The mirrors slid aside like curtains, opening a long aisle toward a throne of fused and broken frames. Hajin led the household down it, their reflections crowding close on both sides like silent, staring, hungry spectators.
A tall figure sat on the throne in a gown of shards, her face a flat oval of glass.
Her crown was cracked straight through the middle, every jewel in it dull as a dead eye.
"Welcome to my court, thief," the Reflection Queen said, her voice a chorus of every voice that ever spoke to a mirror. "You carry what was not yours, so the floor asks you to settle it the old way."
"I'm carrying a sack of bread and a bad attitude," Hajin said, patting his chest, "which one are you after?"
"Save me a slice of that pie, Bun."
Loccy hugged the bag, "I'll save you two, so you have a reason to win."
"Thief against thief, to the death, with no helpers and no rescue, the winner leaves with the stolen thing."
