Chapter 1
In an age when the stars wove destinies and whispered truths to those willing to listen, a tale was born—woven from light and shadow, from betrayal and longing. It was the story of a silver-haired witch touched by celestial sorrow, a scarred prince haunted by flame, and a radiant princess whose light was extinguished too soon. This was no ordinary legend, for its roots lay tangled in the forest, where the air whispered secrets older than the gods.
The witch came to the royal palace not as a beggar, but as a gift of the heavens. His hair gleamed like spun silver, his eyes shimmering with an unspoken power. The princess, warm and radiant as the dawn, welcomed him into her life with open arms, calling him the brother she never had. The prince, burdened by the weight of an empire, found in the boy an enigmatic kindred spirit—a spark of something otherworldly. Together, they were inseparable, their bond steadfast against the cold, duty-bound walls of the palace.
But the hands of fate are merciless. On the eve of the witch’s tenth year—a moment whispered in prophecy to awaken dormant power—the palace was consumed by fire. The flames were alive, twisting and writhing like serpents, their roar echoing with ancient fury. Shadows danced within the blaze, monstrous and shapeless, as though something far more sinister lurked behind the inferno. When the flames subsided, the king and queen discovered their daughter, lifeless and pale as ash. The prince emerged scarred, his left eye bearing the mark of fire, his soul hollow. And at the heart of the devastation stood the witch, trembling, his small hands glowing with unearthly light.
The court erupted. Accusations rained down: traitor, sorcerer, demon. The witch begged, his voice cracking with desperation, but no plea could pierce the cacophony of grief and rage. Even the prince, his heart a fortress of pain, turned his back, uttering words that would sever their bond forever: “You are no longer one of us.”
Exiled and broken, the witch fled to the enchanted forest—a place feared by all, where shadows breathed, and the air thrummed with ancient power. The forest was alive, a realm where the threads of time and reality frayed. In its depths, serpent-like hydras coiled in inky rivers, their many heads weaving through the water like whispers of smoke. Shadow wyverns glided silently beneath the twilight canopy, their obsidian scales glinting faintly. Ethereal spirits drifted like mist between the trees, their golden eyes watching, waiting.
Yet even this untamed place bent to the witch’s sorrow. Wisteria cascaded from towering trees like rivers of starlight, their violet blooms glowing faintly. Ghostly roses, pale and fragile, bloomed where his tears soaked the earth, their petals trembling as if caught in an unseen wind. Nightshade bore black, glistening fruits that pulsed like drops of darkness itself, exuding poison and despair. The forest became a labyrinth where no mortal dared tread. Those who ventured within spoke of paths that led only deeper, of shifting shadows just out of reach, and of an air thick with the cloying scent of decay, blood, and a sweetness that lingered too long.
The king, consumed by grief and rage, ordered the forest burned to ash. Yet the fire faltered, swallowed by the shadows, leaving the forest untouched and thriving. Over the years, stories grew of a sanctuary hidden in its depths—a place of haunting beauty and unimaginable sorrow, where the witch was said to dwell, protected by creatures born of nightmares.
Years later, under the cover of a moonless sky, the crown prince vanished. Whispers swept through the kingdom. Some claimed he sought vengeance, others redemption. But those who knew the weight of guilt understood: he sought something deeper, something lost to the forest’s embrace.
What if the fire that consumed the palace had not been the witch’s doing but the machination of mortal greed? What if his exile was not born of justice, but fear of his unyielding power? And what if the prince, his heart scarred by grief and regret, sought not to punish but to mend the bond he had sundered with his own hand?
And the witch? They say he lingers still, in the forest’s shadowed heart, where wisteria murmurs his name and ghostly roses bow in silent tribute. The hydras guard the rivers, their coils restless. Shadow wyverns glide overhead, their molten eyes glowing in the twilight. Spirits weave between the trees, their voices soft, almost melodic, carrying a warning too ancient to translate. In the center of it all, the witch waits, his silver eyes veiled with knowing, his smile both triumphant and tragic.
Would you walk the path cloaked in wisteria and moonlight, where shadows move as though alive and the forest itself seems to hold its breath? Would you face the witch, to unravel a tale woven from betrayal, love, and sorrow? Or would you turn away, leaving the legend untouched, its secrets forever held in the forest’s unyielding embrace?
The gods still watch, silent and distant. The forest remembers. And the choice is yours.
"Meow!" chirped Shiro, a fluffy, bell-bedecked agent of chaos, her tiny bells a chaotic jingle-jangle of "I'm here, and I'm judging you." Today’s ensemble? A symphony in snowy white, a delicate aura of "I'm too fabulous for this mortal plane," and enough jingle to set off a dragon's metal detector. "Meow meow!"
"Shiro," her master sighed, pivoting with the dramatic flair of a budget-friendly magician revealing a slightly singed rabbit-shaped sock puppet and a palpable sense of "Why me?", his silver hair shimmering like he'd bathed in starlight and a fine mist of existential dread. His voice, a delicate balance of "I tolerate you" and "Please, for the love of all that sparkles, don't make me use my 'indoor voice' in public," dripped with weary elegance and a hint of suppressed screaming. "We're late. Ascalon. They're the only place that doesn't try to sell 'enchanted air' as a cure for crippling loneliness."
"Meow?!" Shiro's tail went full-on interpretive dance of betrayal, the sound of her bells a tiny, glittering riot squad armed with sass. A magical, gender-fluid cat with a flair for the theatrically tragic, she’d been feeling her absolute best all morning, only to be dragged down by that name. "Meow meow meow!!!"
"Don't give me the 'tiny bell-powered opera of despair' routine, you walking glitter bomb," her master groaned, running a hand through his hair, which was longer than a bard's epic poem about misplaced socks and smoother than a politician's promise during an election year. It was silver, untouchable, and strictly off-limits—Shiro had once attempted to use it as a luxury cat hammock and received a swift, elegant lecture on "personal space" delivered in ancient elvish. That hair was his crown, his billboard, and a locked chest labeled "Ancient Grudges: Do Not Open, May Contain Explosive Regret, Mildly Irritated Spirits, and a Surprisingly Large Collection of Lost Hairpins." "Wyrms are peckish, customers are impatient, and I'm down to my last enchanted tea cozy. Ascalon. Today. No detours. And absolutely not to Peke J's owners' 'boutique of questionable taste and spontaneously combusting decorative gourds.'"
Shiro sulked, her bells tinkling a sad, tiny ballad of feline disappointment as she followed him, dragging her tail like a furry, bell-laden anchor. She’d have staged a full-blown cat-astrophe, complete with interpretive dance and dramatic hissing, but she knew the score. Her master, who looked like a delicate porcelain doll someone had accidentally supercharged with espresso and a deep-seated suspicion of joy, could move like a caffeinated ferret on roller skates powered by pure, unadulterated spite. She’d learned that the hard way when she'd tried to "assist" in a pub brawl and ended up eating his dust and a face full of sparkling, vaguely ozone-scented "personal space" magic.
He was a walking paradox, a riddle wrapped in silk and sarcasm, tied with a bow of existential dread. He looked like a stiff breeze could fold him into a paper crane, yet wielded presence (and scathing wit) like a sentient laser pointer with a personal vendetta against small talk. The gold foxfire bracelets, perpetually sliding down his wrists, made her wonder if he was made of spun sugar, suppressed rage, and a faint, lingering smell of lavender. But then, there were the heels. Towering, gravity-defying heels, hidden beneath the flowing, chiton-like white robe he wore. That robe, tied at the waist, moved like liquid moonlight, its simplicity masking the sheer, glittery mayhem of his cloak—white fabric covered in glowing black hieroglyphics, like someone had spilled a galaxy, a thesaurus of ancient curses, and a jar of glitter on a chalkboard while reciting bad poetry.
And those hieroglyphics weren’t just fancy doodles; they were spells, security detail, and secrets whispered in a language older than internet memes. Shiro often caught the faint, unsettling glow of their magic when she was definitely not eavesdropping, just… "observing." It gave her delightful shivers, like a good hairball—a perfect blend of discomfort and satisfaction.
Still, Ascalon made her fur stand on end like she'd been petting a static-charged cloud of pure, unadulterated "nope." It wasn’t the city itself (though it was a magical dumpster fire, overflowing with hypocritical magicphobia. They used magic like it was a free trial of a streaming service, then acted like it was a contagious case of the Mondays). She knew her master had some ancient, royal-sized grudge match there, which was how he’d inherited his current address: The Forest of 'Please Don't Eat Me' Outcasts, bordering the Gulf of 'Here Be Monsters (And Terrible Parking, Seriously, Don't Even Try).’ Whatever the case, Shiro was glad she was along for the ride. The city was crawling with beggars trying to scam spells and enchanted lint out of her boss. As if he had time to waste on such… pedestrian inconveniences.
As they approached the city gates, Shiro’s bells jangled a nervous conga line, a tiny percussion section of impending doom. The air itself seemed to thicken, heavy with the scent of stale magic and thinly veiled disdain. Ascalon, in all its gaudy, over-enchanted glory, loomed like a gilded migraine waiting to happen, with extra glitter.
"Remember," her master said, his voice a silken whisper that could slice steel and critique your fashion choices, "No mauling the nobles. No 'accidentally' activating any ancient curses. And absolutely no trying to sell your shed fur as 'mystical artifacts.' We’re here for supplies, not a diplomatic incident, or a flea market run by a pack of feral pixies."
"Meow," Shiro replied, a picture of wounded innocence, though a tiny, rebellious twitch in her tail betrayed her true intentions. She was a cat of refined tastes, and Ascalon’s clientele was…lacking. She’d seen more style in a goblin’s sock drawer after a particularly messy mud wrestling tournament.
The city streets were a chaotic tapestry of ostentatious displays and thinly veiled desperation. Nobles, draped in fabrics that shimmered with more enchantments than common sense, strutted with an air of superiority that could curdle milk and inspire a spontaneous eye-roll competition. Beggars, their hands outstretched and their eyes hollow, whispered pleas for scraps of magic. And in the midst of it all, merchants hawked their wares, their voices a cacophony of promises and thinly veiled lies.
Her master, however, moved through the throng like a ghost, his presence a ripple in the fabric of reality, like a particularly elegant eye-roll disrupting a convention of overly enthusiastic garden gnomes. He ignored the outstretched hands, the blatant stares, and the whispered insults, his focus laser-sharp, like a cat calculating the precise moment to deploy maximum sass. Shiro, trailing behind him like a tiny, bell-bedecked security detail with a serious attitude problem and a penchant for dramatic hissing, ensured anyone who dared to get too close experienced a brief, but intense, existential crisis. Once, she swore she saw a girl trying to use those pathetic fake magefire glasses. As if! Everyone knows real magefire glasses burn constantly and only grant true sight after a heart sacrifice and blood dripping in moonlight, preferably on a Thursday, because Wednesdays are for complaining about Mondays. Those Ascalonians were fools, to the point of…well, they were Ascalonians.
Just then, her boss veered sharply into a quiet, cool corner of the market, a pocket of sanity in a swirling vortex of enchanted chaos and questionable fashion choices. A breeze rustled through baskets of soulsilk, snake thread, and fish scale jewelry, creating a sound like a tiny, magical wind chime orchestra attempting a cover of a dial-up modem connecting to the internet. Her boss pressed a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Ah. A kid. Again. How predictably annoying, like finding a rogue enchanted toenail clipping in your soup.
Occasionally, some tragically misguided children would hear of her boss’s notorious magical prowess and decide they were worthy of a freebie. Except her boss could wring gold from a dragon’s hoard and charm from a politician’s soul, both notoriously difficult feats, like trying to explain quantum physics to a hamster. Shiro remembered a boy who wanted a picture destroyed, permanently. Apparently, he’d murdered the person in it, and they were now a ghostly slideshow of his demise, complete with dramatic reenactments and a surprisingly catchy commercial jingle. Her boss did it, at a price: the boy could never be seen or recognized again, or the picture would be broadcast to everyone on the continent, with live commentary and a laugh track provided by a panel of particularly snarky, caffeine-addicted gargoyles. A week later, a wyvern found his corpse at the gulf’s edge, a cliff jump victim, and a cautionary tale about the dangers of bad life choices and even worse karaoke performances.
Right then, two girls materialized at the edge of the nook, like they’d been summoned by a particularly dramatic gust of wind and a shared sense of misplaced hope. One clutched a book, its pages dog-eared and stained with what Shiro sincerely hoped was just spilled enchanted grape juice, and the other held a pair of old glasses, cracked beyond recognition, like they’d been used as a stress ball by a particularly anxious gnome. Shiro tsked, a sound that conveyed volumes of feline disdain and a subtle hint of "you're embarrassing yourselves." Her boss elbowed her gently, a silent command to “stop being a furry judge, jury, and fashion critic.”
“Do you think she’d come?” The girl with the book hissed, her pink eyes wide and her pink hair tied up in pigtails that looked like they’d been styled by a particularly enthusiastic flock of enchanted hummingbirds on a sugar rush. “They said the Lady of the Whispering Woods only comes when the moon is full and our offerings are plenty. They say she’ll give you what you wanted, at a price. A price no one knows! I mean, yes, mystery, but why so much mystery, Mana?!”
“Because it’s a legend, Luna!” The other girl with blond hair snapped, her voice a strained whisper, like she was trying to keep a choir of particularly agitated crickets in her throat. They were clearly sisters, and clearly on the verge of a sibling throwdown that would make a dragon’s hoard reconsider its life choices. “I doubt big bro or Taiju sir’s going to be happy that we snuck out their best goods and even big bro’s best soulsilk to fix his stupid glasses! I mean, it already sounds too good to be true, like a coupon for ‘free happiness’ that comes with a terms and conditions scroll longer than a dragon’s nap!” Shiro nodded in agreement, a silent endorsement of basic survival instincts and a healthy dose of “if it sounds too good to be true, it probably involves a sacrifice of your firstborn.”
Time ticked by slowly, like a snail trying to win a staring contest with a particularly stubborn geological formation. At last, Mana withdrew something on a chain, a delicate necklace that shimmered with a faint, warm glow, like a tiny, captured sunset that had just completed a mindfulness retreat. Her voice trembled as she spoke, her eyes filled with a desperate hope that could melt a dragon’s heart and possibly cause mild, localized emotional flooding. “This was Mom’s necklace. Big bro gave it to me when she left. He said it’d give us luck. If this doesn’t help…I don’t know what will.”
Shiro’s and her boss’s eyes lit up, like they’d just spotted a particularly rare and valuable gem, or a particularly well-organized pile of gourmet catnip. That was a magical item, a rare one, a genuine artifact of emotional resonance, a tangible piece of “feels” wrapped in a shimmering, hopeful bow.
Occasionally, if an item was treasured enough, its owner’s emotions would immerse into the item to the point where it would bring good luck and fond memories, like a wearable hug from a ghost. This kind of genuine, heartfelt magic didn't come by often, and her boss often needed it for his mirrors and spells, which were usually powered by sarcasm, the tears of disappointed patrons, and a faint, lingering smell of existential dread. This necklace, however, was pure, unadulterated emotional resonance, radiating enough power to make a dragon’s hoard weep with envy and possibly inspire a spontaneous, city-wide singalong of sad ballads. It was a tangible piece of love, loss, and desperate hope, and it hummed with a quiet, powerful energy that even Shiro, a seasoned magic snob with a refined palate for the arcane and a crippling addiction to judging everyone, found herself inexplicably moved by.
Her boss pulled his cloak tighter, the eyes woven into the fabric now wide open and watching, the hieroglyphics coming alive with a burst of vibrant violet, like a magical light show designed to impress. Shiro purred, stretching herself, her bells tinkling a dramatic flourish. Her boss glared at her, and motioned for her to keep quiet.
It was a nice night for a little business deal, after all.
Luna was unraveling, her hope slipping away like water through trembling fingers. The moon hung heavy and unyielding in the star-scattered sky, casting its cold, silver light over the stolen silks they'd so carefully arranged. Each fabric shimmered and danced in the pale light, almost alive—but still, nothing happened. No flickers of enchantment. No whispers of the forbidden. Not even the faintest trace of magic’s presence. The Lady of the Whispering Woods had yet to grace them.
Mana sank to her knees, defeated, the weight of their failure pressing hard on her frail shoulders. Luna’s thoughts spiraled into dread. Maybe they’d gotten it all wrong. Maybe the Lady wouldn’t come. Maybe all the precious silks, soulsilk, and even the necklace were worthless, no more than desperate attempts at impossible dreams. Confessing this fiasco to her brother—and his possible boyfriend, Taiju—felt like an impossibility. The thought of their scorn or fury churned her stomach.
And then, she saw her.
The figure hadn’t been there before—Luna was certain. Yet now, she stood beside the baskets of silk, her arrival as sudden and unnatural as a storm on a cloudless day. The air shifted subtly but surely, carrying an eerie heaviness that seeped into Luna’s skin. A sickly sweetness, like the bitter edge of melted sugar mingled with smoky candles, curled around her senses. The market seemed to hold its breath, as if the world itself had gone silent in the presence of the stranger. Even the shadows thickened and stretched, drawn toward her as if magnetized.
Mana flinched when the necklace in her hands surged with a sudden pulse of ruby-red light, its glow erratic and frantic, like a heartbeat trapped in terror. Luna’s spine stiffened, her instincts screaming that this girl—this entity—was anything but ordinary. She didn’t belong here. She couldn’t belong here.
The stranger carried herself with effortless elegance, her movements smooth yet deliberate. A flowing white jacket wrapped around her, adorned with runes of gold, red, and black that seemed to shift beneath the moonlight, like whispers caught in fabric. The designs shimmered and swirled, alive with energy, and embroidered eyes watched from every surface—unyielding, omnipresent, and disquietingly vivid. Her hood draped low, casting shadows that could not fully conceal the silver hair spilling free, luminous as moonlit threads. Her cat-like, sharp eyes gleamed beneath the hood, assessing Luna and Mana with a quiet intensity that bordered on predatory. A red umbrella hung from her hand, embroidered with floating clouds, the surface glistening faintly as if caught in perpetual rain.
“Hello there,” the girl spoke at last, her voice soft yet deliberate, lilting like distant chimes carried on an uncertain breeze. The sound curled around Luna’s ears, smooth and haunting. Mana’s breath hitched audibly, her wide eyes fixed on the girl, caught in a stare that wavered between awe and terror, her trembling hands clutching the necklace tightly.
“Why are you out so late?” the girl continued, tilting her head with unsettling precision. Her expression was unreadable, but her words carried a hidden sharpness, each syllable calculated. “Monsters love the dark, you know. People disappear near these woods, swallowed whole by shadows.” Her faint smile added weight to her warning, as though she’d shared a secret that should never have been spoken aloud.
“Y-yes,” Luna stammered, her voice weak and uneven. The girl’s piercing, catlike eyes held her in place, as if her very existence was being dissected under their gaze. Beside her, Mana remained frozen, unable to speak, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the necklace like it was her last tether to sanity.
“We’re… waiting for someone,” Luna managed to say, her words stumbling out unsteadily. “Have you seen a woman with silver hair? She has… a black cat.”
The stranger’s delicate brow arched, her lips curving into a smirk that was coldly calculated, as though she was already privy to more than she let on. Her gaze lingered on the necklace in Mana’s hands, its light now pulsing steadily, as if answering to her presence. The air grew colder, the stillness pressing down harder, more stifling.
“Silver hair?” the girl mused aloud, her tone deceptively casual. Her gaze flickered toward the necklace, and Luna felt her chest tighten as an unspoken tension wove itself into the air. “No, I can’t say I’ve seen her. But why… do you ask?”
Before Luna could form a reply, a strangled squeak broke the silence. She whipped around, her heart pounding, only to find a sleek black cat winding itself around Mana’s legs. Its golden eyes shimmered with mischief, and the bell on its collar jingled delicately—too delicate, too deliberate. The sound felt unnervingly sweet. The cat purred, smug and satisfied, before slipping back to the girl, winding around her feet like a fluid shadow.
The girl bent to stroke the cat, her movements unhurried and elegant. Yet her gaze remained fixed on the sisters, its weight unrelenting. Luna’s pulse hammered violently in her chest; every instinct screamed to flee, to run, yet she remained rooted in place, bound by something she couldn’t name.
“We’re waiting for the Lady of the Woods,” Luna whispered, the words barely audible as her breath hitched in her throat. “We… we brought offerings.”
“An offering?” the girl echoed, her tone deceptively light, yet laced with something sharp and mocking that set Luna’s nerves ablaze. “What could you possibly offer a legend? They say the Lady cursed an entire continent, leaving it in ruins for her vengeance. Banished for her power, she burned their peace away.” Her smile deepened, sharp and sinister. “And yet you think these baubles… these trinkets… will satisfy her?”
Mana swallowed hard, her lips trembling as she lifted the necklace higher, her voice a fragile whisper. “T-this,” she stammered. The necklace flared in her hands, its ruby glow so fierce it cast flickering crimson light across their faces. The stranger’s sharp eyes lingered on it, her expression unreadable, the silence stretching unbearably. “It’s our mother’s. It’s supposed to bring luck. And… we brought silks, jewelry, snakeskin jewels too…”
“Ah,” the girl sighed softly, her voice carrying something almost wistful. Her slender fingers extended, deliberate and impossibly graceful, as though she was drawing them into her orbit. “May I?” she asked, the gentle tone of her voice only making the unspoken tension more unbearable.
Luna’s mind screamed at her not to do it. Every fiber of her being begged her to pull away, to refuse. But her hands betrayed her, shaking as she plucked the necklace from Mana’s grip. It burned hot against her palm, as though protesting the transfer, but she extended it toward the girl nonetheless. Her fingers trembled as the stranger plucked it from her hand with a faint smile.
“Good girl,” the stranger murmured, her voice soft yet dripping with satisfaction. Her smile deepened, sharp and precise, as if concealing layers of secrets behind a seemingly casual demeanor. Her gaze drifted to the baskets, now no more than an afterthought beneath her scrutiny. “Midnight soulsilk,” she remarked, her tone light, almost playful. “Do you even realize how rare it is? Worth more than any king’s crown.” Her sharp eyes gleamed as they moved across the offerings. “And siren earrings… so rare they might as well be myths—whispers of dying stars turned to jewels. Such… treasures.”
Luna’s mind stalled, her thoughts spiraling into a haze of confusion. Everything around her blurred, the edges of reality melting into something surreal. A flicker of white darted across her vision, quick and disorienting—a ripple of fabric too swift to trace. Her chest tightened as one of the embroidered eyes on the girl’s jacket blinked. It wasn’t her imagination; the eye moved—alive, sentient—and locked onto her with an intensity that sent ice coursing through her veins.
The air thickened, sweet and suffocating, its cloying scent now laced with something metallic, sharp, and unmistakably wrong. Blood. Decay. It was faint but undeniable, cutting through the sweetness like a cruel afterthought. Luna’s breath hitched as her vision swam, her pulse roaring in her ears. When she managed to blink the haze away, the sight before her sent a jolt of disbelief straight through her.
Her brother’s glasses.
The girl now held them in her hands, crimson wyrmfire coiling hungrily around her fingers. The flames crackled and hissed, their light casting eerie, dancing shadows across her face, transforming her features into something almost otherworldly. The fire seemed alive, serpentine in its movements, its edges licking eagerly at the fractured frames.
Wyrmfire.
Luna’s thoughts screamed in protest. It couldn’t be. Wyrmfire was impossible to control—a destructive, untamable force born of wyrms and wyverns. It was said to consume everything in its path, immune to spell wards, leviathan armor, even the laws of time itself. And yet here it was, coiled around this stranger’s hands like a tamed beast, docile and obedient.
The fire worked with terrifying precision, eating away the jagged fractures in the glasses. The lenses melted and reformed under its touch, glowing faintly with an otherworldly rose hue—soft, yet impossibly vibrant. The frames shifted and smoothed, transforming into a delicate gold that gleamed like it had always belonged.
Luna’s mind screamed at her to act, to stop this, but her body remained paralyzed, bound by an invisible force. Beside her, Mana’s mouth hung open, her wide eyes brimming with terror and awe. The glow of the wyrmfire reflected in her tear-filled gaze, its colors dancing like ghostly flames.
Slowly, the fiery crimson hue began to fade, shifting to the calm, ethereal blue of magefire. The transition was seamless, the flames now focused with an artisan’s precision as they refined the lenses, giving them a flawless, almost unearthly finish. Mana’s shallow breaths echoed faintly in the heavy air as the stranger continued her work, unmoved and composed, as though reforging impossible artifacts was an everyday task.
“Done,” the girl whispered at last, her voice soft but resolute. She extended the glasses toward Mana, placing them gently into her trembling hands. The frames shimmered faintly in the moonlight, their blue-rose lenses glowing with a haunting beauty. The wyrmfire was gone, leaving behind only the impossible perfection it had created. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Before Luna could react, the girl moved. With a fluid swish of her jacket, she turned, and in that instant, the world shifted.
Luna gasped as the spell broke. Her body jolted back to life, her lungs finally drawing in the air she hadn’t realized she was holding. The market erupted around her, its sounds flooding back in a roaring cacophony. The strange, unnatural silence shattered as if it had never existed, leaving only the faint trace of sweetness lingering in its wake.
Mana stared down at the glasses cradled in her palms, her fingers brushing over the delicate gold frames. The blue-rose lenses shimmered faintly, catching the light in a way that made them appear almost alive. Luna, her heart still racing, flipped frantically through her book. Her shaking hands sought answers, scanning the pages on wyrmfire and magefire, her mind struggling to reconcile what she had just witnessed.
But when she looked back up, the girl and her cat were gone. Not a trace of them remained—not even the soft chime of the cat’s bell. The offering baskets were empty, the treasures they had carefully assembled vanished without a sound. It was as if they had never been there at all.
And yet, as Luna stared at the glasses in Mana’s hands, she knew. The price they had paid might have been worth it. Or it might have been far, far greater than they could comprehend.
The door slammed open, and Luna and Mana tumbled inside like two contestants in a race they were clearly losing. Mitsuya looked up from his sketches, his pen pausing mid-stroke, his lavender eyes narrowing like storm clouds about to erupt. Taiju, casually leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, tilted his head slightly, his gaze as sharp as a hawk’s.
“Where—” Mitsuya began, his voice starting low but gaining altitude like a rocket about to launch, “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU TWO BEEN?!”
Mana froze mid-step, clutching the glasses like they were a shield against Mitsuya’s fury. Luna tried to stand taller but immediately thought better of it when Mitsuya stood up, the screech of his chair loud enough to make a banshee wince.
“Do you have ANY IDEA what time it is?!” Mitsuya’s arms flailed, gesturing wildly in the universal language of outraged parent energy. “You’ve been gone for HOURS. HOURS. Do you think I don’t have enough stress in my life? Soulsilk! My best soulsilk, gone! And the necklace? You took Mana’s necklace?! What, were you planning on bartering with dragons?”
“We—” Luna started.
“You what?!” Mitsuya steamrolled her, his hands on his hips now in full lecturing dad mode. “Do you know how dangerous it is out there? What if someone saw you with that stuff? What if you got hurt? What if Taiju and I had to run around looking for you? What if—”
“Mitsuya,” Taiju said, his voice calm but with enough weight to cut through the ranting. He placed one massive hand on Mitsuya’s shoulder, pulling him back slightly. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing!” Mitsuya snapped, glaring at him before pointing an accusatory finger at the girls. “But these two apparently thought summoning death in designer robes was a good idea.”
Taiju raised an eyebrow but stayed planted firmly, his presence as immovable as a mountain. “Let them talk. You can yell at them later.”
“They’ll never hear the end of it,” Mitsuya muttered, but he stepped back, throwing his hands up as if surrendering to the madness. “Fine! Enlighten me. What brilliant plan could you possibly have cooked up that required stealing half my inventory?”
Mana gulped, clutching the glasses tighter as she stepped forward. “We—um—we summoned the Lady of the Whispering Woods,” she stammered, her voice trembling. “And… she fixed big bro’s glasses.”
Mitsuya blinked, his brain clearly buffering. “You… what?”
“The Lady of the Whispering Woods,” Luna cut in, now waving her arms for emphasis. “Silver hair! Black cat! Wyrmfire! It was—she was—impossible! She just… appeared, and she fixed the glasses. And then she vanished. Everything—the necklace, the silks, the earrings—they’re gone!”
“Wyrmfire?” Taiju’s tone shifted immediately, his eyes narrowing as he leaned slightly forward. “Are you sure?”
“YES!” Luna yelled, her voice cracking. “Crimson wyrmfire, Taiju! She was holding it like it wasn’t the most dangerous fire known to humanity. Then it turned to magefire—like some kind of magical arts and crafts session—and she just… fixed them. Look!” She gestured frantically at Mana, who extended the glasses with trembling hands.
Mitsuya took the glasses carefully, his expression morphing from disbelief to something unreadable. He turned them over in his hands, inspecting the delicate gold frame and blue-rose lenses that shimmered faintly under the light. “This… isn’t normal,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “These aren’t just glasses anymore.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Luna exclaimed, nearly toppling over a chair in her excitement.
Taiju, however, was less impressed. He crossed his arms and shot a glare at the girls. “The Lady of the Whispering Woods doesn’t do favors. Whatever she gave you, she didn’t do it out of kindness. There’s always a price.”
Mana flinched, her hands clasping each other nervously. “But she didn’t hurt us,” she whispered. “She just… took the offerings. She didn’t even say anything about payment.”
“That’s how it starts,” Taiju said grimly. “You think you’re fine, and then one day—” he snapped his fingers, the sound loud and sharp, “—you find out exactly what you gave up.”
Luna sank into a chair, clutching her book. “But she fixed them,” she said weakly, as if trying to convince herself. “And—and she just disappeared. No warnings, no threats, nothing.”
Mitsuya sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to physically hold his sanity together. “You summoned a witch-no, an enchantress. You gambled with things you don’t understand.” He jabbed a finger in their direction. “You’re both grounded. For life.”
“What?!” Luna practically launched out of her seat. “After everything we just went through?”
“For life,” Mitsuya repeated, his voice brooking no argument. “And if you so much as think about sneaking out again—”
“Alright, alright,” Taiju interrupted, pulling Mitsuya back into his chair like a parent wrangling an unruly toddler. “Let’s focus on the part where they didn’t get hexed or cursed… yet.” He glanced at the glasses. “Let’s figure out exactly what they’ve gotten us into first.”
The room settled into an uneasy silence. The glasses sat on the table, gleaming faintly, as if mocking them with their serene perfection. Mana fidgeted, her hands twisting together. Luna buried her face in her book, flipping pages aimlessly.
Mitsuya glared at the girls one last time. “This isn’t over,” he muttered darkly.
It was shaping up to be an ordinary morning in Mitsuya’s shop—or at least, that’s what he’d naively hoped. The sunlight streamed through the windows, catching the faint shimmer of his newly repaired glasses. The rose tint in the lenses cast everything in a romantic glow, making the shop look like the set of a low-budget rom-com. He hated it. The world didn’t deserve this level of soft-focus sentimentality.
The door exploded open like someone had thrown a grenade. It slammed into the wall with a force that made the mannequins quake, and in stumbled Takemichi, his hair doing its best impression of a bird’s nest. His face twisted into its usual expression: equal parts panic and profound confusion, like he couldn’t decide if he was about to cry or faint—or both.
“MITSUYA!” Takemichi screamed, loud enough to wake the dead, and froze mid-step as his eyes locked onto Mitsuya’s face. His jaw flapped open and closed like a goldfish trying to process calculus. “Uh… nice glasses?”
Before Mitsuya could verbally destroy him, Chifuyu strolled in, radiating his usual I’m here to make your life worse energy. His hands were stuffed in his jacket pockets, and his smirk was so irritatingly smug it could’ve qualified as a crime in several countries. His sharp gaze landed on Mitsuya’s glasses, and his grin widened like he’d just hit the jackpot. “Whoa, look at you, Mitsuya. Fancy frames! What’s next? Modeling contracts? Publicists? A line of overpriced candles that smell like your creativity?”
Then came Hakkai, ducking into the shop like he thought the doorway might suddenly shrink. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Mitsuya and tilted his head like a confused puppy. “Wait… are those your glasses?” he asked, pointing at Mitsuya’s face with the urgency of someone spotting a UFO. “They don’t… look normal. Are they gold?”
“They’re NOT gold!” Mitsuya barked, slamming his scissors onto the table. The metallic clang sent Takemichi flailing backward into a pile of fabric bolts. “They’re just—ugh, it’s complicated!”
“It looks expensive,” Chifuyu said, leaning against a mannequin like it was his throne. He blew a gum bubble and let it pop obnoxiously close to Mitsuya’s ear. “You’re not secretly designing for royalty, are you? Be honest. I won’t judge. Okay, I will.”
“For the love of—can you all just STOP?” Mitsuya groaned, rubbing his temples like he was trying to physically massage his soul back into his body. “They’re not new glasses, okay? Luna and Mana decided to summon a magical nightmare to fix them, and now they won’t stop glowing!”
“Glowing?!” Takemichi screeched, his voice so high-pitched it probably shattered glass in another zip code. He stumbled backward like Mitsuya had just announced he was wearing a live bomb. “Oh no. Oh NO. Mitsuya, are those cursed?! Blink twice if they’re controlling you! Wait, don’t blink—what if blinking triggers the curse?!”
“They’re NOT cursed!” Mitsuya snapped, glaring so hard at Takemichi that he immediately stopped flapping his arms and clamped his mouth shut. “At least… not yet.” His deadly gaze shifted to Luna and Mana, who were peeking out from behind a rack of fabric like two gremlins caught raiding the fridge. “But if they are cursed, it’s entirely THEIR fault.”
“What did you two DO?!” Chifuyu demanded, his smirk replaced by the wide-eyed terror of someone who’d just been told his house was built on a cursed burial ground. He gestured wildly at Mitsuya’s glasses. “You didn’t—you didn’t seriously mess with magic, did you?!”
“They summoned the Lady of the Whispering Woods,” Taiju rumbled, emerging from the back room like the world’s grumpiest harbinger of doom. His arms were crossed, and his tone carried the weight of a man who’d spent all morning contemplating humanity’s many bad decisions. “Soulsilk. Jewelry. Mana’s necklace. They used it all.”
The room went still. The silence was deafening—well, except for Takemichi’s faint wheezing.
Chifuyu froze, his face draining of color. “Wait—you mean HER? The Lady?” His voice cracked as he stared at Taiju, his gum hanging off his sleeve like a casualty of fear. “The one who whispers people to death?! The one moms use to scare their kids into doing chores?!”
Hakkai visibly trembled, his hands flailing uselessly in the air. “She’s the reason I couldn’t sleep until I was fifteen!” he wailed. “I knew those shadows weren’t normal—she was under my bed, waiting!”
Takemichi let out a strangled gasp. “She’s REAL?! The Lady is real?!” His hands shot to his head as he spun in panicked circles. “Oh god, oh god, oh god—we’re cursed! She’s going to hunt us down! Or turn us into frogs! Or force us to… whisper back!” He shuddered violently.
“It worked!” Luna protested, waving her arms like she was presenting a winning lottery ticket. “Big bro’s glasses were broken, and now they’re fixed! Look at them—they’re perfect!”
“They’re GLOWING,” Hakkai whispered like he was narrating a horror documentary. “Nothing that glows is ever good. Unless it’s, like, glow sticks. But even then…”
“They’re NOT glowing!” Mitsuya barked, nearly snapping his glasses in half as he yanked them off his face. “They’re… shimmering. It’s different!” He paused, his fingers twitching with barely contained frustration. “Why am I even explaining this?!”
“Because they’re definitely glowing,” Chifuyu muttered. His smirk had slithered back onto his face like it lived there, but his eyes were still darting nervously.
“I don’t care what you call it!” Takemichi yelled, his arms flapping like a panicked chicken. “Glowing, shimmering—it doesn’t matter! What if they EXPLODE?!”
“They’re not going to explode, Takemichi,” Taiju said calmly, though his dark expression suggested he was bracing for exactly that. “But Mitsuya’s right. The Lady doesn’t do charity work. Whatever these glasses are, the price is coming. You don’t mess with her and walk away clean.”
Takemichi turned the color of a week-old ghost. “Oh no—this is bad. This is really bad. What if she curses the whole gang?! Oh no, oh no—what if she curses Hina?! She’s too good for this!”
Mitsuya groaned louder, dragging his hand down his face like it might just peel off. “THIS,” he growled, spinning toward Luna and Mana like they’d unleashed the apocalypse, “is why you’re both grounded. FOREVER.”
“We GET it!” Luna snapped, her arms crossed like an outraged toddler. “You said that last night!”
“And I MEANT IT last night, and I mean it NOW!” Mitsuya shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. “And if I find out you’ve even THOUGHT about summoning anything else—”
The shop door creaked open, and everyone froze. Mikey strolled in, his face as unreadable as ever, radiating an energy so calm it was unsettling. His gaze immediately found Mitsuya’s glasses. “Cool glasses,” he said in monotone. “They glowing for a reason?”
“They’re NOT GLOWING!” Mitsuya exploded, flinging his arms into the air so violently that a roll of fabric toppled off the counter.
Mikey shrugged, unaffected as always. “Looks cursed. Anyway, you got dorayaki?”
After the whirlwind chaos of the morning, Mitsuya finally clawed out a moment of quiet—or what passed for quiet in a shop that had somehow survived the apocalypse-by-idiocy. He slid the glasses off his nose, holding them delicately, like they were an artifact stolen from the ruins of a cursed kingdom. No matter how many times Luna and Mana swore their “genius idea” had no side effects, he wasn’t buying it. These glasses were up to something. He could feel it. The faint shimmer around the frames seemed to whisper, We’re better than you.
He scowled, turning them over in his hands. “Smug little things,” he muttered darkly, half-expecting the glasses to sprout a mouth and say something snide like, Why don’t you get a prescription for that attitude while you’re at it? They didn’t respond, which somehow made it worse. Even in their silence, they seemed to gloat.
Taiju, who had taken up permanent residence in Mitsuya’s shop as a glorified human scarecrow, wandered over and leaned against a shelf. Arms crossed, he radiated the judgment of someone who had witnessed humanity’s worst decisions and survived only through sheer willpower. “Still staring at those things?” he rumbled, his deep voice vibrating with casual disdain.
“They’re suspicious,” Mitsuya said flatly, his eyes still locked on the glasses like he was expecting them to suddenly transform into a portal to another dimension. “I don’t trust them.”
“They’re glasses,” Taiju deadpanned. “They don’t have feelings.”
“They feel smug,” Mitsuya snapped back, his glare now laser-focused on Taiju. “You saw what they did this morning. They’re too perfect. Nothing from her is ever just glasses.”
Taiju raised one eyebrow, but the faint clench of his jaw betrayed his agreement. “I still don’t know how those two managed to pull it off without setting themselves—or the planet—on fire,” he muttered.
“Magic. Dumb luck. Probably both,” Mitsuya said, slamming the glasses onto the table like they’d personally insulted him. He wasn’t sure if he was angry at the glasses, at Luna and Mana, or at the cruel universe that had allowed this nonsense to happen in the first place. “You checked them, didn’t you?”
“Head to toe,” Taiju replied, his arms still crossed. “No injuries, no curses. Just that weird smell—like someone baked a cake, left it out for a week, and then tried to market it as ‘haunted artisan.’ Definitely magical.”
Mitsuya groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he was attempting to peel off his own frustration. “Of course it’s magic. Because why wouldn’t it be? God forbid anything in my life make sense.”
There was a reason the Lady of the Whispering Woods was spoken of in hushed whispers. Actually, there were several reasons—and none of them were good. Her name alone was enough to make even the bravest men double-lock their doors and sleep clutching a holy talisman. Mitsuya and Taiju had spared Luna and Mana four-fifths of the truth, telling only the gentlest, bedtime-story-safe version of her legends. The rest of the details? They were nightmare fuel so potent it could force grown adults to enroll in therapy.
No one who ventured into her cursed forest came back normal—or came back at all. Expeditions vanished. Ships disappeared as soon as they so much as glimpsed the cursed Gulf that bordered her woods. Maps labeled the area with cheerful phrases like “Certain Death Here :)” or, for the more melodramatic cartographers, “Ye Who Enter Here Will Regret All Choices.”
And yet somehow—somehow—Luna and Mana, fueled by equal parts stupidity and blind optimism, had waltzed right into the lion’s den, shaken hands with the lion, and walked out alive. Mitsuya pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh so long and loud that it could’ve been mistaken for the sound of his soul departing his body.
“These glasses,” he muttered, glaring at the faint shimmer like it was laughing at him, “are just sitting there. Mocking me. I know they’re hiding something.”
“You’re spiraling,” Taiju said dryly, though his expression suggested he wasn’t entirely against it. If anything, he looked mildly entertained. Mitsuya’s misery was apparently great spectator sport.
“They were made by a woman who curses entire continents for fun, Taiju,” Mitsuya snapped, throwing up his hands. “I have every right to spiral.”
Taiju tilted his head, like he was carefully considering this. “…Fair point.”
“Did NONE of those stories get through their thick skulls?” Mitsuya groaned, gesturing wildly as though Luna and Mana’s stupidity was a tangible object he could throw out the window. “The four-fifths we didn’t tell them were the reason Hakkai STILL sleeps with his nightlight, right? Why’d you even bother telling him the sanitized version?!”
“Because I had to,” Taiju muttered, his voice dripping with the weary resignation of someone who knew the exact limits of his siblings’ idiocy. “Our house was way too close to the forest. One time, Yuzuha decided to bargain with the witch herself because she was curious. Nearly died.”
Mitsuya groaned again, dragging both hands down his face this time for maximum frustration release. “True. Completely on-brand. But now what the hell do we do? I mean, don’t get me wrong—I appreciate the glasses. Eyewear’s basically a luxury item these days. But there’s no way these things aren’t cursed. You remember the story of the Shadow Path, right?”
Taiju’s face darkened. “Unfortunately.”
“Great,” Mitsuya muttered, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Then we’re screwed.”
And damn right they were.
Hakkai first learned of the Lady of the Woods when he was only five.
It began the summer Yuzuha disappeared into the forest. She had always loved it—the riot of colors bursting from the wildflowers, the breeze carrying scents that felt like secrets, the way the trees seemed to weave a roof of light and shadow. To her, the forest wasn’t forbidden. It was freedom.
But Taiju saw it differently. To him, the forest was a boundary that should never be crossed. Every night, he locked the doors and double-checked the fence, his face grim, his voice heavy with warning. “Stay away,” he would say, over and over again, the words as much a command as they were a plea. He never explained why—he didn’t need to. His tone carried the weight of fear, and it was enough to keep Hakkai away.
Not that Hakkai needed the warning. Even as a child, he felt it—the unease that clung to the edge of the trees, the way the shadows seemed too thick, too still, as though they were watching. The forest made his instincts scream to run, to hide. The air felt wrong beneath the canopy, as if it wasn’t air at all but something alive, something waiting. The flowers Yuzuha loved didn’t look beautiful to him—they looked like bait.
But Yuzuha was fearless. Or maybe she was reckless. Either way, she never listened to Taiju’s warnings. That summer, on a golden afternoon when the sky was wide and clear, she slipped past the fence, her basket swinging at her side. Hakkai watched her go from the porch, frozen, his small fists clutching the wooden railing. He called out to her once, his voice a trembling whisper against the vastness of the forest.
She didn’t even turn around.
By the time Taiju came back and realized she was missing, the sun had started to sink, spilling red across the horizon. His face went white, his expression darkening into something Hakkai didn’t recognize—something sharper than anger, heavier than fear. Without a word, he grabbed Hakkai’s hand and dragged him toward the forest.
The woods were darker than they should’ve been, even for sunset. The air was thick, each step sinking into the silence like it didn’t belong. Taiju’s grip on Hakkai’s hand was tight—too tight—and his pace quickened the deeper they went. And then, in a clearing bathed in the last slivers of sunlight, they found her.
Yuzuha was kneeling in the grass, surrounded by wildflowers. Her basket sat beside her, empty, forgotten. At first, she looked unharmed—just quiet, her hands resting limply on her knees. But something was wrong. Her face was too pale, her eyes too wide, staring past them into the shadows beyond the clearing. She didn’t react when Taiju called her name, his voice sharp, desperate. She didn’t even blink.
He dropped to his knees in front of her, gripping her shoulders, shaking her hard enough to make Hakkai flinch. “Yuzuha!” Taiju shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “Yuzuha, look at me! What happened? What did you do?”
For a moment, nothing. And then, slowly, her lips moved, forming words too soft to hear.
“She’s beautiful.”
Taiju froze. The grip on her shoulders tightened, his knuckles white against her shirt. “Who’s beautiful?” he demanded, his voice low and fierce, trembling just enough for Hakkai to notice. “Yuzuha, who?”
Her gaze flickered, her expression distant, her voice hollow. “The Lady,” she said. “The Lady in the woods.”
Hakkai felt a chill run through him, cold and sharp as steel. He didn’t know who the Lady was—he didn’t want to know. But something in the way Yuzuha said it made his heart pound, made his stomach churn like he’d already met her.
“What did you do?” Taiju asked again, quieter this time, though his voice was no less frantic. “What did she say to you?”
Yuzuha blinked, finally focusing on him, though her hands were still trembling in her lap. “I walked her path,” she said.
Taiju’s breath hitched audibly, his body stiffening like he’d been struck. “The Shadow Path?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Yuzuha nodded. “It appeared under my feet,” she said slowly, the words tumbling out like they were being pulled from her. “Black... but it shimmered. It whispered to me.”
“What did it say?” Taiju pressed.
She hesitated, her eyes drifting back toward the trees, as though the whispers were still there, clinging to her skin. “It told me I could have it all,” she murmured. “It told me to follow.”
Taiju sat back on his heels, his face unreadable now. Hakkai could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fists curled and uncurled at his sides. “And then what?” Taiju said quietly. Too quietly.
Yuzuha’s breathing quickened, her voice dropping even lower. “She was waiting,” she said. “The Lady. She smiled at me. She said I was brave.”
Taiju’s expression darkened further, and when he spoke, it was barely audible. “Did she ask for something?”
Yuzuha shook her head, her hands clenching into fists. “No,” she said, her voice trembling. “But I... I feel like I left something behind.”
Taiju exhaled sharply, standing abruptly and pulling Yuzuha to her feet. “We’re leaving,” he said, his voice flat, his movements quick and precise. “And you are never—never—coming back here.”
As they walked back, Taiju didn’t let go of either of their hands. Hakkai glanced back once—just once—toward the clearing.
The flowers were still there, swaying gently in the breeze. But the shadows stretched longer now, darker, as if they were watching.
And maybe they were.
When they returned home, the silence in the house was suffocating, dense as the shadows that seemed to pool in every corner, stretching unnaturally across the floor. The warm glow of the lamps did little to push back the lingering chill that had followed them from the forest. Yuzuha moved stiffly, her steps slow and mechanical, as though her body were here but her mind still wandered somewhere far beyond the trees. Her trembling hands hung limply by her sides, and her wide, vacant eyes stared through everything—the walls, the room, Taiju—focused on some distant, unseen point.
Taiju guided her to the couch, lowering her down gently but firmly, his jaw clenched tight. His movements, usually precise and deliberate, were sharp with tension now, as though he wasn’t entirely in control of himself. He crouched beside her for a moment longer, his hand hovering over her shoulder like he was afraid to let go. Finally, he released her and stepped back, rubbing his palm over his face.
Hakkai lingered in the doorway, his hands fisted in the hem of his shirt, his small shoulders trembling. He didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare ask questions. The fear clawing at his chest felt too loud, and the words stuck in his throat. Yuzuha’s unnatural stillness unnerved him. Her silence was worse.
When the doctor arrived, his presence did little to ease the tension. He was a severe-looking man with a lined face and calm, sharp eyes that scanned Yuzuha with professional detachment. He didn’t ask what had happened. He didn’t need to. There was something about the weight of Taiju’s expression, the pallor of Yuzuha’s face, that answered more than words ever could.
The examination was quick but methodical. The doctor pressed two fingers to her wrist to check her pulse, shone a light into her unfocused eyes, and murmured a series of questions she barely responded to. Her words, when she spoke, were faint, broken, almost incoherent, like they belonged to someone far away. The doctor straightened after a while, his hand falling to his side with a faint sigh.
“She’s showing signs of mild amnesia,” he said, his tone measured but heavy. “Her memory is fragmented—there are gaps. Likely caused by extreme emotional or psychological trauma. She’s present, but… untethered.”
Taiju stood stiffly by the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression unreadable. For a moment, it seemed as though he wasn’t going to say anything. But then he spoke, his voice low and tight with restrained fury.
“It’s not just trauma,” he said. “She walked the Shadow Path.”
The doctor froze. His face didn’t change, but Hakkai saw his hand falter as it hovered over the clasp of his bag. He turned to Taiju slowly, carefully. “The Shadow Path,” he repeated, his voice quieter now, as though speaking the name aloud might summon it. “You’re certain?”
Taiju nodded once, sharply. “It appeared under her feet. She followed it. And she saw the Lady.”
At that, the doctor’s neutral expression cracked, just slightly. His gaze flicked toward Yuzuha, who sat unmoving, her eyes still fixed on some invisible point beyond the room. He hesitated, then opened his bag with quick, purposeful movements. Hakkai couldn’t see what he was searching for, but the tension in the air seemed to deepen with every moment. Finally, the doctor withdrew a small glass vial filled with a faintly glowing liquid. The soft light danced across the room, casting eerie ripples over the walls and ceiling.
“This is a spellbind,” the doctor said, his voice steady but tense. “It won’t undo the damage, but it will suppress the whispers—keep them from taking hold, if they haven’t already. Without it…” He trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line. “The whispers could spiral.”
Taiju took the vial without hesitation. He knelt in front of Yuzuha, speaking softly, coaxing her to drink. She obeyed without resistance, her movements slow and mechanical as the shimmering liquid slid down her throat. When the vial was empty, Taiju set it on the table and sat back heavily in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair. His exhaustion showed now, etched into the lines of his face.
Hakkai hesitated near the corner of the room, twisting his shirt in his hands as he glanced between Taiju and Yuzuha. The question burned in his chest, clawing at his throat until he finally let it out, his voice soft and trembling. “Taiju… what’s the Shadow Path?”
Taiju didn’t respond immediately. His hand, which had been rubbing at his temple, dropped heavily into his lap. He stared at the table in front of him, his shoulders tense, his jaw locked. Slowly, he exhaled, his dark gaze flickering toward Hakkai.
“It’s not just a path,” Taiju said quietly, his voice flat but heavy. “It’s a curse.”
“The Shadow Path doesn’t just appear,” Taiju began, his voice low and deliberate. “It chooses. It finds people when they’re at their weakest—when their regrets, guilt, or desperation are too strong to ignore. Some say the Lady marks you. Others think the Path has a mind of its own. But whatever the truth is, one thing’s for sure: if you see it, you’ve already been chosen.”
Hakkai hugged his knees to his chest, his wide eyes fixed on his brother as he listened. The room felt colder with every word.
“The Path doesn’t look dangerous at first. It’s black, shimmering like oil, stretching out in front of you. But then there’s the smell,” Taiju continued, his lips pressing into a thin line. “It smells sweet. Like flowers and sugar. But underneath that, there’s smoke. Faint, but sharp—like something burning. They say the fire that killed the princess and scarred the prince smelled the same way. That fire was hers. That fire was how she claimed her inheritance : the land for outcasts.”
Hakkai’s breath hitched. The shadows on the walls seemed to flicker, shifting unnaturally.
“And then the whispers start,” Taiju said, his tone sharper now. “They’re soft at first, barely more than a breeze. But they’re not just sounds. They’re alive. They crawl into your head, pulling at your thoughts, your memories, your secrets. They don’t just guess what you want—they know. They tell you everything you’ve ever wanted to hear, everything you’ve ever craved.”
Hakkai shivered, gripping his knees tighter, his heart pounding. “What happens if you follow it?” he whispered.
Taiju’s hands curled into fists. “The whispers get louder,” he said. “They stop being promises and start feeling like commands. They pull you deeper, and no matter how much you want to stop, you can’t. And if you try to turn back...” He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “There’s nothing behind you. The trees, the stars, the light—it’s all gone. The Path takes it all.”
“What’s at the end?” Hakkai asked, though his voice trembled.
Taiju’s dark gaze flicked toward Yuzuha for a brief moment before he answered. “Her,” he said. “The Lady.”
Hakkai froze, his chest tightening at the weight of the name.
“She’s beautiful,” Taiju said, his voice quieter now. “But not in a way that feels human. She’s graceful, elegant, but wrong. Her eyes…” He paused, his expression darkening. “Her eyes are black. Black as the void, with slits like a predator’s—like a cat’s. They flicker faintly, like candlelight about to go out. And when she looks at you, it’s like she sees everything—your soul, your fears. She twists them.”
Hakkai felt tears prick at his eyes. “What does she want?”
“She grants wishes,” Taiju said slowly. “Anything you want, she’ll give. But the price… you don’t always know what she’s taken until it’s gone. A memory, a name, your reflection. Sometimes, it’s worse. She can take pieces of your soul.”
Taiju rubbed a hand down his face, his voice dropping lower. “And if you refuse her deal, the whispers finish you. They turn cruel, tearing at your mind until there’s nothing left. Even the ones who leave the Path…” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on the table. “They never really escape.”
Hakkai didn’t move. Taiju didn’t look at him. And Yuzuha stayed still, her empty gaze locked on something only she could see.
Even after twelve years, Hakkai couldn’t escape the hold that the Shadow Path had on him.
Magic, in any form, was something he refused to face. The faintest trace of flowers or burnt sugar in the air made his lungs seize and his heartbeat skitter like prey. Panic came quickly, in sharp, cold waves, fraying his composure before he could fight it. If someone so much as mentioned magic in passing, he’d leave the room before the words could settle, his footsteps quick and deliberate as he escaped. And black, slitted eyes? Even if they were imagined, even if they only flickered in the shadows of his own mind, they sent him running pell-mell, unable to breathe, unable to think, just running.
Taiju never mocked him for it, not even once. The nightlight in Hakkai’s room, glowing faintly against the dark, was as much a reminder of the past as it was a small, fragile defense. Hakkai didn’t have to explain why it was still there. Taiju understood in his own way, though his silence said more than any sarcastic comment ever could.
But it was the forest that truly haunted Hakkai. The forest that had taken Yuzuha, that had transformed her into something unrecognizable before they brought her back. He couldn’t even glance at it without the memories clawing their way back—memories of her empty, distant stare, of the clearing that reeked of flowers, sugar, and smoke. He could still see the doctor’s face, pale and tense, when Taiju had spoken the Lady’s name. Still hear the murmured urgency in his voice as he handed over the spellbind.
The nightmares had faded over time, slipping quietly into the background of his mind. But they had left their mark. The fear was still there, deeply rooted, woven into the fabric of his being. It lingered in the way his body tensed at every shadow, every strange smell, every faint glimmer of something unexplainable. He had learned how to live with it, to mask the panic and keep it hidden. But some fears don’t disappear. They only lie in wait, patient and quiet.
And no matter how far he tried to move past it, no matter how much time separated him from that summer, the Shadow Path had never really let him go.