Fangs.1.0
Prologue.1.
Magic was a rare occurrence; people did not depend on it, for it was too far-fetched. Tales travelled far, claiming that once every century, a person was chosen to possess or wield magic — someone whose actions would change the course of history. Yet centuries passed, and nothing changed. History continued with its slow, ordinary rhythm.
In a hidden mansion, a man cleaned his mirror as usual, his fingers tracing the crimson encryption with care. He hummed a low tune as he focused on his task. Time passed, and his patience thinned.
“My dear friend, it would please both of us if you revealed what I crave.”
Silence filled the room — of course, it would be silent; he was talking to a mirror. But soon, an image appeared. Not a reflection. An image of a life he longed for: one of fangs, wings, and power. The man in the mirror looked like him, yet so strangely different. It was bizarre. It was magic.
His smile faded along with the image, and he left.
His monotonous days became bearable — even amusing — because of the mirror. He spent hours in that room cleaning it, singing, and even playing the violin for it. Whatever magic lingered there, it could feel him… and it wanted to be cared for.
But trouble found him. One bitter day brought the greediest of men.
“Look afar! Whilst we starve in this village, he returns to his manor and bathes in wealth. He drinks the milk and honey of the land, leaving us to scavenge his scraps.”
A few words were enough to awaken the buried jealousy. The villagers grabbed their tools, ready for his manslaughter.
That night, he finished his visit to the village and approached his horse — the poor creature had its leg chopped off and had bled to death. His heart dropped as the villagers surrounded him. His palms grew sweaty; he couldn’t hold the basket, and he ran.
The forest was dense. Every path felt like a road to a trap. Truly, he was prey hunted by wolves. His blood pumped with adrenaline, begging for safety.
He reached his manor. The door slammed shut and locked behind him — a moment of peace — until a blade tore through the wood, an inch from his neck.
What could he do?
He shuffled backwards toward the stairs. If he was fated for death, he would at least die near the mirror — his fixation, his only glitter of hope in a nightmare. The hall felt longer than usual, though it was simply his exhaustion reminding him of his weakness… something his counterpart lacked. If only they could swap.
He burst into the room and ripped the sheets off the mirror.
“Friend of mine, reveal what I desire… no, take me to the place I wish to be.”
Nothing.
He asked again — no, he pleaded — his heart pounding as footsteps drew near.
“Mirror! I command you to do something!”
Still nothing.
Like a crazed prey, he staggered backwards — straight into the blade of a man he saw every month. A pathetic end.
He watched as the villagers ransacked his room… his home. Breaking things. Breaking his mirror. The shards mixed with his blood.
Left to bleed, he crawled toward the mirror and wrapped his arms around its broken frame. A faint glow flickered beneath him. His eyes shut.
"He was but a crazed man!"
"Our jealousy was pointed towards a fool!"
"No use regretting, best burn him with this hunted manor"
"Yes, that would be for the best. We've accomplished what we wanted."
"Another spilt blood won't change much"
The mutters died out as flames engulfed the manor. A question buried in their hearts: "Who did he speak to?”
When they opened again, he woke to a new form — a stronger form. But wishes always demand their price.
Estelle here.
Please note that character names may be reused across different collections. If I decide to revisit a story and write a special scene, you’ll be notified.
I hope the beginning wasn’t overly confusing. The explanation is simple:
The man had been lonely for decades and created a “friend”—something with an image. His own reflection felt like the perfect candidate. His loneliness is uncertain, but his obsession eventually granted the mirror some kind of awakening. Still, it would be wrong to assume his obsession alone created its magic; the mirror already held a dormant power. Think of it like the magic mirror from Snow White, except this mirror only showed him what he truly desired.
Hence: “Friend, show me what I crave.”
Meanwhile, in his land, the villagers were poor, superstitious, cruel, the type to blame women for failed harvests and call them witches. So when a young man who never seemed to run out of wealth came to buy food from them every month… resentment grew. After years of festering bitterness, trouble was inevitable.
