Thank you very much for checking out my new story! Know that this will not hinder my other story, Cahill University. ^^ This would be about the Kabras' tragic siblingship, told through Ian's viewpoint. I've been writing this story for two years now (three, come 2017) and now I've decided to post the chapters even though this fic is still unfinished, like everyone else does. Should anyone read this extremely gloomy story, I am already giving you my gratitude. :D

This had been inspired by Matantei Loki, Norse mythology, and Ian and Natalie Kabra. I do not own anything else except the plot.

The Curse of the Mirror

Prologue

The gardens of the Kabra Estate. It was a place worthy of a 'once-upon-a-time'. Spring had come in efflorescence, bright flowers blooming anew and colourful butterflies resurrecting from their cocooned sleep. Blades of grass bowed down as if in respect to the royal passing of the gentle wind, the sky a soft, blue contrast to the cottony string of cirrus clouds that wisped it white like paint on a canvas. The world was so much younger, the sun a brighter and a jollier ring of golden yellow, and the peaceful morning couldn't have been more perfect for an English tea party.

It was a beautiful day. This was the reason why Ian and Natalie were sitting on a table for two out in the gardens, where they decided to have tea in the morning. And, today, Ian had been told by his mother that it was about time that he started teaching to his younger sister the more important things in life—such as how to properly pour a cup of Keemun tea using a blue-and-white themed Wedgwood Oberon tea set.

"…and when you tip the teapot like this," he was explaining, his seven-year-old voice high-pitched by childhood, "you have to do it with grace, dignity, and refinement. This is to please your visitors, and show them without the use of words the real value of the Kabra name." Ian was reciting this by heart from his father's very words. Then, eventually, he finished filling his small teacup with Keemun, and gave it to Natalie for her to drink.

The girl gratefully reached her hands out to get the cup from her brother's hands. But, just as soon as her small hands touched the porcelain of the teacup, a spark burst from within her, making her eyes widen for a moment, before they were downcast again.

Ian noticed. "Is something wrong, Natalie?"

"Ian…I have been thinking."

"Yes?"

"Well…I have been noticing that, whenever I stir the tea with a spoon, centrifugal force…pulls the water outward." Natalie's eyes grew glazed, almost as if in a dreamlike trance, as she composed the one question she had been meaning to ask her brother ever since. Then she looked at him, directly in the eye. "But, don't you find it odd, that even if the water is forcing the tea leaves outward, the leaves still insist on gathering inward?"

Ian smiled. "The tea-leaves paradox. No, I do not find it odd. It has something to do with physics, too complicated to explain to someone like you."

Natalie looked down at the murky reflection of herself in the tea. "Well…I was only wondering if…if, for example, Mummy and Papa's work are like the spoon stirring the tea, pulling everything apart." For a moment, four-year-old Natalie timidly blushed, obviously uncomfortable of what she was about to say. She did her best to avoid Ian's eyes. "But even if Mummy and Papa would t…try to pull us apart, would we…" She timidly lifted her gaze to meet his. "Would the two of us still insist on being together?"

Ian was stunned. It was a very deep and reflective thing for a mere four-year-old to say.

"Do not worry about those things yet, Natalie," he said. "You are not supposed to be thinking of such—"

"Oh, Ian, just answer the question," snapped the younger Kabra, haughtiness starting to seep into her tone. "Would you leave me or not? No matter what happens?"

Ian smiled. "Of course I wouldn't, Natalie. You're the most annoying living thing who'd ever crawled the surface of the Earth, but you're the only sister I have."

Natalie exploded into an outburst. "Crawl? I don't crawl. Crawl is such an undignified way of transporting oneself, and I do not—"

"Natalie. Please. We are in a tea party. Maintain grace and refinement."

The girl crossed her arms across her chest, vexed. "Oh, I just hate you."

Ian regally sipped his tea, eyes closed, and voice dripping with amusement. "You very well know that I hate you more."

"I hate you most!"

Ah, this morning couldn't have been more wonderful.

…sadly, this could only remain to be a memory, never to be experienced again.

I. The Golden Mirror

"What a downpour out there," exclaimed a woman in a French accent, wiggling out of her raincoat. Wet golden curls cascaded down her back as she removed the hood, small droplets sprinkling out as she tried to shake the sprinkling wetness off. Then she held out a white hand at him, each pearly finger perfectly manicured, as a sign of greeting.

"Tina Andrés," she introduced herself with a white smile, forty-year-old wrinkles disappearing through her classic French radiance. "So you are the young man I am supposed to meet? I am most pleased to meet you, then, Monsieur Ian."

His eyes briefly looked down at the extended hand, feeling a flash of hurt cross his face at the painful sight. He found it difficult to try and keep himself as detached and impassive as possible as he stared at the hand of the lady, almost surprising himself as to how much just a simple picture, a mere, unintended gesture, could make the darkness resurface from the depths of the ocean where he thought that he'd already buried them, never to be seen again. He'd originally planned to make this fast and easy by being inexpressive in all the things he did, thinking that it would ease the painful beat of his heart—but he couldn't help releasing a reaction, his eyes to glisten and glimmer and grow in an expressive sense of yearning. Of longing, of desire, of…of aching hope that he knew was all in vain.

Tina Andrés' features had started to twitch, waiting for Ian to take the hand already and shake it to show even a bit of politeness. But no—Ian barely even acknowledged her as the memories, those painful, agonizing memories, just kept on stinging him like a swarm of bees, demanding his tears to flow and show the true face hiding beneath the mask.

That hand…

He recognized that kind of manicure. He recognized that kind of manicure. Soft long fingers, glossy red polish for almond-shaped nails. He had never been as vigorous as her when it came to the art of polishing nails, but he'd been so used at the sight for many years, it was impossible for him not to even blink his recognition of it.

…it was the style of Natalie's manicurist back in Paris.

Cringing down at the sight, he forced his eyes to look up to his visitor's blue, expectant ones. He lifted his hand, and for a second, Mrs Andrés let herself a small smile; but Ian's hand didn't meet hers as she expected. Instead, Ian completely ignored the offer of a handshake by clearing his throat, and awkwardly looking at another direction, his eyes wandering in a distance as he introduced himself next.

"Ian Kabra, likewise." He kept his accent clipped, smile strained. "We shall start the tour, then. This way, Mrs Andrés."

This person standing in front of him was one of the richest people in the world—she was influenced by the wealth of her billionaire husband, while she, on her own, produced money by being a remarkable businesswoman. She was among the people standing at the pinnacle of the rich-poor triangle, and people respected her for that. But before, Ian would have probably raised an eyebrow in scepticism at this, knowing fully well that his family was richer, better, than anything and everything else—he had, to put it simply, everything that a child could ever ask for.

But all things were different now.

He still held some form of pride in him like before, yes. But the change of his heart was evident in how he now dealt with peasants, like his cousins; through the…incidents he had went through, he'd grown to learn how to be a bit kinder. Well, he detested the term, for he had been far too used to ruthlessness that kindness almost meant nothing to him; but still, that was a change, a major turn in his life that time and fate had taught him through the hard and cruel way. By taking away his parents, by taking away his riches, by taking away his sibling, by simply taking away everything else until he had nothing else to cling on to, everything had changed.

It hurt his pride, as well as himself, in thinking that that change included how his richness and life was reduced to impoverishment and metaphorical death in just a matter of seconds.

He was going to sell his beloved mansion.

He barely talked throughout the tour. It was Mrs Andrés who guided herself around. Ian thought it was unacceptable, since he is still the owner of the mansion—quite rude of that woman to feel like it's hers already. But later on, Ian thought he didn't mind at all; he was in no joyful mood to speak and act as her tour guide, anyway.

He was, to put it bluntly, the opposite of joyful.

Ian impassively led a happy, talkative Mrs Andrés through the Kabra Manor—once a lively, gratifying castle for a mansion, now an empty, abandoned heap of dust and concrete. Mrs Andrés was one lively woman, gesturing around as she took in all the sights, even though there was not much to show off, just the size of the mansion. Oh, how he envied her. She was too joyful on such a rainy day, her cheery voice annoying his ears so much that he had to suppress the urge not to shoot her with his dart gun—how dare she act so sunnily when he was currently unable to find his way through the darkness? He was growing tired of it—of her voice, of his life, of everysingle bleeding thing. He had woken up on far too many mornings on wet pillows that it eventually numbed his entire body to the point of lifelessness, exhausting every last bit of emotion that he had had, and now he couldn't even gather an ounce of energy to even show the smallest hint of vitality.

But every time he thought he was over and done with, finally empty of those stupid emotions that kept on riling him, even as he thought that there was no emotion left in him anymore—they just kept on building up, in an infuriatingly fast way that made him want to tackle them himself so badly. Nowadays, in everything he saw, in everyone he met, somehow, he saw the faintest presence of his sister—he felt like Natalie was among them, following him, haunting him, both in during the day and into his nightmares. Like for her, this was merely a simple peasant game of hide-and-seek that she was starting to enjoy seeing him get tortured by it.

Oh, he had to smile at that thought. Natalie had this habit of wanting to see Ian defeated whenever the two of them raced down the stairs or competed in a game of chess. He and Natalie had always been rivals…always wanting to get ahead of the other, a healthy competition that would always either make him laugh at his utter success or Natalie to squeal in joy with hers. Thinking of it made a lot of good memories to burst through the storm clouds.

The storm clouds, though, would be immediate in their reactions to block out the sun and envelope him in darkness once again. Ian released a sigh, the tiniest hint of delight in his face carried away by a breeze like the remains of a whisked out candle, emptiness filling him once more. Because no matter how hard he tried, the bad memories still managed to outnumber the good ones.

"Oh, isn't this the way to the dining hall?" Confusion was etched onto Mrs Andrés' face as she gestured at a door.

He stopped dead in his tracks, and stared at the said door, his inward horrification succeeding in working its way to his face. The image of Natalie's fur coat in that dining hall flashed through his mind.

Natalie's fur coat. That…that dreadful day. That awfully, dreadful day that he could have prevented, and yet he didn't, he didn't, he didn't. This dining hall was the last time where she'd left her fur coat before she went to shop at the Harrods, and had then been kidnapped by the Vespers. It was a happening he could have prevented, he should have been more protective, he should have gone shopping with her that day, or he probably should have never let her out of his sight for even a single second in the first place, and yet, and yet, and yet…

…he didn't.

Ian clenched his fists, keeping his face as emotionless as possible.

He proceeded to walk to the right, purposefully ignoring the befuddled woman's question. No, opening the doors of this particular dining hall would bring too many memories, too many regrets that he feared would overflow any second now. It was hard enough for him to walk around his mansion, only to remind him of the things from the past that he didn't want to get reminded of, but facing this dining hall that reeked of nothing but despair, no. His wordless stride eventually got the message clear across the room, and Mrs Andrés reluctantly followed after him, grumbling about the impoliteness of teens nowadays.

A few seconds of silence passed when Ian finally spoke, opening the door to another massive room. "The ballroom," he said in a bored tone.

Mrs Andrés didn't even notice her companion's melancholic amber eyes as he said this, because she had already taken a look at the place around her, rendering herself breathless.

"Simply admirable," she marvelled, eyeing the intricate designed painted on the ceiling overhead. She was right—the place was admirable, marvellous even, even without the furniture that must've occupied the chamber sometime ago. Her stilettoes clicked on the floor's intricate tiles some more as she approached the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, their elegant frame design adopting a Renaissance look that even King Henry VIII would have been jealous.

Ian let her take a look around, him blankly hovering behind her to make sure he explained things where Mrs Andres became too fascinated in, like the fancy window sills or the flowery tile design. He made sure to follow her in her footsteps despite hating acting like a butler. The words 'butler' and 'Ian Kabra' did not belong to the same dimension—but he guessed he did not have much of a choice now, did he?

A heavy breath escaped his lips. He had sunk far too low that even he had to pity himself for his pitiful situation. Everything may have changed, especially since the Clue Hunt. But everything had crashed, ever since…ever since she died.

He clenched his fists as he explained to Mrs Andrés the history of the floor design that graced the ballroom, voice turning stiff midsentence.

Ever since she died.

He tried not to think about it, but he cannot drift his thoughts away from her. Her death was the reason that everything did not matter anymore. The memories hidden in this mansion, Ian was willing to simply sell away, if it meant ceasing the pain in his tired and exhausted heart even just a little. He simply cannot have the tolerance to live in here anymore, no, not, never anymore, where he somehow felt Natalie's presence lurking in every corner, paining him, threatening to rip the sanity away from him and make him break down into tears, right then and now. And he cannot live in a place like that. He cannot live in a home that made him feel pathetically tearful every five minutes.

So, now, he has decided to just give it to someone who will take care of it for him so he could forget about it for good.

Mrs Andrés lifted a hand to press it against the stained glass windows, albeit dusty. "What about this, then, Mr Kabra?"

"My mother had acquired the service of a practiced smith." He tried to make his tone even, and maintain a bored voice as to deflate those feelings away. "It had almost cost Mum a million pounds."

Mum.

She nodded reverently at the crown, gently putting it down, and turned to examine the other artefacts—or lack thereof, seeing as this place had long since been emptied out. She continued to walk around, taking in the sights.

The Lucian was just about to move, but something flew down to Ian's feet. A piece of paper? Ian looked up, and realized that it must have come from the metal flanks of the windows. He knelt to pick it up, and by the touch of it, no, he realized that it was not a simple scrap of paper—it was photo paper. He turned it over in his hand, and was surprised to see the photograph still alive through all the years.

The photo had been taken so many years ago that the edges were beginning to turn yellow. Isabel was smiling sweetly as ever, while Vikram looked strained trying to smile. Natalie was probably just three years old then, and was trying to push Ian into the scene, who was looking down scornfully on his ice-cream-splattered shoes.

Ian's grip on the photo tightened, as if for dear life.

They were just so…happy.

He wondered if his fate would have been the same if they were a poor family instead, not a rich one. He wondered what could have happened if his mother had been the gentle and caring kind who didn't dream of world domination. He wondered what could have happened if his father hadn't left them in the dark. He wondered if his fate would've been the same if he had hurried over to Natalie and warned her of the danger of the Machina Fini Mundi.

And he'd just been inches from the spot where he had the chance to save her. Milliseconds from stopping her. Yet, he still failed, like the pathetic…like the pathetic imbecile he was.

He wondered if his fate would have been the same if he was never born a Cahill at all.

Ian looked down at the floor and stared angrily through thin air, clenching his fists, gritting his teeth, scolding himself for even feeling in such a way.

Touchy, now, aren't we, Ian Kabra?

Mrs Andrés turned around to face a staircase. She sighed in contentment, dreamily staring up at the Spanish-style staircase. This mansion is going to be mine soon. She took one delicate step on the first of the line of stairs, hand in position to start trailing the silver staircase. But then she stopped, looking back at Ian, who seemed to be lost in thought, staring at some sort of photograph he was tightly gripping in his hand.

"Young Monsieur Ian," she called out. "How ever have you acquired a mansion this…this massive and—and…and extraordinarily magnifique, anyway? Luxurious family, no?"

Ian flinched at the question, shadows flickering over his eyes. Noticing this, the kind buyer softened her tone.

"Oh. So perhaps it is—"

"Yes, indeed, it is none of your business," he snapped. With a wave of his fingers, he urged her on. "Proceed in examining the mansion. If you think this is your cup of tea, we can arrange the papers immediately. And the door is open if you don't."

It wasn't exactly the best way to convince a buyer, but this was starting to become unpleasant for him. A little hurt by the sixteen-year-old's snide remark, Mrs Andrés silently took the path upstairs, Ian calmly following behind her. The woman chose not to speak, for she was afraid to disturb the young boy from his thoughts. But Mrs Andrés risked a look back to survey him.

Contemplative eyes not even looking where he was going, his long strides working by themselves. Hand put in his pocket, the other tossed carelessly at his side. Throwing out insults and offences as though wanting to make the other feel hurt, because he doesn't want to be the only one hurting. From the way he talked so stiffly as if restraining a yawn. The tiredness that radiated from his numb posture. There were many other signs that Mrs Andrés knew pointed to his absent presence. Physically near, but out of reach. Though Ian looked normal and casual—well, as far as a British teenage boy in an expensive Ralph Lauren suit can be—he looked like he was hiding something.

She knew those signs for a reason. Because she, herself, was hiding something as well…

They reached the top of the stairs. Though the Kabra Manor was basically empty, dark with its unlighted hallways, and incredibly dusty with misuse, Mrs Andrés couldn't help but feel awed by the majestic mahogany hallway in front of her. There could be rows of crystal chandeliers placed above, and might've been a light show if the switch is flicked on. There were doors on each side, indicating the rooms. This must be the guest dorms.

Mrs Andrés, impressed by the elegant designs and sophisticated art, walked over to one painting and looked up to see a beautiful girl's shining amber eyes stare down at her with an almost-sardonic expression. It kind of piqued her interest at the fact that this was the only painting she saw throughout the mansion. It was as if it was left here alone in purpose.

The painting was of a girl. Her face was contorted in a sadistic kind where one eyebrow is arched, and, the other, flat as if mocking. The girl sort of looked like young in her early teens, dressed by a bright red gown—the shade of red was so vibrant, it seemed to glow and stand-out amidst the invisible darkness that surrounded the entire mansion all this time. The picture was chillingly charming. Black hair softly flowed down her exposed back, a victorious smirk playing across her red lips. Hidden behind her red ball gown, however, was her gloved hand, fingers ready to trigger the glinting little figure of the sleek, silver and perfectly concealed…wait a minute.

Was that a dart gun?

Shegulped. The strange thing was that this girl kind of resembled the one person standing behind her in terms of features. Could she be his sister? Mrs Andrés asked herself. One could just imagine her shocked reaction as a clipped British voice snapped through her thoughts.

"I hate to interrupt your daydreaming, Mrs Andrés, but we need to get moving." Ian's head turned up from glancing down at his Rolex. "This appointment has far exceeded the time I allotted for it. I wish you understand, but we need to get moving."

"And please." He accidentally stole a short glimpse of the beautiful girl's portrait hanging behind the woman, but his head turned away from it in an immediate flash. A gesture that seemed to tell as if he'd been trying to endure the intensity of those particular pair of vivid and spirited amber eyes all along. As Mrs Andrés observed more closely, she actually noticed a slight sheen of moist covering the young Kabra's eyes, as if the mere second of looking at the portrait had already cut through him like a knife.

What she didn't know was that the portrait was a picture of Natalie Hollingsworth Kabra, the dead sister of Ian who was never to share the joys of holding a dart gun with him again.

Ian was staring straight through the emptiness of air in front of him. "Let's go on with the inspection."

Then Ian walked forward, impassively striding down the empty halls.

Mrs Andrés withdrew her hand from touching the portrait of the enigmatic girl in the red ball gown— thoughts now focused on the fact that she had seen Ian's eyes glisten with emotion, despite his voice showing none. She followed him, her happy blue eyes filling up with tears. She understood the young lad. She understood why he hid in a mask, because that is exactly what she is doing all along as well; blabbering her way through time, as a way to conceal.

Her daughter, Liana, has this incurable disease…and the doctors say she may not live long to be the famous singer she had always dreamed to become.

Mrs Andrés stopped walking. No. No. Buying this mansion is wrong. She felt that it was wrong. What would her sick daughter feel if she knew that her mother was throwing her money around on buying elegant mansions while she suffered in pain?

"Young monsieur?" Mrs Andrés said, the joy in her voice gone, now replaced by doubt, concern, hesitation, the change in her move drastic enough to make Ian stop in his tracks. The younger Kabra turned around to meet her eyes.

"Yes, Mrs Andrés?" For the first time in the whole day, she thought she saw ghosts of smiles light up his handsome features with hope. "So I render this mansion has finally caught your fancy?"

Mrs Andrés paused. She wouldn't want to disappoint the young child—he seemed so hopeful in finally having found a buyer to sell his mansion to. But there was something oddly queer about his tone. It was as if he was glad, not because of the large sum of money to be received in selling this. He was glad, because…because of something else.

Because he wanted to get rid of the mansion in itself.

That would explain his stiff mood. The tense aura emanating from him. The soulful amber eyes soullessly locked on staring at thin air, as if he didn't want to see the rest of the mansion. Simply because it hurt. He wanted this mansion gotten rid of, to someone who would take care of it—like her.

But she can't buy this mansion. Her daughter is sick…

"I'm sorry, Mr Kabra," she said shakily. "But—but I've just decided that—my daughter—"

She was interrupted by a ringing phone. It was hers. She fished it out, flipped it open, and put it on her ear.

"Hello? Oui, oui, I am Tina Andrés." Face contorts. "My daughter? What happened? Is she—" Tightens, then horrified. "She's missing? This cannot be… Haven't you contacted the police? —no? No?" Her voice raised an octave, to the point of desperate shouting. "Then what on earth are you doing, waiting for flying pigs? Contact the police now or I'll have you fired!"

She slammed the phone shut. Don't worry, my child Liana, mamère would be coming for you…

Ian didn't know whether to act amused or concerned.

"I am sorry, Mr Kabra…but I don't think I should be buying your mansion after all." She started to run downstairs, leading herself to the exit with a confused Ian frozen in place. That was not good news. Mrs Andrés turned around to face him for a second. "Nonetheless, thank you for inviting me. Bonjour."

Grabbing her raincoat, she fled into the rain.

oO0Oo

Ian was in a daze. So Tina Andrés left him alone.

Not that he minded. He was used to it, anyway.

Frowning all the way at the disappointment of losing a potential buyer for his mansion, he stepped down the stairs, suitcase in hand. He had had gathered some of his old clothes from his former wardrobe, thinking of using them—it was horrid actually reusing his old clothes, he knew—while he temporarily lived with the Cahills in Boston. It's what Amy commanded him to do, lest she scold him again for being such a, quote-unquote, 'loner'. And he could never stand up against Amy the Madrigal.

She thought that it was a way for him to get over his depression. But despite the efforts of his cousins of trying to turn his chin up, Ian kept on thinking that there's probably no other reason for him to live, anyway, now that Natalie's gone. Ian even mentioned clues of intentions of suicide.

This terrified everyone, especially Amy. And that is why she kept working hard to cheer him up. None of her efforts ever seemed to work, though.

Today, when Ian had announced to Amy that he'd go back to London to pick up some things—clothes, etc.—and entertain a certain Tina Andrés, Amy had been a bit panicked. She had probably been thinking that Ian's plan of suicide was supposed to happen any time now. The latter was annoyed, complaining that there was no reason for her to panic. He told her off about not sending any spies or helicopter rovers to keep track of his every move—that was inevitable for Amy's overthinking and overtrained mind. He strictly told her that he wanted to go alone, but Amy did not make him leave until he promised her that he'd be home in time for dinner.

Oh, Gideon. Ian had merely wanted to get some more clothes for him to wear—his clothing stocks back there were getting destroyed one-by-one, courtesy to Saladin the Irritating Egyptian Mau.

He crossed the guest room of the mansion. But something in his pocket vibrated. He fished out his ringing phone from his pocket. The caller ID was Amy Cahill.

Ian grip on the phone tightened. He tapped on the screen to accept the call and put it on his ear.

"Greetings."

There was some sort of a relieved sigh escaping Amy's lips. Ian frowned. Perhaps she thought I already killed myself?

"Oh, thank goodness you're alright," she said. Ian didn't respond.

Awkward pause.

"Um…you are okay, aren't you?"

Ian walked through the hallway, and decided to steer away the subject from him. "Anyway, is there something important you were going to tell me? I'm just about to go home, so don't worry—"

The redhead on the other line cut him off. "Phoenix called and told me they're picking you up soon at your mansion. Just reminding." She paused, as if guilty for having lied to him about the not-sending-any-spies-and-helicopter-rovers thingy. "It's…for safety reasons."

So much for getting home in peace. Now Amy had to destroy it by sending him people who would chain him in the airplane propellers while they danced around the fire. "I thought I told you, Amy," Ian carped, "I can go home without the aid of those loud, volatile Cahills who even consider themselves as human be—"

"Well," Amy countered, voice flaming. "It's better than you going home alone. You know how worried I'm getting about you these days…"

He scoffed. "Do you really think that lowly of me?" He wasn't that vulnerable to giving in to depressive emotions, is he? Lucians resist transparency, and it was an insult Amy even doubted his self-control skills when it came to emotions. He was supposed to be an expert on emotions, not an underdog. "You are purposefully making this difficult. Very well, there's Phoenix. At least he's half-decent. But who else is there?"

"Let's see…" Amy was tapping on her chin. "There's Phoenix, Jonah, Hamilton, Dan, and Nellie—she's piloting Jonah's jet. Don't worry, you'd be totally fine."

Understatement.

"By 'fine'," he seethed crossly, "do you imply that I'll be completely out of my mind when I get there?"

Amy laughed, thinking it was a joke. "Please, you nut." And she laughed again, as if it was the funniest joke ever made by man.

Ian felt weird, listening to her gentle, affable laugh—his mind trying to wrap around the fact that she laughed at him. He actually made someone laugh. He couldn't believe it. He himself couldn't laugh, and yet he was able to make someone else laugh. He didn't know that he'd changed so much, that he'd been changed so much—it felt so different, that before he actually met his cousins, he was perched, high above in a pedestal, but now…he felt like nothing more like the goody-goody peasant. Strangely, though, he almost didn't mind it. In fact, he…liked it. It felt good being kind to other people, making them happy instead just for yourself.

How could he do something like that in the midst of his misery? To make someone else happy? He didn't know it'd feel so good, and he didn't want to feel good in times of mourning like this—but his facial muscles couldn't suppress that small little smile, and his shoulders just couldn't help it but to lose all tension and finally relax. He hadn't felt this good in weeks. And how could she do something like that, that with only the gentle sound of her laugh, she is able to make him feel the littlest bit better, even just the tiniest smidgeon of happiness in the universe's giant vessel of stars, to make his day brighten, to chase the darkness away with only that one little light—

But she suddenly stopped laughing.

There was a heavy silence that followed, and he wondered for a second what was suddenly wrong. It was eerily silent in the other line, but when he looked at the screen of his phone, he saw that there was no problem with the signal.

"Hello, Amy?" he asked, a feeling of alarm washing over him like a tidal wave. His Cahill instincts were kicking in. "Are you still…?"

"What? Oh, yes, yes, I'm s-still here," Amy seemed to suddenly break out of a trance when she spoke, stuttering mildly. "So, uh, what were you, um, saying? Again?"

Ian sighed, choosing the rational reason to fill in the sudden, albeit weird, silence. His instincts stopped ringing aloud. Whatever that was about, it was a false alarm. "Alright then," he said, slowly, awkwardly. "Call them and tell them I'd be waiting at Twilight Coffee instead. It's a coffee shop across the street in front of the mansion."

"O-okay, w-w-whatever." She took a few inhales of shaky breath, and for a second Ian wondered why she suddenly seemed so out of her element just now. But she continued on talking, further distracting Ian away from the unnecessary thought. "Jake's calling and I-I need to go." She cleared her throat, sounding frustrated at herself for stuttering too much—Ian can't explain that little smirk playing on the edge of his lips, but her stutter just brought about a hurdle of memories from the old days.

"Just…d-don't do anything reckless, okay?" Amy sounded firmer this time. "I don't want you to…you know. Things will work out, and we're in this together. I promise."

By 'anything reckless', she meant 'don't cut your own head off'.

Ian walked slowly towards the doors of his mansion, the elegant carvings gloomy and covered in dust. He stared up at the doors, a sense of longing persistently tugging at him.

"Yes," he responded, his face cast by a shadow.

"O…okay then," Amy said, a little hesitantly. "Bye. Be safe."

Click.

Ian pocketed the phone, the ghost of a smile on his face disappearing. Jake. Amy ended the phone call, because there was a pesky Rosenbloom behind the scene. But the young Lucian chose to shrug it off. Why did it matter, anyway?

Ian opened the doors of his mansion and was immediately met by the torrent of rain that had been raging for hours outside. Wind blew hard, leaves and twigs getting blown away. He sighed; another dreary grey day here in London. He was just about to—

"Mamère?"

His ears perked at the tiny sound, and looked up. As he did, he saw a girl beyond the gates of his mansion, of about his age of sixteen years, with wet, blond pigtails sticking on her back. Rain continued to rage, across the empty grounds, and Ian arched an eyebrow at this rather strange scene.

What is this girl doing outside in the rain?

"Mamère!" The girl started to run, her feet sloshing onto the wet pavement. The rain was becoming more and more clamorous, what with the heavy raindrops hammering against the iron roofs of the houses beyond and the occasional thunders that roared from a distance. The band of rain created noise that filled the silence from miles across, for most of the people preferred to stay indoors and wait for the storm to stop before returning back to their business. A flash of lightning lit up the entire area like day, before shadows fell once again; flickering against Ian's narrowed amber eyes, suspicious of what this girl would be doing all alone in the middle of the storm, without even some sort of umbrella to protect her from the cold, hurtling droplets that continuously collided against the earth.

"Wait, Mamère!" she cried, her voice surprisingly shrill to his ears that betrayed her small, seemingly sickly thin form.

Is it just him, or did the girl's appearance, accent, and voice sounded strangely similar to…to…Mrs Tina Andrés? Could this be the ill girl she had been muttering about earlier? No, no, it couldn't be…that would be too much of a coincidence, wouldn't it?

"I'm here, Mamére," the girl continued to cry out, tears streaming down her eyes, pupils diluted to pinpricks, flailing her arms forward as if reaching for something, as if desperately trying to grab at something, but only succeeding in seizing at empty air, causing her to drunkenly stumble forwards, just as an insane person would do. "Wait for me, Mamére, please!"

Ian looked at the direction where the girl was gesturing to. He saw nothing—only rows and rows of endless trees, peppered with the grey rain. Emptiness. He saw no one who could possibly be this girl's…'mamére', or mother.

Either he's seeing things, or this girl's the one seeing things.

"Mamère, no, wait, please!" she cried out loud, desperately, before disappearing permanently behind the trees.

Ian had to blink several times in a sea of confusion after the act stopped playing before him.

What…what had just…happened?

Ian was just about to shrug off the weird scene off his shoulders. But something twinkled and glinted harshly against his eyes. His eyes looked beyond the gates to see what it was. Temporarily dropping his suitcase gently onto the dry ground of the porch, he opened his umbrella and walked to the gates, unlocked them, and walked gingerly outside to see what the twinkling thing was.

A mirror.

A…mirror?

Ian looked far behind to his left and right, but saw no traces of the girl whatsoever. Hm. Maybe she dropped this. He bent down to pick it up, his fingers gingerly holding the intricate, golden handle, which snaked around the mirror's ancient borders. A red gem was placed in the middle, the lone decoration of the old-fashioned accessory. It looked very…ancient, and even he would say that it looked quite inexpensive, from the looks of it. It appeared more of like an historical relic than a female's fashion accessory, and it fairly baffled him as to why such an archaic object would be in the possession of one of the modern world's modern girls.

He was about to drop it back to the ground, disinterested in keeping such a prehistoric artefact that just might destroy his Kabra reputation. And besides, that weird…girl might come looking back for it. But just before he dropped it, some unexplainable entity forced him to look at his reflection first—and that was when he felt like he couldn't put the mirror down.

He stared at his unblinking reflection, the seconds seeming to blindly pass him by as he took in the rather marvellous sight. There was an ochre, iridescent glow glinting inside the mirror as if the blazing fires of hell itself had been trapped behind the sheen of reflecting glass. The ghostly elements of molten gold scintillated mystically from inside of it, distorting his reflection in an…inexpressively, for the lack of a better term, odd but enchanting way. He felt as if there was some hidden force in there, a smooth, calm, feminine voice, soft but strangely relentless, that called out to him, gently coaxing him, enticing him, luring him in, willing him to fall into an illusion and tempting him to sleep for an eternity…a satisfyingly deep, dreamless sleep…it was so tempting, he wanted to say yes, he wanted to fall into that sleep, and never, never, never wake up ever agai—

Ian snapped his eyes open in shock, waking from his unconscious trance.

What?

He blinked several times, that one word echoing throughout his head like a gong as he swivelled his head from left and right, as if unconsciously trying to make sure he was still aligned to the nature of the real world. And strangely, his breath had hitched, his chest heaving up and down, his face wide-eyed as if he had just been harshly pulled out to the surface from underneath the deep waters of the ocean. He looked back at his reflection in the mirror, the peculiarity of it dumbfounding him more and more as he studied his uncanny reflection. Questions swirled around and around his head, like a swarm of bees stinging him to get his attention, but only one, frightening question dominated above them all—

Had he really just been about to actually close his eyes?

…in mindless obedience?

To this mirror?

Before his mind could continue debating, Ian suddenly went stiff. He felt something move behind him, warning bells frantically ringing around inside his head. Yes, yes he did feel something…someone… He cautiously bent his mirror at an angle to see who or what was behind him, and saw a black figure bending down to pick up something from the ground.

Wait…was that…was that his family photo?

How in Luke Cahill's name did it get there?

Alarmed, Ian whirled around to catch the face of the thief. But the black figure had already sprinted past him, out the gates of his own mansion, carrying with it the only reminder Ian had of his family.

How dare…

With no time to think, Ian dropped his umbrella on the ground and started running after the robber in a desperate chase, legs pumping themselves to their limits. It was so unlike him to value such a thing, such a simple family photo, but the photo contained the most valuable meanings his life had ever had.

Natalie…Mum…Father…

His family.

The rain pounded heavily down his back, down his bangs, down his face—but Ian Kabra, yes, Ian Kabra, did not care. "Give it back to me, you thief!"

The person didn't give any clue that he/she heard him.

He gritted his teeth. No one ignored Ian Kabra. He was just about to run even faster, but his foot went over a rock and he was lunged forward, tearing away his focused vision of the black figure for one, painful little second. Fortunately, he caught himself before hitting the ground, and his eyes immediately went back on the road in pursuit of the thief—

But the strange black figure was gone.