Several days pass with no word from Arcene. I know she hasn't left because my reflection has returned to staring at me through cryptic and guarded silver eyes, the ones I can't stand, but she doesn't answer when I call for her. She doesn't even respond to the ring when I hold it up, though the eyes do follow it. I pace in front of the mirror, day in and day out. Maybe I imagined it all. Maybe she was never there, and I merely convinced myself she was because I had grown so desperate for a way out.

I can't stop replaying our game in my mind. Even though I won, it doesn't feel triumphant. The more I think about it, the more I reconsider her silence, her missteps and false moves, I begin to believe that I had not cheated her. Rather she played along and cheated me.

Did I only win because she allowed me to? Is this a message she means to leave me with—that I am powerless, in and out of the mirror—and I can only win three if she deems it right? Does she mean to say that even if I overcome her, even if I become her sigil bearer, I will never truly be in control?

No, she merely acts haughty to hide her embarrassment, that little voice whispers, the silver within me that is never far. I see it in the mirror, and its smile makes my toes curl. The whisper is all harsh edges and sounds, and it cuts into me as it winds closer. She must keep up her mask or you will begin to see how much she crumbles. That is why she wants you to question your victory. That is why you must not let her under your skin.

I twist the ring. Over and over, I twist the ring until my thumb might break at the bone. It wasn't a good game. I am not a good player. I cannot beat her.

You can. You will. Have patience.

She's deliberating too long. It isn't this hard to pick a game.

She wants you to break. Don't break.

What if she gives up the deal entirely and never answers me again? I'll be powerless. I'll stare into the silver until I am it and it is me, as I do now. My fleeting sleep will be gone. I'll never bring myself to eat again. I'll be nothing but skin and bones and silver—and then I'll be dust. No one will remember Kyren Blackwood, not even Kyren Blackwood himself.

The same affirmation wriggles up to the surface and I taste its foul presence on my tongue. "I know you aren't me." I can't stop myself. I press close to the mirror again, my finger leaving a print on the glass. It's cold against my forehead. Silver bores into me. "I know you're her. I know you're watching. Don't make me wait. I want to play again. Please, Arcene. Invite me to the third game."

If she had thought to answer, she doesn't get a chance before the door swings open and Therion barrels in, my dirty clothes from before in his hand. He shakes them wordlessly at me, his face red with anger, before he pitches them at my feet. "You're a rat," he spits. "Taking what isn't yours, crawling through a house you don't belong in. I've told you before. Stay out, Kyren."

"You're mistaken. I'm Father's apprentice. I worked at his side—shaping silver alongside him, traveling to market with him, towing in clients and customers and earning our wealth. If anyone's a rat in this house, it's you." I collect my things, cringing at the scent of sickness and decay again. But when I rise, I wipe my face clean so that all he sees is my disdain for him. "You're just my shadow—one not even skilled enough to take my place." I don't mention that I was there some time ago. He's wallowed in his filth long enough, and he knows it.

He advances, taking a fistful of my shirt—or is it still his shirt I wear?—and yanking me toward him. Somehow, he's grown and I haven't, giving him an inch over me. But his hands are still bony, arms still shaky, skin dry but not calloused. The hands of someone who has never worked with hot silver in Father's smithing workshop.

"You said it yourself," he growls, bringing my attention back up to his twisted face. "Worked. No one's working in the workshop, in the market, or anywhere anymore—not you and not Father. No one will touch the damn silver. And you? All you do is rot here before this mirror."

"Father said—"

"Father's lost it because of you!" He slams me into the mirror, and the back of my head cracks against the glass. The world spins, flickering black at the edges, and my head drops against my chest. But Therion shoves it back up, gripping me by the chin, and forces me to look him in the eye when my flickering vision settles again. His amber eyes are burning, expression tight and seething. "He's given up his efforts because of your sweet lies. You've ruined us, Kyren! How thoughtless can you be?"

Thoughtless? The fire inside me blazes, burning away every inch and sign of fear. I shove against Therion and he stumbles, dropping me. "I'm risking everything to make a deal with the silver patron. I'm doing what Father asked, and I've not told him any lies!"

Submit to her every whim. That was what he had told me. Make a deal with her, no matter the cost. That was all he had asked of me. Save the family. Return our wealth and status and business and silver. Save us, Kyren. Play her game.

Then why does it feel like she's submitting to my whims?

I can do whatever you desire, she had said. As my sigil bearer, you decide.

"Then how come none of us have seen this silver spirit?" Therion challenges, and he spreads his arms wide in an invitation as his glare shifts to the mirror. "Come on then. Let us see her. Or perhaps you can't because it's all in your head, like everything always is."

I shove his arm back to his side as I blaze past him. "You don't command a spirit. Arcene appears when she wishes to."

"Isn't that convenient for you?" my little brother sneers. "You'd better beg her to come play more games with you then. Before there's nothing left of the Blackwoods for her to restore."

Like he always does, Therion leaves as soon as he has said all he wants to say, planted all the seeds he came to plant. He waters them just as thoughtlessly, thinking they will grow without much effort. But I know words take more cultivating than that. Arcene knows better than I do.

I don't know how long it has been before the ringing in my ears stops and I can turn again to face the mirror. There's blood on the glass where my head was slammed against it, but if there ever was a crack there, it has already been mended. Gingerly, I touch the back of my head, pulling up sticky wet crimson on my fingers. The wound is tender and hisses at the touch, but I can only stare in wonder at my blood. Shiny and red, it shifts in the light.

It is almost, in some ways, a little like silver. And I wonder if Arcene bleeds red like me or if she is silver inside too.

✶