The first mirror grew overnight.No one built it. No one hung it. It simply appeared — a perfect circle of silver glass clinging to the wall above the altar. The townspeople found it at dawn, gleaming like a frozen moon, its surface trembling as if breathing.Father Oran called it a blessing. He said the Mirrorborn had answered their devotion.But Myra, standing at the back of the square, only felt the air thicken.The reflection didn’t show the town. It showed the sea — calm, endless, impossibly still.And in that stillness, something was watching.By noon, there were seven mirrors.Each one appeared where someone had prayed the night before: above doorways, along the docks, on the hull of a fishing boat.They reflected not what was before them, but where faith looked.When a fisherman knelt to pray for safety, his mirror showed a storm — a warning.When a mother prayed for her sick child, hers showed a cradle filled with light.When Myra walked past them, they showed her nothing. On