The Reflection in Stone
The sky above Edinburgh had turned a soft silver-gray, the kind that felt like it carried secrets. Isla wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck as she made her way back to the Royal Mile. She didn’t know why she was drawn back to the book fair, only that she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the vendor and the strange book.
She found his stall tucked away near the edge of the market. The crowd had thinned out, and most vendors were packing up, but his table remained exactly where it had been. The man was rearranging a few hardcovers when she approached slowly, cautiously.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice hesitant.
He looked up, eyes steady. Ancient. Calm.
She pulled the book from her bag and held it out. "I bought this from you yesterday. Do you remember?"
He studied the cover for a long moment. Then nodded once.
“I was wondering… about its origin,” she continued, more confident now. “There’s no author name, no publication date. Do you know anything about it?”
He said nothing for a few seconds. The wind tugged at the edges of his coat.
“That book is older than it should be,” he said finally. “Older than you think.”
Isla blinked. “So… who wrote it?”
“A writer who never wanted to be known.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have,” he said quietly, and then paused. "But if you truly want answers—go to the castle. East Wing. Just before sunset. When the last bell chimes."
She frowned. "Why there?"
He tilted his head, almost amused. “Because truth doesn’t like to stay buried forever.”
Isla narrowed her eyes. “Is that where the author is?"
He offered no explanation. Just a slip of parchment with those same words written in curling script.
Before she could press further, another customer appeared beside her. She turned her head for just a second—and when she looked back, the man and his stall were gone.
Completely vanished.
By the time Isla reached the gates of Edinburgh Castle, the sun was beginning to lower behind the buildings, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The wind tugged at her coat. She felt it again—that strange pressure in her chest, like her body already knew something her mind didn’t.
She slipped through a side entrance, one marked only for staff or private viewings. No one stopped her. The castle was closing, most tourists already on their way out.
But someone had left the door open.
The halls were quieter than she expected. Her boots echoed against the stone floors. Tapestries lined the walls, faded depictions of wars and queens, of feasts and executioners.
She wandered slowly, hoping for answers. A plaque. A clue. Anything that might lead to A.I. Smith. But all she found were shadows and age.
She turned into a wing labeled "Historical Portraits," the air inside cooler, stiller.
Rows of oil paintings lined the long gallery walls, each depicting nobles and monarchs from centuries past. Most bore small brass plaques with the sitter’s name, their title, and the artist who had painted them. She skimmed them quickly—nothing stood out.
Until it did.
She stopped in her tracks.
The man in the portrait wore a high-collared tunic and a dark green cloak pinned with a brooch that looked suspiciously like the crest etched into the book’s title page. His eyes were steel-gray. His face—handsome, serious, fierce.
Her heart skipped.
It was him.
Lachlan.
She stepped closer, the breath catching in her throat.
The plaque beneath the painting read: “Prince Lachlan of Strathclyde, 1231. Painted by Torin Dunmore, Court Painter. Commissioned Winter Solstice.”
Her fingers tingled.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She stared into Lachlan’s eyes. They were too familiar. She knew their shape. The way they softened when he smiled. The way they burned when he kissed her.
The room seemed to tilt.
She reached for the edge of a bench, steadying herself. Her thoughts raced. What kind of story was she caught in? What had she touched?
She turned away, heart pounding, and continued through the narrowing corridor. The lights dimmed with each step, the setting sun casting strange shapes on the floor.
She came to a tall wooden door, carved with an intricate crest.
It was ajar.
Beyond it stretched a round chamber bathed in dusk light from a narrow stained glass window. And at the center of the room stood a statue.
Isla stepped inside slowly.
Her breath caught.
The figure was carved from pale marble, elegant and poised. A woman stood tall, regal in a flowing gown. Her features were smooth, timeless. But the face—
The face was Isla’s.
She staggered a step forward. It was impossible, but there it was. Her nose, her cheekbones, the arch of her brow.
She swallowed hard. Her heart pounded.
And then she saw it.
On the statue’s left hand sat an emerald ring.
Just like hers.
Identical.
Her throat tightened. She looked down at her own hand—the green stone winked in the fading light.
Drawn by something she couldn’t explain, Isla moved forward. Slowly. Her boots silent on the ancient floor.
She lifted her hand beside the statue’s.
She hesitated.
The air had shifted again—thicker now, charged with something she couldn't name. The marble's smooth surface gleamed under the dying light, and as she stared at the emerald ring resting against the statue’s hand, her pulse drummed against her ribs.
Her fingers hovered inches away.
A part of her knew she shouldn’t touch it. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to pull back, to turn and leave. But there was a deeper pull, one she couldn’t resist, an ache that whispered that the answers lay right there.
Her breath shallow. She reached closer.
The distance closed, fraction by fraction, time stretching impossibly thin. The world around her dimmed, the edges blurring, as if the castle itself was holding its breath.
Then—her fingertips met the cold stone.
The contact sent a jolt up her arm, a shock that wasn’t painful but electric. A ripple—like water disturbed in a still pond—spread from the point of connection.
A hum began, deep and thrumming, vibrating through her bones.
She gasped. The marble was warm now, impossibly so. It pulsed beneath her fingertips, alive, reacting.
A rush of air curled around her legs. The torches flickered wildly, casting twisting shadows against the walls. The stained glass window glowed brighter, unnatural, like the sun had flared through it in one violent burst.
Then—
The green light erupted.
Blinding. Devouring. It swallowed every surface, every shape, every sound.
The hum became a roar.
The walls quivered. The ground tilted.
Isla tried to pull away—tried to scream—but there was no air left to carry the sound.
And in the split second before the world unraveled entirely, she saw something—
Trees. A flickering torch. A face.
Then darkness.