The wind shifted.
The mist coiled tighter around Isabella, whispering across her skin like invisible fingers. Her fan glowed, its pink silk snapping open in a crisp motion that cut through the eerie silence.
The goat-creatures moved with her. Dozens of them, pale and hunched, half-hidden in the fog—copying her stance perfectly. Their heads tilted in the same angle, their fingers flexed in the same rhythm. When she raised her arm, they raised theirs. When she breathed in, they breathed out. The sound of their synchronized breath filled the clearing like a swarm of insects.
"Stay calm," she told herself under her breath. "They're just reflections. Just reflections."
But the moment she took one slow step to the right, every one of them stepped too—perfectly in sync. A shiver ran down her spine.
