Chapter Text
Hunter sat at the edge of his bed, fingers trembling as they fidgeted with the fraying hem of his oversized sweatshirt. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the enchanted mirror hanging across from him. It cast a soft, golden glow over the cluttered desk and piles of books haphazardly stacked in one corner. He hated looking at it—the mirror, which reflected someone he didn't recognize. He stared at the warped glass, the outline of his shoulders slouched beneath the fabric of his hoodie, and how his hair fell awkwardly over his forehead like a mop someone forgot to put away.
His breathing was shallow.
The mirror wasn't enchanted to lie or to mock, but it felt cruel all the same. Hunter turned his gaze to the ground, his jaw tightening. He rubbed the faint scar on his cheek with the edge of his thumb—a habit he'd picked up whenever the anxiety became too much. It always did, eventually. The scar was one of the few things that felt like it belonged to him, like a brand marking him as him. Everything else—the soft curves of his face, the too-small hands that failed to match the callouses earned by wielding weapons and casting spells—felt wrong, like someone else's costume he'd been forced to wear.
The door creaked open, and Hunter nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Relax," Darius said, his voice a low hum as he stepped into the room. He held a stack of clean laundry in one arm, which he dropped onto the bed. "You didn't come downstairs for dinner. Again."
"I wasn't hungry," Hunter mumbled, folding his arms across his chest.
Darius raised a skeptical brow. He glanced at the untouched plate on the desk, remnants of last night's meal still visible. "That line's starting to lose its credibility, little prince." His tone was soft but pointed. He moved to the chair by the desk and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. "Want to tell me what's happening, or will we keep playing this game?"
Hunter clenched his jaw, a familiar ache forming behind his eyes. Darius always knew how to find the cracks in his armor.
"It's nothing," Hunter said, shrugging. "I've just been... tired."
"Tired?" Darius repeated, leaning back in the chair. "Right. Tired. Not 'staring at the mirror like it's cursed' tired. Not 'avoiding meals and conversations' tired. Definitely not. 'You haven't smiled in weeks. You're tired."
Hunter's gaze dropped to the floor, his fists curling in his lap. "I don't want to talk about it."
Darius sighed. "Hunter—"
"Please," Hunter cut him off, his voice trembling now. "I don't want to talk about it."
Darius studied him for a long moment. Then, to Hunter's surprise, he nodded and stood. He didn't press further or offer one of his usual lectures about health or self-respect. Instead, he moved to the door and paused.
"When you're ready," Darius said softly, "I'll be here." He hesitated, then added, "You don't have to go through this alone."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Hunter alone with the golden glow of the mirror and the weight of his own thoughts. He exhaled shakily, his breath fogging the glass as he glanced at his reflection again. The mirror showed someone small and unsure—a ghost of a boy trapped in the wrong body.
Not a boy. Still waiting.
When did it all start? Hunter asked himself, his thoughts spiraling as they often did late at night when the world was silent. Had it been the first time he saw himself in Belos's uniform, the ceremonial robes too stiff and constricting to feel like they belonged to him? Or had it been earlier when the other scouts had whispered about his voice being too soft, his shoulders too narrow? Maybe it had been the countless times Belos had called him his "nephew" in that cold, condescending tone, each word twisting like a dagger in his chest.
But it wasn't just about Belos, was it? It wasn't about the coven, the scars, or even the memories that haunted his dreams. It was about him. About how his skin felt foreign when he touched it, how his name—his old name—made his stomach churn.
He pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them tightly.
You're not brave enough, the voice in his head whispered. It sounded like Belos, but it wasn't—it was his own doubt, festering and gnawing at the edges of his resolve. You'll never be brave enough. You can't even look at yourself without flinching.
Hunter squeezed his eyes shut, his breaths coming quicker now. He felt the familiar panic rising, the suffocating weight of it pressing against his ribs. He needed air. He needed to move.
He shoved the mirror off the wall.
Shattering glass echoed through the room, shards scattering across the floor like tiny stars. Hunter stared at the broken fragments, his chest heaving. For a moment, there was silence. Then, as if the dam had finally broken, tears began streaming down his face.
He sank to the floor, his hands trembling as he pulled a piece of glass closer. The reflection was fractured now, distorted, but it was still him. Still that same ghost.
"Why can't I just—" He choked on the words, burying his face in his hands. "Why can't I just be me?"
The room was still. The air was thick with the weight of his confession, spoken aloud for the first time.
It took Hunter an hour to clean up the mess. By the time he was done, his hands were sore, and the tears had stopped. He sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the empty space where the mirror had once hung. The room felt different now—lighter, somehow, as though breaking the mirror had lifted some invisible weight.
Hunter reached for his scroll. His fingers hovered over the screen, hesitating before he opened the messaging app. He scrolled through his contacts, his heart pounding as he stopped on a familiar name.
Willow.
Ever since their paths first crossed playing flyer derby at hexside, she had always been there for him. Willow was patient, kind, and unrelenting in believing he deserved happiness. He wasn't sure what he'd done to earn her friendship, but he clung to it like a lifeline.
Can we talk?
The message was simple, but it felt monumental. He hit send before he could second-guess himself.
The reply came almost instantly.
Of course! Are you okay?
Hunter's throat tightened. He typed back before he could lose his nerve.
Not really. Can I come over?
The walk to Willow's house was short, but it felt like it stretched on forever. The sky was dark, the stars shimmering faintly above as Hunter made his way through the quiet streets. His hands were stuffed in his hoodie pockets, his mind racing with what he would say.
His stomach was in knots when he reached Willow's door. He raised a trembling hand to knock, but the door swung open.
"There you are!" Willow exclaimed, pulling him into a tight hug. She was warm, her embrace grounding him in a way that made his chest ache. "Come in. You look like you're freezing."
Hunter followed her inside, his shoulders tense. Willow led him to the living room, where a fire crackled softly in the hearth. She sat cross-legged on the couch, patting the spot beside her.
"What's going on?" she asked gently.
Hunter sat down, his hands twisting together in his lap. For a moment, he couldn't speak. The words were there, lodged in his throat, but they refused to come out.
Willow waited patiently.
"I…" Hunter started his voice barely above a whisper. He took a deep breath, his hands gripping the fabric of his hoodie. "I've been thinking about something. For a while now."
Willow tilted her head, her eyes soft and encouraging.
"It's... it's hard to explain," Hunter said, his gaze fixed on the floor. "But I feel like I've been pretending to be someone I'm not. For a long time."
He looked up, his heart pounding as he met her gaze. "I don't think I'm... I don't think I'm who everyone thinks I am. I think I'm... I am a boy. I want to be Hunter, just… Hunter."
Willow's expression didn't change—not in the way he feared it would. She didn't look shocked, confused, or upset. She looked... proud.
"Hunter," she said softly, reaching to place a hand on his. "You are a boy. And if you ever need someone to remind you of that, I'm here."
His breath hitched, and the weight on his chest began to lift for the first time in what felt like forever. He smiled—a small, fragile smile, but a real one.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Willow squeezed his hand. "Anytime."