King Whisker did not appreciate flickers.
He especially did not appreciate flickers that originated near his throne.

The throne room was silent, as always.
That was how he liked it—how he had designed it. Every paw-pressed tile, every mirrored wall was calculated to reflect only what he allowed. No dust. No secrets. No surprises.

But today, there was one.

A tiny, almost imperceptible disturbance in the light. Not a movement exactly. More like… the absence of one.

He shifted. Looked down.

No shadow.

He extended a paw.
Still no shadow.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, flicking a claw toward the mirrored floor. “Mirrors don’t malfunction.”

And yet.

He rose and walked a slow, deliberate circle around his throne. The mirrors reflected back his every movement—flawless posture, gleaming crown, fur as immaculate as ever.

But the shadow didn’t return.

He touched the throne’s base with the tip of one claw. For a moment, it hummed under his paw—low and almost sorrowful.

Whisker recoiled.

He glanced toward the far wall, where no one ever looked. Where no one was ever supposed to look. Where, long ago, something had been sealed.

The mirrors rippled. Just once.

And in that moment, beneath the surface, he saw himself as he had been once—small, scruffy, and unguarded.

Just a kitten.

Then it was gone.

He sat back down. Straightened his spine. Tucked his tail. Perfectly posed, as always.

But even then…
the shadow did not return.