The silence between them wasn't just quiet; it was a fragile sheet of glass, delicate and deadly. The light filtering through the chalk-trees, once golden, now hung heavy and dull, as if the very forest mourned what was coming. A crow screamed high above, but the sound vanished before it could reach the clearing.
Canya was the first to shatter the quiet.
"I was wrong," she whispered, and the words, barely audible, struck Allan like a physical blow.
He turned, searching her face for any flicker of fatigue or fear, but her eyes were stark, pupils wide and dark as old ink. She met his gaze, unflinching. "I was wrong to follow you."
"What are you talking about?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.
"All this time," she continued, her words now a hurried spill, "I thought I was choosing freedom. Breaking the chains my parents left me. But the further we go, the more I see… I'm not free. I'm lost."
She pressed a hand flat over her heart, as if to calm a wild beat. "I thought I could bear it. That I was strong enough to carve my own place in whatever this world was becoming. But I'm not. The further we've walked, the less I know who I am."
Allan took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Canya—listen. You're not lost. We've come too far to—"
She cut him off with a sharp shake of her head. "No. That's what I kept telling myself. That we were getting closer to something—some answer. Some hope. But I see now we've only been wandering deeper into a trap."
Allan swallowed. Her certainty was a colder dread than any fear he'd felt in the forest.
"I should have stayed," she murmured. "With my siblings. With the dead seers in the valley. That was my place. Not here."
The world around them seemed to hold its breath.
A slow, deliberate clap tore through the stillness.
Henry Joel stepped forward, a smirk twisting his lips. "Beautiful, isn't it? Doubt. It always flowers best just before the harvest."
Allan spun, fury flaring. "You shut your mouth."
But Henry only chuckled. "How sweet. Still trying to protect her. Even when all you built together is dissolving."
Canya stared at him. "You did this." When she'd left home with Allan, she had been sure. Her aunt's letter had confirmed it. For her to change her mind now, something had happened, and she knew exactly who the mastermind was. Henry had been untrustworthy from the moment they met.
Henry tilted his head in mock surprise. "Did what?"
"You made me feel this," she whispered, voice breaking. "You fed the fear."
Henry's smile widened, teeth gleaming too white in the dim light. "Of course I did. Doubt is the most faithful servant. It never leaves you, not truly. It waits. It festers."
"You planned this," Allan said, his hand straying to the easel he held. "From the moment we met you on the trail."
Henry spread his arms in a grand, hollow gesture. "Oh, not alone. The Circle listens only to those it remembers. I merely… guided you. Whispered when you were tired. Suggested when you were hopeful. And the forest did the rest."
He glanced at Canya, his eyes gleaming with something too hungry to be called pity. "You've no idea how easy you were to lead."
Her hand closed around her satchel, knuckles white. "What do you want from us?"
"You already gave it," Henry replied. "Every moment you questioned yourselves. Every memory you tried to bury. All of it was an offering."
"To what?" Allan demanded.
Henry stepped aside, and the hooded figure behind him drifted forward.
At first, it was just a tall man, swathed in draping folds of dark cloth. But as it lifted its head, the hood fell back enough to reveal a smooth, pale face—unlined, almost featureless, except for two hollow eyes like deep wells bored into ice. When it opened its mouth, there were no teeth. No tongue. Only darkness.
Yet the voice came—not from its mouth, but inside their minds, wrapping around their thoughts like smoke.
"He speaks true," it said, and Canya staggered back, clutching Allan's sleeve. "You wandered too far from your path. Now you will remain."
Allan felt the cold certainty of it, as if the words themselves reshaped the air. "What is that?" he rasped.
Henry's face was rapt with terrible devotion. "Mashahl," he whispered. "The one who remembers before remembering. My master."
Canya tried to swallow, but her throat had gone dry. "It's…not human."
"No," Mashahl agreed in its voiceless voice. "I am not bound by your frail forms. I am not chained to time."
"You fed us lies," Allan said, his voice low with fury. "All this—your stories, your guidance—just to bring us here?"
Henry tilted his head. "Not lies. Necessary untruths. You would never have come if you knew your purpose."
"And what is that?" Canya whispered.
"To forget," Mashahl said. "To be remade. You have wandered too long in your own memories. Now, you will serve mine."
As it lifted a hand—long fingers like ivory roots—the mirrors around them began to shudder. Hairline cracks spread through their silver surfaces. Shapes moved behind the glass—flickers of their childhoods, their fears, their regrets, writhing and blinking like insects in jars.
Allan finally lifted his easel. "I will not serve you."
"You already have," Henry said softly, as the easel crumbled to dust. "Every step you took, every doubt you nursed—it was all a feast."
The mirrors splintered further. A shard fell and shattered on the clearing's floor, releasing a whimpering voice that dissolved into the air.
Canya's breath grew ragged. "Allan…"
Another shard cracked. In its surface, she saw her mother's face. For a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—the reflection was clear, bright, real.
"Don't let them take you," her mother's voice whispered.
Canya's hand trembled. Something flickered beneath her ribs—a fragile glow she thought she had lost.
Mashahl's hollow gaze turned toward her, and the air thickened until it felt like drowning.
But Canya straightened. The fear was there, but something older stirred behind it.
"No," she said, her voice gathering strength. "We are not yours."
Mashahl stepped forward, and the clearing answered.
The mirrors cracked—this time from within—and for the first time, Allan felt the Circle itself resisting. Not just bending to Henry's will…but fighting back.