Narcissa…

Or should I say what you truly are now?

Lucifer.

Not the devil of fire and pitchforks — no, no. Your hell isn’t built beneath the earth. It’s built in glass.

Because you, Narcissa… You are a mirror.

You have spent your life polishing your reflection until the world mistook it for truth. A mirror that shines so bright, so flawless, that everyone who looks into it sees only what you want them to see. Beauty. Perfection. Power. Divinity.

You made Arcadia believe the lie. You made yourself believe it.

But mirrors, Narcissa — even the most perfect — are fragile.

A single crack runs through them, and suddenly the reflection warps. The image twists. The truth bleeds through. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the frame is, how ornate, how worshiped. Once the glass is fractured, it can never be whole again.

And that is what I see when I look at you. Not Lucifer the powerful. Not Narcissa the icon. But a mirror starting to crack under its own reflection. You wear divinity like a gown. You parade sin like a perfume. You walk as though the world should kneel at your high-heeled feet.

But I know the truth. I’ve ferried souls for centuries — kings, queens, prophets, monsters — and the ones who pretend to be gods?

They shatter the fastest.

Because mirrors don’t withstand pressure. They don’t withstand flame. They don’t withstand honest eyes.

And mine, Narcissa, are older than hell itself.

You see, when I was tasked to drag you back to hell, I didn’t ask why. I didn’t argue. I didn’t hesitate.

Because hell remembers you. Hell remembers every soul you twisted, every heart you manipulated, every follower you seduced with polished lies and distorted truths. Hell remembers your pride, your vanity, your hunger to be seen.

But hell also remembers something else:

It always gets its mirrors back.

And I am its ferryman.  Its hand. Its collector.

You can call yourself Lucifer all you want. You can dress the part. Speak the part. Play the fallen angel risen to power in Olympus. But even Lucifer, in the oldest tales, fell by looking in the mirror —by admiring his own perfection until it warped him. You are no different. No stronger. No more eternal than the reflection you worship. At Red Snow, when we stand face-to-face, you will finally understand the real reason I will beat you:

Because mirrors don’t fight. They break.

And every time I bring my hand down on you — every strike, every slam, every moment you try to convince me you are something more — another crack will form. Until the reflection is gone. Until the illusion is destroyed. Until the glass lies scattered at my feet.

And when the mirror is broken completely… when the world sees not Lucifer, but the desperate woman behind the shine…

I will do what I was sent here to do.

I will gather the shards. I will bind them together. And I will drag you — piece by glittering piece — back to hell.

Where all broken mirrors belong.