The creature moved strangely, its limbs bending too fluidly, its gait too smooth— like a puppet without strings, gliding forward as if the ground itself pulled it along. It didn’t stumble. It didn’t hesitate. It simply closed the distance between them, silent and inevitable.

  And it wasn’t alone.

  From the darkened alleys, from the crooked doorways of Moorpond, others began to stir.

  Shadows unfolded from buildings, peeling away from the walls like something unsticking itself from reality. What had seemed like empty ruins moments ago were no longer vacant— figures pulled themselves free from the husks of old lives, their bodies twisting, limbs jerking as if remembering how to move.

  Brandon’s breath hitched. “Mother of God...”

  “Nope!” Melissa said sharply, drawing her daggers in one swift motion. “Nope, nope, nope!”

  The first creature lurched forward, but Julia was faster. Her knives flashed, slicing cleanly across its chest— or at least, where its chest should have been. The blade passed through, tearing aged fabric, but nothing else. There was no give, no resistance, like the thing was made of half-solid mist— something worse shifting beneath its surface.

  The creature didn’t even slow down.

  “Not again!” Julia snapped.

  “Apparently so!” Brandon yelled.

  Another lunged from the left, its fingers too long, too many joints. Melissa struck hard, her blade aimed for the throat— but the moment the steel connected, its flesh warped, bending around the wound like water shifting around a stone.

  “What the fuck?” Melissa snarled, jerking back before it could grab her.

  Brandon swung his sword at the nearest creature’s arm, the movement sharp, precise—

  But when the blade met flesh, it was like cutting through damp air. The wound never fully formed, the edges of its body twisting, closing before the steel could bite.

  “Nothing’s working!” Brandon shouted. “What do we do?”

  “We burn them again, you idiot,” Brenna snapped. Without hesitation, she lifted a hand and snapped her fingers. A pulse of blue-white fire erupted from her palm, streaking through the darkness and striking the nearest creature square in the chest.

  The reaction was instant. It let out a sound— not just a scream, but something deeper. Something wrong, like a collapsing building, like a chorus of voices layered together and peeling apart all at once. Its body convulsed violently as the flames ripped across its form—

  And then, the magic solidified it. Its edges snapped into focus, no longer a shifting blur but something real enough to burn.

  And burn it did.

  The fire consumed it, curling its shape inward like a dying ember, twisting in on itself until there was nothing left but a blackened, smoking mark on the cobblestones.

  Brenna exhaled slowly, a satisfied grin tugging at her lips. “Well. That’s promising.”

  “Oh, great,” Melissa snapped, eyes flicking toward the many creatures still approaching. “So the only thing that works is magic, which only two of us have? Fantastic! No flaws in this plan at all!”

  Brenna smirked, stepping forward. The flames curled at her fingertips. “Better stick close, then.”

  More creatures emerged from the ruins, their movements growing sharper, their blurring, shifting forms struggling to take solid shape.

  The city had noticed them now.

  And it wasn’t letting them leave.

  The creatures didn’t pursue, however. Not immediately.

  The fire still flickered in the blackened ruins of what had once been one of them, its charred remains little more than smoldering embers. The echoes of its death scream still hung in the air. The remaining figures hovered just beyond the firelight, their warped bodies shifting, their heads tilting too sharply, too unnaturally, as though reassessing their prey.

  They were thinking. Watching. Then— one of them spoke.

  “Now, now,” a smooth, lilting voice broke through the silence, each syllable deliberate, amused. “That was unnecessary.”

  A figure stepped forward from the shadows. Almost human. But not quite enough.

  He was tall, his frame stretched just past the point of normal. His limbs were too long, his fingers tapering into something just shy of elegant. His face was gaunt, hollowed out by time and something else, his skin an unnatural shade of gray— not like a corpse, not quite, but half-translucent. Like wax left too long in the sun. His clothes had been fine once, their cuts unmistakably noble, though time had left them threadbare, fraying at the cuffs and seams. The deep blues and silvers of Milani fashion had long since faded, dulled by the weight of years.

  But his eyes—

  His eyes were wrong.

  Not just in color— something pale and unfixed, shifting like reflections on dark water— but in the way they didn’t quite settle on one place. As if he were seeing too much all at once.

  Beside him, a second figure emerged— shorted, broader in the shoulders. His movements were stiff, disjointed, as though his bones had set in the wrong positions. His posture was more rigid, his face less refined, his expression severe where the other’s was entertained.

  Melissa’s grip on her daggers tightened.

  Then the taller one smiled. “You killed one of our citizens,” he said, his tone chiding. Like a schoolmaster correcting a misbehaving student. “That was rather rude of you.”

  Melissa let out a sharp breath. “Oh, fuck off. We were defending ourselves.”

  The taller one chuckled, a soft, eerie sound, as though he found her response adorable. “Defending yourselves?” he echoed, tilting his head. “From whom? This is our city. You are the intruders.”

  Julia stepped forward carefully, her stance defensive but her voice even. “Who are you?”

  The smile widened, just a little too much. “I am Duke Hiram Ettaria,” he said, inclining his head in a gesture that almost passed for civility. “And this is my dear brother, Turel.”

  The shorter one— Turel— huffed, his mouth a thin, grim line. His voice, when he spoke, was thicker and more solid than Hiram’s, but still carried that unnerving wrongness. “You should not be here,” he said simply. “Moorpond is not for outsiders.”

  Brenna exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. “Moorpond is dead,” she said flatly. “Has been for twenty-three years.”

  Hiram tilted his head again, studying her with something like amusement. “Oh, my dear. Misguided.” He gestured at the city around them, at the hollow, ruined thing that had once been Moorpond. “Our city still stands. We protect it from the Curse.”

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  Melissa scoffed. “You’re part of the Curse.”

  For the first time, the smile on Hiram’s face didn’t quite reach his eyes. His expression didn’t change, not fully, but something beneath the surface hardened. “That,” he murmured, voice still smooth but now carrying a faint edge. “is a matter of perspective.”

  Julia felt it first— the shift. The Ettaria brothers weren’t hostile, not yet. But their presence, their words, their eerie calmness— none of it felt right. These were not lingering spirits. Not cursed mortals. Not living things. They were something in between, something caught inside the Mirrorwood’s grip.

  If she had to put money on it, Julia would have bet that these things— these creatures— simply wore the Ettaria brothers’ faces.

  Turel’s gaze was steady, unreadable, but his voice was not a threat. Not exactly. “You should leave,” he said, “Before our patience wears thin.”

  Annemarie stepped forward before anyone could stop her. “We need to cross through Moorpond.”

  For the first time, Hiram’s strange, flickering eyes fully settled on her. His lips parted slightly, his nostrils flaring as though he was scenting the air. Then, he smiled again. “Ah,” he breathed. “I see. You are one of them.”

  Brandon was in front of her instantly, sword drawn, his stance shifting into something dangerous. “One of who?”

  Hiram let out a soft hum, tilting his head at an unnatural angle, his pale eyes still locked on Annemarie. “The ones the Curse despises.”

  The words sent a sharp chill down Annemarie’s spine.

  Turel made a low, rasping sound— not quite a growl, but something close, something unhappy. “She should not exist.”

  And that was when everything turned.

  Hiram lifted his hand and the shadows of the ruined city shifted. Not around them, but toward them.

  The darkness crawled over the cobblestones like ink bleeding through fabric, stretching from the alleys, pouring from the hollowed-out ruins, reaching for them with fingers that had no form, no weight— not yet.

  Melissa moved first, grabbing Annemarie’s arm and pulling her back. “Yeah, nope. Can’t say this was fun, but I’m out.”

  Turel lunged forward, his motion too fast for something so stiff and wrong. His body twisted as though his bones had learned to move in ways they shouldn’t. Brandon barely got his blade up in time, only for it to sink into flesh that was not flesh— passing through like water.

  Hiram lifted his other hand, and the entire street came alive.

  Darkness spilled forth, warping the shadows of the ruined city. The hollow streets of Moorpond breathed, stretching open as if the entire town had become a single mouth waiting to swallow them whole.

  “Run!” Julia shouted.

  The Ettaria brothers did not move like people. They moved like echoes— something that had been forced into the shape of men, but never taught how to be human.

  Brenna snapped her fingers, sending a burst of blue-white flame toward Hiram— only for it to pass right through him.

  Hiram barely blinked. “That won’t work on me,” he said, almost kindly. As though she were a child who had simply misunderstood the rules of a game. “But it was a good try.”

  Melissa snarled, already moving, already drawing another dagger and flinging it in a sharp motion straight for Turel’s face. But before it could land, Turel snatched it out of the air, fingers closing over the blade without so much as a flinch. Melissa’s eye twitched. “Come on.” she threw her hands in the air. “That’s just unfair.”

  “Stop talking and move,” Julia barked, grabbing her and dragging her back toward the nearest alley.

  Annemarie’s head pounded, the bond pulling at her harder than ever— forward, forward, forward, past this city, past these creatures, past everything that stood in her way. But she forced herself to move.

  They ran.

  Through the twisting alleys, leaping over collapsed rubble, skidding around broken carts and through shattered doorways. Never stopping long enough for the brothers to reach them completely.

  But behind them, Moorpond was shifting. The streets warped, stretching long where they had once been short, twisting into dead ends where open roads should have been. Buildings leaned inward, their dark windows yawning wide. Hollow and waiting, like the city itself was trying to keep them inside. It was like running through a nightmare.

  “This isn’t a place,” Brandon shouted, breath ragged. “It’s a fucking trap!”

  There was only one way out— the old western gate, where the road continued toward Byfox. They raced toward it, boots pounding against the ground, their own gasps loud in the dead air.

  And behind them, Hiram Ettaria laughed.

  It wasn’t a mocking laugh, nor a threatening one. It was pleasant. Delighted. Amused. Like this was entertainment. Like they were expected to run.

  And just as they reached the edge of the city, the shadows lurched. A hand— long-fingered, wrong— nearly closed around Annemarie’s throat.

  But Brenna shoved her forward at the last second, spinning as she threw a burst of raw magic behind them— a pulse of bright, searing force that struck something in the dark, sending it reeling back with a sound that scraped against her bones. “GO!”

  They cleared the gate.

  The instant they passed through, the ground was solid beneath them again, the air changing— thin, but real. They stopped only once they were sure they were free, chests heaving, muscles burning.

  And when they turned back, Moorpond was still. The streets were empty. The ruins were untouched.

  As though it had never moved at all.

  They didn’t stop running until the ruins of Moorpond had melted into the cursed horizon, an unmoving shadow against the unnatural sky. Only when they reached what had once been a bridge— its center long collapsed into the river below, jagged remnants jutting out like broken teeth— did they allow themselves to breathe.

  Brandon bent over, hands on his knees, struggling for air. His breaths came ragged, uneven, shoulders rising and falling under the weight of exhaustion.

  Melissa braced herself against a rock, her free hand still locked around the hilt of her dagger, knuckles white. Between breaths, she muttered a steady stream of curses, her voice edged with frustration, anger, and something dangerously close to fear.

  Julia stood apart, silent. Her grip on her knife was too tight, fingers curled around it like a lifeline, like she wasn’t convinced the immediate danger had passed.

  And Annemarie— she stood at the very edge of the broken bridge, staring westward. Thinking. Calculating. But the unease in her gut refused to settle.

  The pull toward Callista was still there— constant, insistent— but it was not the only force acting on her anymore. The Mirrorwood itself had reacted to her. Not just by calling, but by pushing back.

  And that was new.

  Before, she had assumed the Curse wanted her. That whatever force had twisted this land had been waiting, patient, letting her walk willingly into its grasp. But that wasn’t what she had felt in Moorpond.

  The pull toward Callista was sharp and direct, focused, like a tether pulling her forward. But the Mirrorwood? That was different. That was different. That was hostile. The pressure, the weight in the air, the way her body had slowed— she recognized it now.

  The Mirrorwood was not trying to claim her. It was trying to reject her.

  That should have been a relief. It wasn’t.

  Because rejection wasn’t the same as safety. It meant there was something wrong about her presence— something that made the Mirrorwood react. Something that tipped the scales off-balance.

  And it meant the two forces acting on her— the bond pulling her toward Callista, and the Mirrorwood itself— were not the same thing.

  She had assumed, wrongly, that Callista had been taken by the Curse. That following her path meant following the will of the Mirrorwood. But what if that wasn’t true? What if Callista had gone in willingly, and the Mirrorwood had tried to keep her out too?

  What if she was fighting it?

  Her jaw tightened.

  Behind her, Brenna wasn’t looking at the ruins. She was looking at her hands— or, more specifically, at the bracelet wrapped around her wrist.

  The enchantments Merris had given them. The only thing keeping them separate from the Curse’s grip.

  The silver had darkened. Fine cracks splintered across its surface, thin but spreading, barely visible in the dimming light. The runes etched into the metal— once sharp and precise— had blurred at the edges, as if something inside was wearing them down.

  Brenna lifted her head, scanning the others, and found, to her dismay, it wasn’t just hers.

  Melissa’s warding bracelet had begun to fray, its woven threads unraveling strand by strand. Julia’s leather talisman had stiffened, its once-bold markings faded to near illegibility. Even Annemarie had a crack running straight through the center of her amulet. Just one— but deep.

  Brenna exhaled. “That’s not good.”

  Melissa, still catching her breath, rubbed absently at her wrist. “What’s not good?

  Brenna turned her own wrist, summoning a weak flame and letting the firelight catch on the fractures. “Our protection is failing.

  The words settled over the group like a stone.

  Brandon straightened, his expression tightening. “Failing?” His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. “What do you mean failing?”

  Brenna flexed her fingers, as if trying to shake off the weight of the realization. “I mean we’ve been too close for too long,” she muttered. “And the Mirrorwood doesn’t like intruders.”

  Julia frowned, brows furrowing. “Merris said these would protect us.”

  “Merris said they would help,” Brenna corrected, voice dry. “Not that they would last forever.”

  Melissa let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through her hair. “Great. So what happens when they stop working entirely?”

  Brenna didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze flicked back towards Moorpond— then at Annemarie, still standing at the edge of the broken bridge.

  She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Then we find out exactly how fast the Mirrorwood can kill us.”