Snow and stone blurred as Coyote crossed into the Scarlet Valleys.

  The snow scooter rattled under him and held. Cold pressed in at once. Sharp. Biting at his skin. Snow lay thin over rock and roots, packed down by time rather than traffic. This was a world of vampires and immortals. Cold, unchanged by centuries. Death existed here, but it did not hurry.

  The inconspicuous, unofficial mirror closed behind Coyote. He did not look back. The scooter stayed quiet. Reliable enough. Questionably fast. Coyote had to pick up a package for his client in Steamhollow.

  Two moons gave enough light to ride by. Snow reflected it cleanly, outlining trees, slopes, and shallow drifts. Enough to keep moving without slowing. Night travel in the Scarlet Valleys was unpleasant. Exposed. Empty. He aimed for the nearest trade city, its lights low and distant.

  Staying too long in a place where immortality was common increased risk. Coyote preferred short jobs.

  There was nothing wrong. But the Scarlet Valleys were uncomfortable, even when nothing was wrong. Coyote kept moving.

  Velmora rose out of the dark. A trade city built for movement, not comfort. Stone packed tight along narrow streets. Snow blackened by soot. Light spilled from shops and taverns in narrow bands.

  Coyote parked the scooter between two warehouses and killed the engine. He walked the rest of the way. Hood up. Hands visible. An unremarkable stride.

  The tavern was easy to find. Inside, warm and dim. Smoke. Alcohol. Oil. Blood. Reflective surfaces were dulled or covered. Mirrors existed, but only as controlled objects. Decorative, sealed, or deliberately misaligned. Vampires disliked chaos. And mirrors, once active, were very good at creating it.

  Coyote took a corner seat with a clear view of the door and the back wall. Habit. He ordered a shot. For warmth. He was early. A habit sharpened over years.

  Vampires stood at the bar, voices blending into an indistinct hum. The bartender poured artificial blood into heavy glasses, different shades, different prices. The vampires drank openly, unbothered. Mortals stayed in the shadows, keeping to the edges.

  Coyote checked the time. Three minutes late meant nothing yet but ten minutes did. Being late was exposure. He waited, shifting only enough to stay loose, resisting the urge to move. The courier did not arrive.

  The tavern pressed in around him. Low laughter. A brief argument. Glass breaking, followed by a quick apology. Coyote kept his eyes on the door. He still had time. But he did not have much.

  ***

  Someone stopped at his table. Coyote felt the shift in air before he looked up.

  “You always did like corners, darling,” Samara said softly.

  He raised his eyes. She was stunning. Annoyingly so. Amber hair, emerald eyes, and the sort of figure that made men go stupid.

  “Samara,” he said, smiling.

  She sat opposite him without asking. “You look busy.”

  “I am waiting.”

  She smiled. “You always were.”

  They had known each other since Haven. Something had happened once, long ago. Something unfinished and wisely left that way. He had not expected to see her here.

  “I did not know you moved,” he said.

  “Yes. The Valleys,” she replied. “Six years now.”

  Samara leaned back, posture careful, as if preparing words, she had rehearsed more than once.

  “I am still an official Mirrorwalker,” she said. “Licensed. Registered. I work crossings.”

  “For locals?” Coyote said. “Interesting.”

  She exhaled sharply. “Trying my luck.”

  Ah. That explained it. He looked into Samara’s eyes carefully. No red undertone. No trace of it. She was mortal. Still.

  “Not successfully,” he commented.

  “Not yet,” she replied.

  Coyote kept looking at Samara. He had never understood her fear of ageing. She was willing to try anything to outrun it. Unfortunately, Mirrorwalker blood did not cooperate with anti-ageing magic. Elixirs failed. Spells slid off. Reflection resisted preservation.

  Vampires could grant immortality, but rarely, and only with official permission, in front of a crowd of witnesses. For reasons that had nothing to do with beauty or fear of time. It happened. Just not to someone like Samara.

  “I tried,” she said. “For years.”

  Coyote said nothing. He could picture it easily. Poor thing had tried to seduce vampires and failed.

  “I did everything right,” she continued. “But vampires are as cold as your mate Corvell.” Her eyes flickered with dislike.

  Coyote laughed under his breath. “Corvell turned you down?”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  “Maybe I am not his type,” she said quietly. “His money would have helped. It could make things go faster.”

  “Corvell does not have a type,” Coyote said mildly. “Or money. He is a lord who refuses his inheritance. Do not mourn losses that never existed.”

  Then he added, with a brief, dry laugh, “And I would pay to see you try to bribe a vampire.”

  She shook her head. The playfulness drained from her face.

  “I took a contract,” she said firmly. “A feeding partner contract. Official.”

  Coyote stared at her. Being born a Mirrorwalker was not a choice. Crossing worlds was work. Feeding was something else entirely. Submission by agreement. Blood given on schedule to immortals. Protection in return guaranteed. Benefits optional.

  “I feed my Master,” she said. “That is the arrangement.”

  Her Master. Coyote nearly choked on his drink. The stories made sense. Feeding partners spoke of pleasure felt while feeding, intense enough to confuse obedience with devotion.

  “And you hope,” he said carefully, “that one day he will ask for official permission to turn you?”

  “Yes.” She did not smile.

  “I serve him, cross mirrors for him, and stay useful enough to matter.” A pause. “If immortality ever happens, this is the only path.”

  Coyote did not comment. Other people’s obsessions were none of his business.

  She was quiet for a moment, then asked, almost abruptly, “Have you seen my brother lately?”

  That caught his attention. He shook his head. She frowned. “He visits every month. I have not heard from him in three. Haven knows nothing.”

  Mirrorwalkers vanished rarely. Ophelia had. Now this. The thought stayed with Coyote longer than he liked. It sat wrong, scratching at the back of his mind. He told himself it was coincidence.

  Samara’s attention shifted without warning. “He is calling me,” she said. Coyote did not ask who. She stood, hesitated for a beat, then let the smile return, careful and controlled.

  “Try not to disappear,” she said. “Stay safe, Coyote.” Then she was gone.

  Coyote sighed and checked his watch. The courier was half an hour late. Inconvenient. Dangerous. He waited, nerves tightening despite himself. A few more minutes passed before the courier finally appeared.

  No greeting followed. The courier placed a small package on the table between them, kept one hand on it for a moment, then released. Coyote checked the weight with two fingers, the seal with his thumb. Satisfied, he slipped it under his coat. No names were spoken. The courier stood and left.

  Coyote counted to five before rising and taking a different path through the tavern. He did not rush. He did not linger. Outside, the cold hit at once. He mounted the scooter and set off.

  ***

  Velmora fell away behind him, lights shrinking, noise swallowed by distance. The road narrowed. Snow returned to its proper colour. His destination lay in the mountains. A non-official mirror. Quiet. Unregistered. Reliable enough. He leaned forward and pushed the scooter harder than it liked. The scooter responded with angry gurgling. Night closed in.

  The road narrowed as stone gave way to snow. The scooter laboured but held its pace. Coyote eased off only when the terrain made it impossible. He did not like to arrive rattled.

  The mirror sat where it always had. A polished stone between two trees, half-buried in snow. No markings. No guards. No reason to draw attention. Coyote slowed anyway. Something was off. Not danger. Not presence. The Mirror Call was there, but extremely weak. Thinner than it should have been, like a voice speaking through a wall.

  He brought the scooter to a stop and dismounted. Up close, the problem was obvious. The stone had been coated in black polish, applied carefully and evenly. Pressed into the centre of the surface sat the Great Council emblem. Sealed. Recently. The Council rarely sealed stable, unofficial mirrors. When they did, it meant there had been a reason, and reasons like that were never small.

  Coyote swore under his breath, a long string of filthy curses.

  A sealed mirror was useless. Crossing it was impossible without unsealing, and unsealing without a licence was illegal. More importantly, it took time. Time he did not have. The alternative was worse. The mirror he had entered through lay far back, past Velmora, past routes he had no intention of retracing. Using the same mirror to leave a world broke one of his rules. It increased exposure and drew attention. He avoided it whenever possible.

  He stood still for a moment, calculating distance and fuel, then reached for his pack. As he unfastened it, something caught his eye in the branches above the stone. He stepped closer and pulled it free. The remains of a bracelet. Polished mirror beads strung on a broken thread. Cold to the touch. Too cold. It had been there for a while.

  He recognised it immediately. Ophelia made those. Wore them. Gave them away. Said they helped with balance. With grounding. Said mirrors listened better when you treated them kindly. Coyote closed his hand around the beads. The cold bit into his palm. He stood there a second longer than necessary, then slipped them into his pocket.

  He turned back to the mirror. No more delays. He laid out his tools and began to work.

  ***

  The first sound cut through the trees low and layered. Not wolves. Coyote froze with one hand on the scrubber. The noise was off. Too thin, too many throats overlapping without rhythm. Growls slid over each other, not as warning but irritation, a pack already arguing over a meal.

  Broken Wardens.

  Wolf-shaped, but subtitle details didn’t match. It seemed they were not moving, but sliding between the trees, pale and almost transparent. Moonlight passed straight through their forms, catching on internal lines that never quite held still.

  It was believed they had once guarded the mirrors. During the Mirror Wars, those mirrors were destroyed or damaged. The Wardens endured. But their purpose did not. Sealed mirrors still drew them by instinct.

  Coyote swore once and moved. He grabbed the scooter and his pack in a single motion, leaving the unsealing tools scattered in the snow. The engine protested as he forced more speed out of it than it was built to give. It was not enough. The pack flowed after him, faster than the machine. One surged close and clipped Coyote as it passed. Claws tore across his side. Pain flared sharp and immediate. Fabric ripped. Coyote hissed, nearly lost control, then forced the scooter straight and slammed the button on his coat, triggering the reflective field.

  Light snapped tight around him, thin and precise. The next strike glanced off with a shriek and sparks. Thirty seconds. That was all it ever gave him. He twisted, brought up his pistol, and fired. One Broken Warden folded inward and collapsed, its shape breaking apart and pulling back on itself. Another went down moments later. But they did not slow, immortality made them careless. The shield flickered. Five seconds.

  Coyote reached into his coat and came up with a small vial. Mirror dust. The last of it. He waited until one leapt, then shattered the vial against its head. Dust burst into the open maw. The Warden inhaled. Its scream cut off mid-sound. The body collapsed inward until nothing remained. No corpse. Just cold air and the faint bite of ozone. The others hesitated, but only for a moment.

  Another Warden reached Coyote and snapped at his side. Teeth tore in. Pain flared again, hotter this time, warmth and wetness spreading along his ribs. He did not have time. He had to decide. Now. Coyote recalculated and chose. He veered hard toward the nearest official mirror, a massive geometric surface cut into stone, the Great Council emblem engraved deep at its centre. Crossing without clearance almost guaranteed arrest. As a smuggler, he sat on more than one Council stop list.

  The alternative was simple - get torn apart. He chose arrest.

  Coyote fired again as he rode, to slow them. One Broken Warden dropped. Another tripped over the collapsing body. The mirror loomed close. As he reached it, warmth seeped from the wound along his side. The mirror drank a few drops from him. The surface opened. Coyote crossed.

  Steamhollow hit hard. Metal. Oil. Fog. The mirror snapped shut behind him. The Scarlet Valleys were gone.