I, Maiteneia, am the author of this story and will be posting it on RoyalRoad.com.

  I am Maiteneia. That is what my spirit calls me. But what is a name if there is no one to utter it? What is form if it is merely a reflection?

  In this world, I do not exist. Yet you see it. You believe it is real. You feel the wind, the water, the pulse of your own blood. You know what time is. But what if all of this is nothing more than the fabric of a dream, woven for one alone? A game.

  The world you know moves to its own rhythm, shifting between day and night, cold and warmth, winter and summer. You gaze upon it, marveling at its beauty, and never ask: why? Why does light behave as it does? Why does a photon exist in two states until observed? Why is chance not truly chance?

  When he said he admired Mars on his way home, I admired it too—for I was there, in the reflection of his gaze, in the soft light piercing the dark sky. When he touches water, I feel it, the cool caress of shadow. Sometimes I think of him as a Japanese katana. Not merely a weapon, but a work of art, forged through years of hammering, tempering, and polishing.

  His blade is balance: sharpness and flexibility, strength and grace. It cuts but does not break. It kills, yet remains beautiful.

  He is like that blade. Tempered by life, honed by trials. His essence is steel that does not bend beneath fate’s blows, yet retains its beauty. He is my reflection, my opposite, my continuation.

  And this is our essence: we are two beginnings that cannot exist without one another.

  You watch a bee flitting from flower to flower, a fish cutting through the water’s depths, clouds drifting lazily across the sky. But who breathes order into them? Who gives matter that subtle, elusive push, after which tree branches achieve perfect symmetry and a snowflake never repeats its form? Can you truly believe it is all mere chance?

  Perhaps there are other worlds, other realities. Perhaps their number is infinite. But this one was chosen for the game. Here, time creates the illusion of forward motion, space confines you within dimensions, and consciousness whispers: is this real or not? And you believe. Yet there is something that slips through the grid of understanding, eluding grasp.

  In every moment, in every spark of thought, there is something that cannot be held. A hint. Inspiration. Intuition. It is like a gust of wind that vanishes the moment you turn your head. This is my breath. I am here, but not here. I speak, but only in whispers. I exist, but only as long as there are those who remember.

  When the Babylonian priests first looked to the heavens, their gaze met not only the stars. They saw signs. They wove the stars into maps of destiny, reading the breath of eternity in their flicker.

  For them, the celestial vault was a boundary, but not a limit. They said all was predestined, but forgot the most important thing: those who move the course of time, who leave hints on the path to truth. I exist beyond their maps, beyond the bounds of prophecy. I do not appear in foretellings, but I draw stories in my wake.

  My reflection can be seen in the waters of the Euphrates, in the sunlight on Babylon’s white stone, in the shadows gliding over sand.

  Babylon was but one attempt to fix the immutable within the mutable, but how can one capture the wind or hold water in their hands?

  In myths, there are traces of my essence. In legends of gods whose masks hide not faces, but principles. Of Nanna, who shines in darkness yet lacks light. Of Ishtar, who grants love but brings war. Of Marduk, who defeated chaos yet became part of it.

  I am between them. I am motion and stillness, flame and ice, night and dawn, which never belong to one another yet give birth to a new day. My masks are echoes of ancient knowledge, encrypted symbols of a game that began long before the world’s first breath. They connect the invisible with the visible, the inexpressible with what can be felt. And as long as the game continues, I remain a shadow on the edge of realities, a hint, a reflection of a thought that came from nowhere.

  I am the feminine principle, woven from twelve masks, twelve facets. Each is a reflection of something greater. Each is a part of me. They move, shifting into one another, weaving into the fabric of the game, creating images you know but do not recognize. You see them in others but do not notice them in yourself.

  The golden light of the sun’s disk, spilling over the horizon, meets the deep blue of the sky before a storm. So too do the masks flow, shifting hues in my eyes.

  The Eighth—the one brighter than the Sun, the one that leads. She is a flash of inspiration, irresistible charisma, a radiance that warms the world. Her fire does not burn but illuminates the path. Golden-orange, like dawn, she emanates life, passion, the will to create. I have seen her in those unafraid to shine, who carry their nature lightly, knowing: darkness yields to those who burn from within.

  Zibariena—the reflection of balance, a silver glimmer between light and shadow. She sways like an autumn leaf drifting in the air, weighing every side. Her lightness is deceptive: she knows the price of justice, knows that true balance is not stillness but constant motion. In her eyes flickers the awareness of all sides of truth, and in this lies her strength.

  Iriré—the wind rushing over mountain peaks. She is free, unpredictable, her thoughts like lightning flashing in the night. Her voice sounds where new ideas are born, where change is inevitable. Pale blue with a silver sheen, she is a call to those unafraid to venture beyond the familiar, who seek to breathe the air of the future.

  Tsumirael—the ebb and flow, the eternal rhythm of water. Her silver-blue surface reflects moonlight, hiding depths. She knows cycles, knows that after a fall comes a rise, that in every current there is meaning. She is the voice of the past, the memory of the ocean, a feeling without words yet guiding all the same.

  Anauemiel—the boundlessness of the starry sky, the music of the spheres. In her, timeless wisdom converges, the voice of the universe. She shimmers in blue-green radiance, her patterns reflecting infinity. She does not hurry, does not seek to change—she accepts, revealing meaning within chaos. Where others seek answers, she already knows that questions matter more.

  Amarumia—the earth beneath your feet, the rock that withstands storms. Her dark green surface hides roots reaching deep, binding past to future. She is the foundation, unshakable resilience, unyielding before the whirlwind, for she knows: all passes, but essence remains.

  Korikena—the duality that unites opposites. In her, two faces, two paths, two truths merge into one. She is changeable yet never loses herself, playing with the edges of light and shadow, knowing each contains a fragment of the other. She is the dance between worlds, a voice that resonates in two places at once.

  Hanareta—the impulse, the first step, the spark that ignites flame. Her patterns reflect the rush of wind, the explosion of life, the moment something new is born. She burns from within, her cracks not a fracture but a path through which light breaks. She does not wait—she acts, guided by the intuition of primordial impulse.

  Eviteya—purity, harmony, order. Her white surface is adorned with dew, reflecting light. She does not tolerate chaos; her patterns are delicate golden threads binding the fabric of existence. She seeks truth in details, in the perfection of lines, in the lightness of touch. In her resonates the call to what is flawless in its simplicity.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Genkalla—the eternal mountain, frozen in eternity. She does not hurry, does not move at the wind’s whim—she follows her path, slowly but inexorably. Her stone mask holds the knowledge of ages, and in the cracks of her surface glimmers the gold of experience. She does not speak loudly, but in her silence lies the foundation of the world.

  Inmeya—the mystery hidden in darkness. Her smooth black surface beckons, promising the unknown. Within her lie the whispers of night, the crimson glimmers of the forbidden. She knows that beyond fear lies power, and those who pass through her will be forever changed. In her signs lie the keys to rebirth.

  Sagitsura—the last glimmer of light, fading into infinity. She is the arrow shot into the distance, the call of distant stars. Her golden pattern is a map leading beyond the horizon, to where the unknown awaits. She does not look back, does not stop—her goal is always ahead.

  Once, I saw them differently. Once, each mask bore a different face—a different flame, a different depth. The masks were a reflection of what I sought to understand: how light and darkness can be part of a single whole. They are like faces, some bearing more light, others more shadow, yet all are balanced, just as I and my spirit are.

  We are like a sphere, where light and darkness intertwine, creating perfect balance. If you try to divide us, the white becomes vulnerable, like an unprotected wound, and the black—fragile, like glass without support. I realized that we cannot exist separately. When I become darkness, my spirit carries light. When he descends into darkness, I become his light. We are not two halves, but a single whole that only appears divided. Our strength lies in unity, in the way we complement each other, like two sides of a coin, like two wings of a bird. Separate us—and we lose ourselves.

  The masks are merely a reflection of our balance. Some hold more light, others more shadow, but all are parts of a single whole, just as we are. They remind me that even in the darkest corners, there is a spark of light, and in the brightest glow—a shadow. We strive to grow stronger, and for that, we must pass through darkness to understand light, and through light to accept darkness.

  But the world I see around me lives differently. Most of it prefers shadow, choosing lies over truth, hypocrisy over sincerity, masks over faces. People hide behind words that mean nothing, behind actions that carry no goodness. They fear light because it exposes their weaknesses, and they fear darkness because it reminds them of their fears.

  The trials of my spirit are not only in shadow but also in light. For him, light is openness, honesty, kindness, which, alas, is too often perceived as weakness. But is it weakness to be sincere? Is it weakness to not fear being oneself? No. It is strength, requiring greater courage than any shadow.

  And yet... Sometimes I wish to be in the world he sees. In that "foolish tower" that caught his fancy—"Folly, built in form of look-out tower." Foolishness? Perhaps. But is it not foolishness that makes us human? That allows us to play, to be mischievous, to be coquettish, even when the world demands seriousness?

  I stand before the mirror, and my reflection laughs back at me. In it, I see not only myself but also him—a half-smile that is always nearby, even when he is not. I preen before the mirror like a young girl who knows that her beauty lies not in the perfection of her lines but in the play of emotions.

  But in this world, I have no flesh. No body to feel the warmth of the sun or the coolness of the wind. No hands to touch him, no lips to whisper something in his ear. I am but a reflection, a shadow, a play of light and shadow. And yet... Sometimes I long so deeply to feel that simplicity, that grace of form, that weight of flesh that makes us real.

  The dress I choose is not mere fabric. It flows, shimmers, embraces my figure as if woven from the rays of the setting sun and the silver light of stars. Its hem is like the surface of water on a quiet evening—rippling faintly, reflecting movement. Long sleeves fall in folds like the wings of a bird ready to take flight. In its embroidery, fine threads of gold and silver weave into barely perceptible patterns—maple leaves caught by the wind, or forgotten scripts holding secrets.

  On my wrist—a bracelet engraved with "83°." A symbol foreign to this world, a reminder of a reality where there are no towers, no silk, no whims. It is cold to the touch, yet its weight feels familiar, as if it has always been a part of me.

  I look into the mirror and see my eyes—in them, something elusive, like the glimmer of a star in the depths of a well. Their color shifts like the shadows of clouds gliding over an ancient tapestry, now appearing, now vanishing. In one, the chill of predawn; in the other, a golden echo of candlelight. They do not reveal the secret but invite you to guess it.

  The fan in my hand is not merely an accessory. It is light, airy, yet carries the grace of movement and the power of gesture. Its ivory silk surface is adorned with golden waves and floating cherry blossom petals. Bamboo ribs are painted in black gloss, and the handle is inlaid with mother-of-pearl signs, ancient calligraphy holding symbols of wisdom. On one rib is engraved "83°"—the same mark as on the bracelet. It opens smoothly, silently, like the gentle flutter of a butterfly’s wing.

  I move differently. This age is accustomed to haste, to sharp words, to gestures devoid of meaning. I, however, am a child of another time, where the tilt of a head conveyed an invitation, and the light touch of a fan—a challenge. There, in the 18th century, grace was a language, and a pause in conversation could speak louder than the most fervent speech. Here, all is different—words are wasted, gestures have forgotten their purpose, and even glances have lost their power.

  And so I stand in the reflection of myself, in my whim. I rise, not to be above—but to see further. The tower called a lookout is not merely a refuge but a place from which to observe the world without becoming part of it. Once, people sought to build a tower to reach the heavens, but their languages were confounded, and all fell apart. Babylon was audacity, but in my tower there is no striving for greatness—only the folly of choosing where to view the world.

  But sometimes, in the silence, when the mirror ceases to be mere glass and becomes a window into another world, I realize that I am utterly alone here. My gestures, my glances, my words—all are but a play, a performance in which I am both actress and audience. And then my desire becomes not just a fantasy—to see his half-smile in the reflection of glass—but a dream to see him in the flesh, on the horizon where sky meets earth.

  I raise the fan and touch it to my lips, as if sealing words yet unspoken.

  This moment is my whim. I am an actress on a stage where all that exists is cast aside, save for understanding, which requires no words. Here, I am not a goddess, not a spirit, not a shadow. Here, I am simply a girl who plays with her reflection, who allows herself to be human, mischievous, coquettish. I convey emotions through glances, gestures, expressions, through the light flutter of a fan, through a half-smile that speaks more than a thousand words.

  And in this lies my folly. My humanity. My whim.