A peddler teaches a vain prince that mirrors don’t flatter—they reflect what you bring to them.
**Hook:** The prince loved mirrors the way clouds love lakes: to admire themselves twice. He summoned a peddler reputed to carry “kind glass.”
**Rise:** The peddler unpacked mirrors of copper and river-polished glass. The prince frowned; the reflections were honest—eyes a little tired, jaw set to impress itself. “These are broken,” he said. “They don’t show my majesty.” The peddler bowed. “They show your morning.” He swapped mirrors while the prince changed moods: after a joke, after a good deed, after a sulk. Each reflection adjusted, not the glass but the man.
Finally, the peddler produced a small, scratched piece. “This one is rare,” he whispered. “It shows what others see.” The prince looked—and found a boy trying too hard. He laughed, then winced, then laughed again. “How much?” “Free,” said the peddler, “but expensive to keep.”
**Finish:** The prince hung the small mirror by his door. He checked it before counsel, before feasts, before anger. Courtiers noticed decisions had fewer selfies and more listening. The peddler left the city lighter by one mirror and heavier by a story that sells itself. **Moral:** Improve the face, and all mirrors improve.
