The morning they left Westwood was the kind of soft grey that whispered of omens, or possibly just a rainstorm with delusions of grandeur.
Mist clung to the cobbled streets like the village itself was reluctant to let them go. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed and was promptly shouted down by a territorial goose with something to prove. Behind them, the town rumbled to life: potion stalls coughing out glittery steam, enchanted wind chimes shivering against stray jinxes, and the unmistakable scent of cinnamon hexes from the bakery wrapping around Elara's senses like a farewell hug.
Elara adjusts the strap of her satchel, tightening it across her shoulder as she stands just outside of her aunt's property. Behind her, the door to 13 Westwood Lane shuts with a click that feels suspiciously like judgment.
"We packed for one night, right?" Moony asks, trotting ahead in his tiny, spellproof vest, which now featured four unnecessarily dramatic pockets. He'd dubbed it his "combat couture."
Rowan checks the straps across his chest. His blade, slung low beneath his coat, gives off the soft hum of a weapon that didn't like to be ignored. "We're heading into a haunted glade full of malevolent mirror spirits. Best case scenario? One night. Worst case? We're trapped forever and become increasingly dramatic versions of ourselves."
Valen standing behind them, the very image of lazy elegance, smiles. "So, two nights, max."
Elara sighs in frustration. "I hate all of you."
"Reassuring," Valen responds, mild amusement in his tone. "Means the day's starting off normal."
They'd all changed since finding the second shard. Elara especially. Something inside her had cracked open…not violently, but like thawed ground giving way to roots that had waited too long. The loss of her self-doubt should have left her untethered. Instead, she felt...sharper. Truer. A blade polished down to its edge.
And she wasn't sure if that made her brave, or just dangerous.
They take the long path out of Westwood, following the river where wild magic curls in the reeds. The water shimmers with a subtle iridescence, and dragonflies dance in erratic, star-shaped patterns above the current. Birds sing unfamiliar songs. Trees lean in too far, as though curious or conspiratorial.
"I still don't get why we can't just teleport," Elara mutters, tugging her cloak tighter against a gust that smelled faintly of moss and old ink.
"Mirrorwood doesn't play fair," Rowan replies. "Magic doesn't behave the same way in there. Spells warp. Portals fold in on themselves. One poor soul tried a broomstick shortcut and came back speaking only in riddles and soup recipes."
Valen flicks a stone into the river. "Teleportation is suicide. The old witches knew that. Physical travel, iron charms, blessed boots…real protection. No shortcuts."
"And how many of them made it out?" Elara asks.
Valen raises a brow. "Define 'made it.'"
As the path narrows and the brambles thicken, the forest presses in. Elara pauses at a tree marked with half-swallowed carvings…symbols that looked like they'd been scorched into the bark rather than etched. One looked like a spiral wrapped around a broken eye.
Rowan's gaze follows hers. "Old witchmark. A warning. This whole glade used to be a sanctum for the Sisterhood of Virelight. They tried to cleanse the land."
"Did it work?" Elara asks.
Rowan doesn't answer.
Valen crouches near a patch of moss shaped suspiciously like a handprint. "This place sits on a knot of ley lines. Magic used to flow freely. But time frays things. Now the forest's memory is tangled. It remembers everything—fears, lies, promises. It hoards them."
Moony's tail stiffens. "Speaking of hoarding, we're being followed."
They stop.
"Since when?" Rowan asks, drawing a hand subtly toward his blade.
"Since we passed the forgetting stones. I didn't say anything in case it was just an over-friendly ghost. But now it smells wrong. Like salt and old regret."
"Oh good," Elara mutters. "Nothing says peaceful hike like the aroma of existential failure."
Rowan moves closer to her, steps measured.
Valen melts into the edge of the trail like a shadow with opinions. His hand brushes briefly against Elara's as he passes…intentional or not, she couldn't tell.
"Could be a Council agent," Rowan says.
"Could be worse," Valen murmurs. "Could be Veshra."
Elara's breath hitches. She'd only heard fragments of that name. A mimic with no soul, sent when the Council wanted someone gone without fuss or evidence. It didn't kill. It replaced.
She walks faster.
Now and then looking back, scanning, searching for any movement, that shouldn't be there.
They make camp in a hollow beneath some trees that shimmer like stained glass in twilight.
Rowan rings their circle with salt and a charm that hums faintly with protective magic.
Moony refuses to leave Elara's lap and growls at every bird, leaf, or intrusive breeze. (Seriously, does he not realize he is a cat and not a guard dog!).
Valen lights the fire with a spell in a tongue that feels like it should have echoes.
"You're quiet," he says to Elara.
"I'm thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
She gives him a flat look.
Valen tilts his head. "You're trying to guess what the forest will show you."
"I already know," she says, too fast.
Rowan hands her a flask of water and glances at her, unreadable. "Do you?"
She doesn't answer.
A rustle cuts through the air, and every hand reaches out to a weapon or ward. A figure emerges from behind a tree like it had been waiting for applause.
"Peace!" cries Fenwick Thistlewhistle, draped in scarves and good intentions. "Unless this is one of those tense moments where introductions ruin everything…in which case, carry on."
Elara groans. "What. How. WHY?"
Fenwick beams. "I followed the winds of fate! Also, Moony left a sock. I felt rude not to return it."
Moony narrows his eyes. "I don't wear socks."
"Not anymore," Fenwick agrees mysteriously. "Besides, I brought snacks. And three riddles. One might be about Elara's destiny. Or a goat. It's unclear."
Valen stares. "You always show up right before a disaster."
"Coincidence!" Fenwick chirps. "Maybe."
That night, no one really slept.
Rowan kept watch in short, controlled bursts.
Elara's dreams were fragmented: hands reaching through mirrors, her own voice telling her to run.
Fenwick muttered in his sleep about tea leaves and betrayal.
Moony snores once…just once…which seemed to offend him deeply when teased about it.
Valen...thinks of his next step, taking careful consideration of potential risks and the eventual reward at the end.
Dawn is a mercy for all of them.
They reach the forest's edge by midmorning.
Mirrorwood does not look monstrous. In fact, it looks deceptively serene…dappled light, silver leaves, petals drifting like slow snow.
But ten feet in, the air changes.
Sounds dim. Shadows deepen.
The trees seem to breathe.
Elara touches the two shards beneath her cloak. They pulse faintly, warm and aware.
She turns to the others. Rowan stands ready, eyes on her like she was both a compass and a storm. Valen holds her gaze, half a smirk on his lips, but something steadier beneath it. Moony's fur bristles.
Fenwick leans on a walking stick that might once have been a clarinet. "Where shadows listen and mirrors lie," he murmurs. "The echo of your worst self waits."
Elara blinks. "Where did you hear that?" A questioning lilt to her voice..
"A dream. Or a fortune cookie. Or possibly a cursed door knocker." He smiles secretively. "Either way…very you."
Elara takes a deep breath.
Then, without waiting for permission or delay, she steps into Mirrorwood.
The trees close behind them like a secret being kept.
And somewhere…not far, not kind…begins to hum.