Lysander stared at the invitation in his hands once more, the ornate lettering shimmering as if it had a life of its own. It was strange, almost as if the words were mocking him. "Do not bring your vanity," they had said. As if he could ever leave that behind. Vanity was his very essence his birthright, his armor, his power.
He'd meant to toss it aside and forget about the mysterious gathering. After all, what did he need with a "new world beyond beauty"? He was already at the top of the hierarchy beyond the reach of anyone. But as the hours passed and his mind lingered on the cryptic words, an unfamiliar curiosity gnawed at him. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to see.
By evening, he was dressed in his finest attire, a suit so perfectly tailored it looked like it was stitched directly onto his skin. The fabric was soft, shimmering silver that seemed to match the moonlight outside. He caught his reflection in every surface he passed, checking for any flaw any imperfection, however tiny before heading out.
The streets of Aurelian were alive with the hum of the evening crowd, the air cool but filled with the intoxicating scent of rich perfumes. It was the time of the year when the Silver Crescent hosted its infamous parties, a place where the elite gathered to flaunt their beauty and wealth. But tonight, something felt different. There was an undercurrent of mystery in the air, and Lysander could almost taste it.
The Silver Crescent stood tall and grand before him as he approached, its towering columns reflecting the moon. The ballroom doors were flanked by two statues of angels each more perfect than the last heralding the entrance to this palace of beauty. He gave the invitation to the doorman, who gave him a quick, unreadable look before allowing him inside.
The ballroom was as dazzling as he had imagined. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling like glowing stars, casting a soft golden light over the crowd. The guests each one more beautiful than the next danced, laughed, and exchanged shallow pleasantries. The beauty of it all was enough to make Lysander's heart swell with pride. He belonged here, among the perfect, the admired, the revered.
But as he scanned the room, something odd caught his eye. At the far end of the ballroom, there was a small group of people gathered in a quiet corner. They weren't dressed in the finest silks or diamonds, their features weren't flawless they weren't even close to perfect. In fact, they looked like normal people.
Lysander's gaze lingered on them for a moment longer than was appropriate. One of them a woman with wild, unruly hair and a crooked smile met his eyes. She didn't look away, didn't shy from his gaze, as others always did. Instead, she held his stare, a knowing smirk playing at the corner of her lips.
Curious and slightly irritated by her lack of reverence Lysander strode toward the group. As he drew closer, they seemed to notice his approach and shifted slightly, though they didn't part to make way for him, as he expected. Instead, the woman with the crooked smile stepped forward.
"You must be Lysander Valeris," she said, her voice amused yet somehow knowing. "The most beautiful man in all of Thaloria."
Lysander's chest swelled with pride at the acknowledgment, but he didn't let it show. "I am," he replied coolly, eyeing the group warily.
"And you must be the one who believes beauty is the only thing that matters," she continued, her gaze sharp and unflinching. "Tell me, Lysander, what happens when that beauty starts to fade?"
His perfect smile faltered for a split second. He wasn't used to being challenged like this. "I'm sorry, I don't believe I know you," he said, his voice laced with a hint of annoyance.
The woman only smiled wider, as if she'd been waiting for his reaction. "My name is Elara," she said, the sound of it hanging in the air like an invitation to something he wasn't sure he wanted to explore. "And I'm here to show you that your perfection might not be as perfect as you think."
Lysander's brow furrowed. "You think you can teach me something?" He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. "I'm flawless. I'm beyond lessons."
"Oh, Lysander," Elara sighed, her expression shifting into something almost pitying. "You really have no idea, do you?"
Before he could respond, a strange hush fell over the room. The guests had started to move aside, parting like the sea before Moses. In the center of the ballroom, a man dressed entirely in black unremarkable by any standard of beauty stepped forward. His presence alone was enough to draw every eye in the room.
Elara's smirk faded. "The time has come," she muttered, almost to herself.
Lysander's confusion deepened. Who was this man? And why was everyone staring at him like he was a king? The man raised his hand, signaling for silence. Slowly, the murmurs of the crowd faded, and all that was left was the sound of his voice, clear and commanding.
"You've lived your lives in pursuit of beauty, haven't you?" the man's voice echoed through the room. "Chasing perfection, admiring yourselves in mirrors. But you've never stopped to ask yourselves: Why?"
Lysander felt a chill run down his spine. The man's words were like a cold wind cutting through the warmth of the ballroom.
"You see," the man continued, his voice growing louder, "your beauty doesn't define who you are. It's just a mask. And one day, that mask will crack."
The room fell silent. Everyone was looking at him. The man locked eyes with Lysander, and for the first time in his life, Lysander felt a twinge of doubt.
A crack in his perfection? Impossible.
"Tonight," the man said with a grin, "we tear down the mirror."