My Daughter-in-Law Stole My Face With the Eclipse Mirror and Made Me Serve Her Feast — Now the Mirror Is Screaming My Name
The pantry was a single cramped room, carved from rough-hewn stone at the estate’s furthest edge. A single window, no wider than my hand, let in a sliver of the weak morning sun.
It smelled of dust and dried herbs. My old life, a thousand cycles of lunar feasts and ancestral duties, felt like a story told to someone else.
Here, in this small space, I began to knead rye dough. The cool flour dusted my hands, the only touch I sought.
My solitude was a deliberate choice, a quiet surrender. The grand palace, glittering on the hill, was no longer my concern.
But the world outside my pantry window had not found peace.
Across the high provinces, reports grew stranger by the day. Merchants couldn’t recognize their long-standing clients. Spouses stared blankly at each other over breakfast tables.
Children wept, unable to pick out their parents in a crowd.
It started subtly, whispers of forgetfulness, dismissed as stress or old age. Then it spiraled, a creeping shadow over the realm’s most affluent families.
The sacred anchor, the very foundation of human recognition, had splintered. Faces, once unique signatures of identity and lineage, were blurring into interchangeable masks.
High society descended into a chaotic masquerade. Who was a rightful heir, and who was an imposter?
Families tore themselves apart, accusing kin of treachery simply because they could no longer distinguish one beloved face from another. The Delacroix name, once a beacon of stability, now echoed with the shrill cries of a fractured kingdom.
They called it the “Blurring Sickness,” a cruel, silent plague. They offered fortunes for cures, consulted every healer and oracle in the land.
They didn’t understand the truth.
They believed it was a curse, a random divine punishment. But I knew better.
The Delacroix matriarch’s visage was more than just a face. It was the living key, the spiritual signature woven into the very fabric of our realm’s recognition magic.
When Seraphina ripped it from me, she didn’t just steal beauty. She tore the tapestry that held us all together.
And I, for the first time in centuries, felt nothing but the steady rhythm of my own breath as I folded the heavy dough. The palace was not my burden anymore.
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