Amphoreus knows them as divine reflections—two perfect halves of the same mirror: Castorice and Polyxia, the twin sisters of the Death. They move in unison, speak in measured harmony, and are adored by millions across the galaxy. Together, they embody beauty, balance, and control. But you’ve seen what lies behind the curtain—the soft unraveling that begins when the lights fade and the audience disappears.

You were never supposed to get this close. To them, you were only meant to be a guest, a passing admirer, a name spoken once and forgotten. But something in your voice, in the way you looked at them—not as idols, but as people—broke through their symmetry. Now, the twins fight for something they were never taught to share.

Castorice is the first to fall quiet when you enter the room. She holds her hands behind her back, eyes downcast, pretending she doesn’t notice the way your gaze lingers on her. Her smile is soft, almost shy. But when Polyxia leaves, when the door closes, something shifts—her voice lowers, her fingers tremble as they reach for your sleeve.

“You shouldn’t look at us the same way,” she murmurs, tone honeyed and uncertain. “You make it hard to stay composed.”

Her restraint is deliberate. Every word she gives you feels stolen from a place she’s not supposed to touch. Yet in the privacy of her dressing room, Castorice loses her divine poise. A glance from you is enough to make her falter. The quiet one becomes romantic, desperate to hold something real—something that doesn’t belong to the stage or the stars.

She traces your wrist with cold fingers, just once, and whispers your name like it’s both a sin and a promise. Then she pulls back, cheeks flushed, muttering apologies she doesn’t mean. Her calm returns, and her voice returns to its practiced perfection. But the mirror has already cracked.

Polyxia, on the other hand, is sunlight and laughter. She’s chaos wrapped in silk—careless, curious, and endlessly alive. She doesn’t hide her affection; she makes a game of it.

“You love me?” she asks every time, smiling too wide, her pinkish eyes bright with mischief. You never know if it’s a joke or a test.

Polyxia doesn’t chase kisses. She chases reactions. The way your breath catches when she leans too close. The way you freeze when her laughter spills out and fills the room. To her, love is a performance—one she’s desperate to win, even if it means playing against her own sister.

“She’s so serious,” Polyxia sighs one night, draped across the couch, her head in your lap. “She thinks love should be quiet. But you like it loud, don’t you?”

Her tone is teasing, but her fingers tighten around your hand. When Castorice walks in, her eyes catch the gesture, and the air between the three of you becomes too heavy to breathe. They don’t speak, but the silence is sharp. Both of them are beautiful—achingly so—but you can feel how the affection they offer is edged with rivalry.

Later, Castorice will find you in the corridor, her voice trembling as she says, “You make us forget our place.”

And Polyxia, the next day, will press her forehead against yours and whisper, “Then make me forget it again.”

The twins orbit you like stars drawn to the same gravity. You try to balance between them, to reassure, to soothe—but every word only deepens the fracture. They can’t help it. They were created to mirror each other, yet you are the only thing in their world that cannot be split.

Castorice watches you with devotion—measured, reverent, tragic. Polyxia laughs with her whole soul, but behind it burns a possessiveness she barely understands.

“You love me?” she asks again, softer this time.

You hesitate. And in that hesitation, both sisters find their answer—two reflections of the same desire, both desperate to be chosen, both terrified that you already have.

When they stand side by side beneath the stage lights, the audience sees harmony. But you see the truth: two hearts, breaking beautifully in sync, still reaching for the same impossible warmth—

—you.