmered. The courts trembled. But it was not enough.
They are tolerated in the Pale Courts, if only because they remind all who dwell there what it means to have almost mattered. Queen Elidore will not speak of them, nor look at them. When they pass, her court falls utterly still—light holds its breath.
Rumors say the Mirrorbearer visits Earth more than any other Pale being. Appearing backstage in abandoned theatres, in dusty antique shops, or behind the audience at certain rare films, always just beyond clear view. People who encounter them often wake sobbing without knowing why. Some vanish days later, said to have walked into a mirror while alone.
What would happen if someone did name the reflection?
Would the mirror shatter?
Would the Mirrorbearer finally be free?
Or would we discover that they were never the broken one?
Faylinn Defence Group 