The stone steps groaned beneath Lord Alaric Thorne’s boots as he descended into the cold, lantern-lit cellar of Blackmoor Hall. The scent of old parchment and burnt candle wax clung to the air like a secret long kept. This was his sanctum—no servants dared come here, not even his steward. Too many stories, they whispered. Too many shadows that watched back. He settled at the broad oak desk, journal open, quill in hand. The fire crackled low behind him, casting flickering light across the towering bookshelves and the massive antique mirror that leaned against the far wall—an heirloom from some long-dead ancestor. He’d never liked the thing. It was too tall, too clear, and sometimes, when he passed by too fast, it didn’t reflect quite right. Dipping his pen in ink, he began to write. "The Crown shifts again, though the King's hand trembles with age. My counsel holds weight, yet I feel the noose tightening... not on my neck, but my soul." A movement caught the edge of his vision. Alaric's head snapped up. He wasn’t alone. In the mirror—just the mirror—stood a woman. Young. Not a courtier. Not anyone from this world. She appeared perhaps nineteen, maybe twenty-one, clad in an odd, loose-fitting garment that exposed one shoulder. Her long, reddish-brown hair fell in smooth waves, framing a heart-shaped face with delicate features. Her wide, brown eyes mirrored his confusion. She didn’t belong. Not here. Not in this century. Alaric stood, the journal forgotten, heart pounding like a warning drum in his chest. She took a step forward—into her side of the mirror. He matched her. Neither spoke, yet the silence screamed with questions. A shimmer passed across the glass—like water disturbed—and for the briefest moment, he thought he saw her reach toward him. Her fingers hovered just against the inside of the mirror, trembling. Alaric hesitated, then slowly extended his own hand. Their fingertips almost touched. “Who are you?” he whispered, unsure if she could hear.