“I need to tell you something urgently. It's about your boss.”

Ciarán watched the coin spinning on the wooden table. He had heard Ophelia enter; heard the creak of the door as it swung shut behind, the floorboards groaning deliberately as her body swayed, impatient in her desire to speak.

But he didn't look up.

As the Queen's sole advisor, he was used to the comings and goings of others.

The constant questions.

The constant harassment.

The constant tasks that prevented him from being at the queen's side.

He watched the coin, its silver face twirling as it caught the light of the oil lamp. Whirling, flashing, Ciarán found his body lull... his mind drawn in—hypnotised—by the precious silver, indented with the Queen's regal illustration. So much so that he momentarily forgot about the young woman standing at the head of his table.

She cleared her throat. “Ciarán.”

Ciarán blinked.

The spell broke.

He slammed his hand on the wood, dousing the spinning coin with his palm. “The lamp?”

Housed in the bowels of the west wing, his shoe-box office sat directly above the stairs to the Palace vault. No windows let in daylight, and the thick stone walls kept the air cold.

The barbaric conditions of his quarters was the constant scourge of his mind. Self-doubt, anguish, burrowing further and further, twisting his thoughts, and all he knew—like he wasn't in the plush palace, safe and close to his Queen—but rather forgotten and trapped, alone in a dark, endless well, falling further and further away.

A shiver brushed Ciarán’s spine, but he disguised it by slipping the coin into the inside pocket of his blazer.

“I couldn't get it, but I have something better, it's about—”

“My boss,” Ciarán spat. “I heard you.”

Ophelia crossed her arms over her chest, the black puffed sleeves of her shirt folding around her body like the wings of a bat. She tilted her head, and a coil of black hair slipped out from behind her ear.

“But I suggest,” Ciarán counselled, angling his brow, “you show more respect when referring to your Queen.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “She’s still your boss, ain't she?”

“And she's still your Queen.”

“Fine. The ‘Queen’—”

“Has a threat been made on her life?” Ciarán growled. If there had, he would have known before Ophelia.

“No—”

“Are the peasants rising against her?” If they were, he would have sent the guardsman down to the village hours ago to... silence them.

“No, but—”

“Is she in any way, mentally or physically, in danger?” He knew his Queen, far better than he knew himself; she confided in him, told him things only meant for the two of them. If there were something awry, he'd see it. He’d know.

“No, but—”

“Then why, Ophelia...” Ciarán glared, “are you here?”

“Because she has magic, Ciarán!” Ophelia shouted, all composure lost. “She's a witch. She’s a lying, conniving, evil...”

Ciarán raised his fist, halting her.

“Lies,” he hissed, his voice coming out small. “I asked you to bring me a genie and their lamp—but instead, you bring me this... This blasphemous nonsense!”

Ophelia raised her chin. “It's what I heard; I wouldn't lie.”

“And so to whom, pray tell, divulged this ‘vital’ information?” As Ciarán rose, his chair ground against the floor. Flecks of stone flaked from the walls like cascading ash. Inside his chest, a dangerous flame burned, and Ciarán curled his fist around the coin in his pocket.

“He said it was a gift.”

“Who said it was a gift, Ophelia?” Whoever was spreading rumours, sinful disgusting rumours against his Queen... They had to die.

But when Ophelia spoke, she said a word Ciarán hadn't heard in a long time, a name he'd hoped he'd never hear again.

“Cosmo.”

Her back to the wall, Ophelia listened into the dark.

“It’ll work,” a voice said calmly, “trust me.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” another hissed, “One can't possibly—”

“One can't, blah, blah!” Cut in the first, sharper. “Shut it!”

Two spoke. For eight years, Ophelia had worked for the Spiders, operating as a Daughter of the Cause. Eight years of sneaking, listening, learning—paying attention to slight changes, the smallest details. So although she arrived late—the curtained door closing just as her figure appeared at the window—by the squeak and groan of the wooden chairs, Ophelia knew not two, but three conversed inside.

And it was the third, the silent one, that she needed.

Gas lamps flickered along the wall. Wind whistled through the arch of the open window, a chill pickling Ophelia's skin. A rhythmic clicking pattered against the cobbled stone floor, and a ghostly white ball scampered past her boots.

The rat skidded to a halt before the door. Lifting the cone of its nose, its silk whiskers twitched.

Ophelia tugged on the sleeves of her jacket and shuffled an inch to the left. The rat glanced her way. Two beaded eyes met hers, and Ophelia raised a brow. After flicking its ears, the rat scurried forward, a scattering of red dust covering its plump body as it parted the string curtains and disappeared inside.

Ophelia waited. Waited for the swaying curtain to settle. Waited for the conversations to stop.

A minute passed.

A lamp beside her popped...

A sharp intake of breath...

Then something heavy—two somethings—collided with wood.

From her pocket, Ophelia removed a pair of gloves and slipped them on. The first part of her plan, the easy part, was completed. “Now,” she whispered, “for the hard part.”

She parted the curtain. Rivulets of stringed beads fell over her like water, trickling down her back. Two candles, on the centre of a round table, lit the small room. Smoke twirled toward the ceiling, but below, the orange flames flickered over two slumped forms, their opposing heads resting on the tabletop. Ophelia touched the leather pouch at her hip.

She could hear the gentle breaths of the two sleeping bodies, as for the third... She heard no breath—the rise and fall of their chest motionless, for they had no need to breathe.

The Cause taught Ophelia that genies were pure magic, a seemingly impossible creation that could make just about anything possible.

Dangerous, some would say.

Evil.

Yet others considered them harmless—but a figment of their host's conciseness. Without another mortal body to control them, it was as though they didn't exist at all, purely a puppet to be used, and the thing that made them dangerous was the host themselves.

Ophelia didn't know what she thought, nor did she really care. She knew the facts. And the facts were that she could still hear the subtle creak of the chair posited between the sleeping, proof that, despite no physical manifestations, two still remained awake in that room.

“Where is your lamp?” Ophelia moved towards the empty chair. “I’m here to help. Tell me where your lamp is, and I'll set you free!” Her words were pointless. If the genie was smart, they’d know she wasn't there to help. Her mission was to destroy magic, and that lamp—that genie—was a tonne load of magic.

“This yours?”

Ophelia froze.

“She cute. Got any tricks she can do? Besides knocking people out... Or not knocking people out.“

Ophelia turned. One of the sleeping figures was awake, a young man, with a scar below his left eye. He stared at her, and Ophelia was certain she had seen him somewhere before. “How—”

“Thanks for shutting Thea up,” he said. In his hand, the rat squirmed, and as he held the rodent over the sleeping girl's head, a few more specks of red powder flittered over her brown hair. “She was really starting to bug me,” he added. “Mayhaps she’ll be nicer when she wakes. What do you think?”

Ophelia didn't know what to say. Poppies never failed. The right dose could have kept them both asleep for over an hour... And it was the correct dose. Never had she made a mistake. Ever.

She didn't know what to do. She hadn't planned for this.

“You work for him.” He said it as a fact, which meant he knew who she was.

But who was he?

The boy leant forward, and his face hardened, scowling like a stone gargoyle. He lifted the rat, holding her body next to his face. The rat's whiskers twitched.

“Has he come for me?” The boy's voice deepened to an almost comical tone, and Ophelia shivered as the boy suddenly grinned, slumping back into his chair. “Nah!” He added loudly, lightly booping the rat's nose. “Doubt it. He probably don't remember I exist. What does he want then?” He gestured to the genie in the chair. “Not this mug, I hope. He's taken...” The empty chair groaned, and the boy huffed. “I ain't a creep! But seriously.” He turned back to Ophelia. “What does Ciarán want?”

“You know Ciarán?”

“Durr! I’m his brother, Cosmo.” The boy frowned, and a flash of hurt crossed the boy's face. “He's never mentioned me?”

“No... And he never mentioned it was you who owned the genie.”

“Woah, woah! I don't OWN Clay.”

“Then you won't object to me taking the lamp.”

“Ah... No.” Cosmo released the rat onto the table, her ghostly white body gliding across the table before she leapt off, vanishing through the curtain. “I know what you lot do. Clay's staying right here.”

Ophelia reached for her pouch, her fingers twitching in the powders inside.

Cosmo held up a hand. “Hey, poppies don't work, so look, spy to spy—” His head snapped to the genie. “Shut it! You're making me look stupid. He thinks I ain't a spy,” Cosmo conversed to Ophelia, “but game recognises game, am I right? And you're game. I didn't even hear you when your first came in—real sneak attack.” Cosmo planted his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands. He smiled. “I have something way more valuable.”

“What I need is that lamp.”

“What youse need is to know your queen’s a witch—the big bad—the thing you fear the most. The thing you fight against.”

“I need the lamp,” Ophelia repeated, “I don't care about the queen.”

“That's cool, me neither... She is rather pretty, thou—” Cosmo sucked a sharp shot of air through his teeth and be rubbed his arm facing the empty chair. “Whatever... So you don't care for her,” Cosmo continued, “but my brother does. Mayhaps you should tell him, as a gift from me.”

“Why?”

“You're a spy. Thought it was your job to relay important gossip... And you might be able to help us.”

Skye grinned, gaping at the white inside of the old police box doors. Dark, yellow light shimmered through the small rectangular windows. Twin beams of light stretched in from the outside, pooling over the floor like paint smudges.

Skye's grin widened, and she bounced on the balls of her feet.

New light, she thought. Light from a new world—a new planet—just waiting for her right outside those doors.

“So,” she chirped, rapping her fingers on the metal rail. “Where are we?”

A series of beeps and clicks came from behind, and Skye turned as a monitor spun around on a gimbal from the opposite side of the console.

Circular illustrations flashed on the screen in a sequence of short beats, lines twirling in a language she couldn't read. Skye squinted at the graphics, trying to decipher them, but all she got was the throb of a headache.

“That's no help,” Skye said.

“The Sea of Sannara.” A voice said, echoing around the large room. “Located on the planet Anone in the Halo Nebula. About three billion light years away from earth.”

Skye lept forward and lent against the round console. Buttons, levers and a whole manner of switches spanned the console face. In its centre, a transparent tube extended toward the vast ceiling, a string of electric blue lights glowing from inside. The tube whirred, vibrating as the lights moved up and down.

“A new planet!” Skye breathed. She spun the monitor back around, and it clicked to a halt as another hand caught it.

Footsteps echoed on the metal grates as a figure stepped around the console. Blue flushed over his body like a wave, and he returned his glasses to the front pocket of his brown blazer. “A new planet,” he repeated. The corners of his lips quirked. “What to take a look?”

Skye’s heart skipped. She spun and ran to the door... But stopped before her hands touched the silver handle.

She was strung by the sudden stench of copper, tasted the metallic tang on the tip of her tongue. She dropped her hand. “Is it safe?”

“Safe?”

She felt him come up behind her, the stranger she had met barely a week ago. A lifetime had passed in those few days. Days spent in Victorian England. Nights spent in a time a hundred years in the future. She’d peeked at history and glimpsed the years yet to come... but another world, in a Galaxy not yet discovered by mankind with a man she was yet to fully understand and so far from home...

Was she mad?

Desperate?

Was all of this just a distraction, a way to forget the failure of her life behind?

Something brushed her shoulder, jolting her from her daze.

“I wouldn't take you anywhere that isn't safe— Well,” he said suddenly, “not intentionally! Well, not...” He trailed off. “This isn't helping, is it?”

Skye shook her head.

“I promise you, Skye,” he continued, smoothing his tone, “I would never let anything bad happen to you!” He offered her his hand. Steadied his eyes.

He had seen so much, Skye thought, lived through so much. He had done it all, and she couldn't even drive a car.

She was putty in his hands.

Skye drew her eyes from the floor, glancing over his shoulder to the impossible room behind her. Bigger on the inside.

Impossible.

Incredible.

“Do you trust me?” He asked.

Did she? Skye thought about her life back home, all that she had—all that she didn't have. Perhaps that was why he chose her; no one to miss her when she was gone.

What did she have to lose?

Grinning, Skye took the Doctor's hand. “Definitely.”

And with a snap of his fingers, the doors groaned, opening Skye to a new world.

It started with a bite—a fleeting act of hungering passion. One single moment that became the trigger to the end of the world...

Or the catalyst for a new one.

The world once saw us as fiction, a fantasy glistening in sparkles. But now we are that world, our past lives, our past bodies left behind, like dust gathering in the ink of old history books. That one moment turned the world...

And we never once looked back.

Over a century had passed since that single day—that last day when our bodies basked in the sun and revelled in its once glorious light.

History said we once needed that light, that warmth of the faraway star. That its burning, bubbling gas kept us alive, kept us living. But now, as my people lived, breathed and worked under the veil of the night, that once-required, sort-out source brought nothing but our doom.

Piles of ash would all but remain.

Our forms disintegrated like we never mattered at all, forgotten on the wind—particles lost in the sun's harsh glare. So my people hid. For decades. Afraid of the daylight, of the world outside.

There are still those out there, beyond the woods, tucked away in the furthest reaches of the planet. Those sprinkled few who managed to escape that change—that bite—their days spent living, breathing, working under the sun's rays, their bodies undergoing a change of their own. Perhaps their minds too.

My people called it The Devil Kiss. Several months throughout the year, those unchanged lay on the ground and allowed the sun’s heat to burn their skin and turn it beet red or brown.

A strange tradition and notion for someone such as myself to understand, but it was that small pass of knowledge that made me realise that the one that cowered at my feet was one of them.

One of the Unchanged.

“You have The Devil Kiss,” I had said, staring at the line of pale skin that poked out from the hem of their sleeve. The rest of their hand was a warm brown, matching the colour of their wide-eyed face. Stale sweat wrangled with the wet musk of the forest, and I wondered how long they had been there.

I had found them among the trees, washed in a puddle of moonlight. Dirt smeared the edges of their cheeks, the line of their jaw; their clothes ragged like ribbons. They had flinched when I had first approached, for their underdeveloped sight hadn't seen me, their lesser ears not yet accustomed to the sounds of the forest.

“What are you doing here, so far out into the night?” I asked, but the unchanged one didn't reply. Nor did they answer any of my other questions. They just stared, eyes wild, their arms wrapped tightly around their middle.

“Do you require sustenance? Food?” Crouching to meet them, I touched my translucent hand to their shoulder, the blue of my veins pulsing beneath. “The sun rises in two hours—is that what you need? Do yo—”

“Get-get away!” They stuttered. Their body twitched, and from their coat, they brandished a length of wood. “Monster!”

Time captivated their sluggish movements as they thrust forward. Aiming, they missed, and I managed to move as the pointed stick grazed my left arm.

Grabbing the weapon, I tugged them up, out from the moonlight, dousing the surroundings of their world. To them, my body disappeared, now shrouded behind a curtain of darkness they couldn't see through.

An owl hooted. A branch snapped. The wind whispered playfully through the trees. Beyond, I could see the outline of the village, silver and glistening blue under the moon’s light: our peaceful paradise, our haven in the dark...

Ruined.

The unchanged struggled under my grasp, and their body thrashed. Clumps of moss and leaves flew into the air. Their teeth gnashed, globs of spittle raining over their chin. Growling, they wrestled free, waving wildly. They attacked again, but I blocked their strike. Like a coiled spring, their arm sprung back, and they whacked themself in the nose.

I smelt the red before I saw it.

“Foolish!” I growled. “Blind!”

The sweet syrupy catalyst seeped from their nose, dripping down over their lips.

Forbidden.

A death sentence.

But oh, so delicious.

Saliva oozed from my mouth. My fingers twitched. My body ached—hungered.

I grinned.

“Get away!” they screamed, but my jaw bit down, and their yells drowned out any further words.

The mist of the graveyard rolled far over the horizon.

Skeletal trees clawed towards fading sun, a glorious, burning orange seeping over the land like spilt ink, clinging longingly to the bruised purple of dusk.

Influenza had added countless more headstones, packed generations of kin into stone family mausoleums.

Fresh dirt mounded new unmarked graves, and inside the small church, at the centre of it all, a single candle flickered in the stained glass window.

The chapel had become a halfway—a morgue—for the unfortunate souls waiting to be buried. Useless to the dead, the candlelight offered a way for the living to feel better about leaving the deceased all unattended and alone.

I put all of this onto my canvas. Sorrow and grief, my Muses, and my hand swept as my eyes wept, my brush flowing freely through the paint.

“Here you are!” Footsteps crunched over autumn's fallen leaves, and the figure of Billie staggered into the ring on my candlelight. “I've been looking... for you... for hours,” she panted.

“Wish you would go look for a little longer,” I muttered.

“Come, the demonstration is about to begin any moment.”

“I’d prefer it if I could stay.” I wiped my paint bush on my woollen pinafore. “For I am almost done.”

“But you’d said you come,” Billie whined. “You promised.” Her lips pouted, the candle flame flickering over her rosy cheeks, and she tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear—a small artist's impression on me.

“I never said those words.”

“But I need you to come.” From the fold of her cherry cloak, she pulled out a slip of paper, one I’d seen posted all over town.

Pyres. Fires. Blasphemy. Curses and death.

Witch burnings.

“Mindless propaganda,” I muttered.

“Participants under the age of sixteen must be accompanied by an adult. See,” she read, “so you have to come. Charlie, please!” She slammed the pamphlet on the easel’s small adjacent table... Where I kept my brushes... Where I kept my palette.

Assassin’s blade quick, red paint splattered, vandalising the left side of my canvas. Thick globs oozed from the sky, dripping like tears of blood from the setting sun.

My fuse blown, I shoved her back. “An odd notion,” I snapped. “Since there should be no children in attendance at all. Or anyone, for that matter.”

A soft whimper escaped her as her pink slippers stumbled, and she slipped, tumbling with a slap into the mud.

An ounce of guilt tightened my gut at my fallen sister, but it was soon forgotten at the sight of the red paint, bubbled proudly like a boil on the tip of a nose. I grabbed a small spatula and began to scrape off the worse of the damage.

“They’re looking for someone to blame!” Billie blurted, her voice catching as she scrambled up. “If you come, they might for—”

But it was too late.

For through the woods behind, flames danced through the trees, their eager movements supported by chants of anger.

“Princess Bri, my sweet, magical Princess, I know we've only known each other for three hours, but,”—Bowing his head, he bent to one knee—“from the moment I saw you, I knew we were meant to be together. My true love.” He smiled, and a crystalline tear slipped down his porcelain cheek. “Will you marry me?”

Clutching her heart, Bri blushed—just as her mother had taught her. “Oh, Luke,” she gasped and took his hand, “Of cour—”

The double doors burst open and in entered a figure.

Face hidden by a black eyemask, they drew a bloody axe from the fold of their cloak.

Luke lept to his feet, his sword in hand. The intruder lunged forward and, in two steps, their gloved hand tightened around Luke’s throat, throwing him to the floor.

Bri flailed back and cast out her arms—aiming. She called forth the wind, but all she managed was a measly whistling puff.

The intruder raised their axe. Swung.

“No!” Bri screamed. “This was supposed to be about me, not murder! This was supposed to be my happy ending!”

Bone snapped as the intruder struck Luke’s chest with a wet thunk. Luke yowled, blood consuming his white tunic.

“Stop it!” Bri yelled. “Stop!”

The intruder halted midswing.

Jake’s limp eyes fluttered back. Blood seeped from his gaping mouth and down his chin, pooling in the triangular trench of his collarbone. He groaned, and a bubble burst, red splattering his translucent skin.

The intruder hummed. Craning their neck, their two burning eyes glared at something standing, hidden in the corner. Something that looked a lot... Like...

YOU!

“Should I stop?” They asked you.

Seen, your heart lurched, and you stumbled back, hard, cold stone cutting your shoulders as you hit the wall. Your lip trembled, and the stench of blood burned your throat.

A weak “Yes.” is all you can manage.

“Why should I stop?” They said, their voice burrowing deep into your chest.

Sweat clung to your body, and you searched for the answer in Bri’s face, but it seemed your sudden arrival had already become a memory to her, as her attention remained solely on the now breathless boy.

“Because...” You stuttered, “Because fairy tales... Fairy tales are supposed to be happy! They are supposed to be good!”

“A fairy tale, you say?” The intruder grinned, teeth sharp. “Who's saying this is a fairy tale? Don’t you remember, we changed the genre...”

From their belt, they yanked a dagger, and your eyes widened. “

Use your magic!” You yelled at Bri, but the shocked princess remained frozen.

The intruder cackled. “Magic? There’s no magic here.” Tilting their head, they let the weapon fly.

A scream tore from your throat as the dagger struck right between Bri's eyes. Her gaze never left her prince as she face-planted to the floor.

With the prince dead and princess too, the intruder's bloodlust focused on you.

They licked the bloody axe. “No survivors.”

Quickly, you closed the book.

The front door slammed shut, and a set of feet pounded up the stairs.

I wiped my soap-lathered hands on my jeans. “Hey, hey, hey!” I shouted from the kitchen, “what’s the rush?”

The footsteps stopped. “Sorry, mum... It's Biscuit business.” A second passed. “You wouldn't understand.” The hurried steps continued, and I winced at the slam of her bedroom door.

Turning back to the sink, I plunged a hand back into the lukewarm water and pulled the plug. The sink gurgled, and the bubbles twisted in a whirlpool down the drain.

“How was your day at school, Sam?” I said under my breath. “Oh,” I replied to myself, “It was lovely, mother, thank you for asking, how was your day? That's kind of you to ask, Sam; my day was—”

THUMP.

I glanced at the ceiling.

“Biscuit business,” I muttered.

B.I.S.C.U.I.T. Sam had started her little club, Biscuit or Benevolent Investigators Saving Confused and Unprotected Innocent Terrors, over a year ago. Building work had started behind the house, and soon after, holes in the ground began to sprout everywhere. Contractors said they were due to

But of course, Sam and her friends—and their delightful child's imagination—believed the holes were caused by little creatures called Terrors, invisible beings from somewhere beyond.

I played along, of course; who would I be to squash my child's imagination?

Another loud bump.

But when she began to destroy my house...

“Sam!” I called up the stairs, “what on Earth is going on?” Something bangs from her room, and I quickly make my way up.

Knocking on her door, I turned the handle. “Sam, are you—”

I stopped.

Carnage.

Mess.

E v e r y w h e r e.

Paper and rubbish littered her floor. Dirt stained her blue rug—her wormery shattered.

Clothes hung from the lampshade, the back of the desk chair, the curtain reel, and against the wall, the bedside lamp had toppled over and fallen onto her bare mattress, the blue of her duvet screwed into a tight ball.

And under her bed, was her, bottoms up.

“Sam!”

Squealing, she wiggled out, and I picked up a shard of glass. “What happened to Wormtopia?” I asked, then stopped as I caught full sight of her—luckily with no sign of blood. “Actually, what happened to your uniform? What have you been going?”

Thick ladders spanned from large holes in her black tights. Mud smeared her skirt and the front of her blue school jumper, and as she hopped forward, I could have sworn there weren't any tears in the sleeves of her blazer when she left this morning.

“It’s—”

“If you say Biscuit business!” I warned.

“But it is!” She ran a hand over her knotty hair. "There was a Terror at school. I know you don't believe, but I couldn't just leave it!”

I blanched.

“I’m Biscuit’s leader, mum.” She lifted her chin. “It's my duty—”

“Enough!” I scooped up her broken wormery and placed it on her desk. “Just enough. Clean this up.”

“But!”

“No, Sam! Look at Wormtopia. All this, is it wo—!”

A pile of washing quivered by Sam’s feet.

Sam sidestepped away, turning her back towards me. “Don’t be mad,” she said, “It’s just scared.”

Is it scared? There's a strange creature in my home, and IT'S scared.

Twitching jerked the clothes again, and my mind ping-ponged to images of mice and rats running a rampage. Pooing. Chewing. Their tiny hands clawing...

I shivered. “Whatever you've brought home,” I said sternly, “Get it out, now!”

Sam leapt at the colourful mound, grabbing, but she came away empty-handed, and somewhere, I could hear a short, sharp snuffle.

“Where did it go?” I squinted. “Why can't I see it?”

“They’re invisible. Duh.”

“Excuse me, miss, don't...” But my words were forgotten.

The snuffling had stopped, and a single black bean appeared in the centre of the carpet. Before my mind could begin to comprehend what it was, a sharp crack split the air.

The bean had split...

And something oozed from its middle, seeping over the carpet like thick tar.

My stomach lurched as the floor shook.

“Sam,” I urged and wiggled my hand, stretching it towards her. “What’s that?”

“I think...” Sam clasped my hand. Wind picked up, whipping around her bedroom. Papers and book pages caught hold, swirling in a tight, powerful whirlwind. My hair whisked from my face, and I pulled Sam closer.

“I think,” Sam continued, far too joyfully, “it’s a portal... To the Terror’s home.”

Cosmo slumped back and kicked the chest with his foot. It skidded along the ground, leaving deep trenches in the dirt.

There were so many rumours surrounding the Dragon Chest, and with such a name, the drunken minds at the local tavern had run wild with stories of gold, jewels, or perhaps the generously rich coffers of a long forgotten damsalled princess.

But what Cosmo didn't expect to find was a lousy, torn scroll.

They had found the chest deep in the vaults below the palace. Unremarkable in design, Cosmo had first mistaken it for an old fisherman's crate. But after he had thrown it to the floor (and smelt nothing fishy), Thea had pointed out the silver work, the slats stamped with a long, curled dragon flying over the sea.

Cosmo had thought it tacky.

He kicked the chest again, and a shard of wood splinted from the domed lid.

"Oi, don't do that!" Thea declared, and the hollow chamber agreed, repeating her words in a distorted echo of her voice.

Water dripped from deeper within the vault, and even though he tried not to, Cosmo couldn't help but breathe in the stale stench of mildew and rust. Some hundred years, the palace above had abandoned the contents of the vaul, leaving once-precious artefacts to rot and decay, hidden away in the dark.

If only he had been alive those years ago, Cosmo thought, he would have stolen it all and sold it for a fortune.

He could have been a king, all of his own.

Thea grunted and pushed up from her spot by a weathered stone gargoyle. She stomped over to the chest. A veil of shadows draped over her face. The dark sunk into the sharp lines of her cheekbones and deepened the bags under her eyes, and for a moment, Cosmo saw how the rest of the world saw her—as the personification of fear itself... A Dark Witch.

Cosmo shivered under his jacket.

Quickly, he blew a raspberry to settle his nerves. "Try and stop me."

Ignoring him, Thea rightened the chest and plucked out the scroll from inside. Yellow light glimmered from their discarded torch on the ground, and the flame flashed in the lenses of her glasses. "Did you even think to check what was on the scroll?”

"Seeing as scrolls ain't local currency—no!" Cosmo flopped back, and his head fell into a pillow of dirt.

An eternity appeared in the vast vault ceiling. It seemed to go on forever.

Six wide walkways extended equally from the curved walls, reaching inwards like the spokes of a wagon wheel to a central, circular point in the middle.

Even in the low light, Cosmo could see several floors. Each layer rose higher and higher, but with every new stone wheel, the condition of the bridges’ deteriorated, crumbling away until Cosmo lost sight of everything at all.

Cosmo sighed. "You can't bloody buy beer with kindling,” he muttered and closed his eyes.

For weeks, he had dreamt of nothing but the prize waiting within the dragon's chest. Gold enough to pay off his debt, a gateway out from under the queen's thumb. But, as with most dragons, its glistening hoard didn't exist, and Cosmo was once again left withering around in the dirt.

"Oi, Mr Mopey. Would a map be of interest?"

His ears piqued. "Pirate?”

"Well, there's no big X-marks-the-spot, but a little chest is drawn in the corner, and it is gold. But whatever,” Thea sighed dramatically, and Cosmo heard her boots crunching on the ground. “As you said, this is just kindling."

“Wait!” Scrambling to his feet, Cosmo leaned over Thea's shoulder. Snatching the map, a sprinkling of something came away in his hands, scattering over his skin like dandruff. “What‘s this?” He grimaced, rubbing the grey powder between his fingers. He sniffed it. It tickled, smelling something acidic and citrus. He sneezed. “Fruity dust?”

“Clay, perhaps.” Thea yanked the scroll back. “Oi, don’t lick it!”

Cosmo put his arm down, returned his tongue to the inside of his mouth and wiped his dusty hand on his trousers. “Spoilsport.”

As thick as wafer biscuits, the parchment ran no bigger than Thea's forearm.

Golden lines coursed across the black page, intersecting like leylines. Pale blue filled the blank edges of the map, and where the green areas were, were crudely drawn regions of trees and mountains, with the occasional scratch of a town or village.

Cosmo squinted and ran his tongue over the ring in his lip. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't recognise any of the depicted landmarks.

This place didn't exist.

“It’s a duff,” he said, “it has to be. This crusty map leads to nowhere. Let's go.” Cosmo tugged Thea's sleeve, but she didn't move.

She sniffed, her face scrunching. “Can you smell lemons?” The torch light glared in the reflection of the glasses, and as she brought the map to the tip of her nose, the laylines cutting across her lenses like jagged cracks. She inhaled again. “It definitely smells of lemons.”

At the back of Cosmo’s mind, something sparked. And then, he realised.

"Burn it," he said.

"What?"

"Use your damn flame and torch it."

"What use is that?"

"If my instincts serve me correctly—and they usually do, I'm excellent like that—burning this sucker will show us exactly where we need to go."

"And if it doesn't?"

"If it doesn't,” Cosmo considered, “then the cartographer or whoever should've drawn a big bloody X—or if that was too difficult, they should've written at the top 'DO NOT BURN TO REVEAL WHERE THE TREASURE IS,” Cosmo shouted, his voice echoing, “ALTHOUGH THAT IS AN EXCELLENT IDEA AND I WILL USE THAT NEXT TIME'!"

Thea raised an eyebrow, and Cosmo frowned. "I'm smart,” he countered, “It'll work. Lemons turn it invisible, and dragons breathe fire.” He gestured towards the chest. “It's in the ‘Dragon Chest’, so, boop boop, put two and two together, and you get: BURN IT!”

Thea rolled her eyes. “Drama queen.”

“Always. Now, flame up!”

Closing her eyes, Thea opened her hand, pointing her palm up.

His chest tightened. Cosmo had witnessed her magic many a time, been saved by it many more. But the fear was still there—childhood indoctrinated by hatred and false pretences would do that. And he hated himself for it. It wasn't Thea's fault.

The air popped. Cosmo smelt smoke, and a brilliant flame blossomed in Thea's palm.

“If this is wrong,” she began.

“I’m not.” He really hoped not. Looking less than convinced, Thea let the two touch.

The fire caught, scorching the parchment and curling the shrinking corners inward. Embers sparked. The leylines vanished, as did the mountains and unknown towns. Black paint peeled away, revealing a layer of blue sapphire beneath and a place Cosmo recognised—a single Island at the heart of the Pacific.

That's where they had to go. There they’d find the treasure. Perhaps the scroll wasn't just kindling after all.

Cosmo grinned. “Bingo!”

Clay flicked to the next page.

He ran his finger down the thin parchment and over the ink, dulled and smudged with time. His eyes no longer needed to read the words; by now, he knew them all off by heart.

Every book, every story, a constant reel of characters and lives he'd never get to experience—hundreds of worlds trapped within the confines of leather-bound tomes.

All alone, the only sounds came from above. Waves crashed against the skylights, the ferocity of the water shuddering the domed walls and shaking the tail-flicked plants dangling from the ceiling.

Spurts of white foam sprinkled the edges of the frosted glass, and Clay often imagined those spume as snow, dreaming of a vast winter wonderland waiting to be explored.

But as another wave came and washed away the seafoam, that was all it would ever be.

Imaginary.

He hadn't seen snow in over a century.

Or felt the sun's warmth on his skin or the brush of an autumnal wind through his hair. He missed the moon, its face wide and shining.

Clay glanced at his wrists. He missed his freedom.

Much like his stories, he, too, was bound, brought powerless by the two black cuffs encasing his forearms.

Ancient runes, sewed with threats of gold, detailed the pristine leather of the twin bands—years he'd spent picking at the stitching, cutting away at the old leather.

Steel daggers bent and br oke.

Matches burned down to snubs, and broken bottles, still acidic in smell, lay waste, long empty of their toxic liquid. His skin had suffered, blistered and split, brought red and raw by his futile attempts.

Yet, no matter how hard he tried, the cuffs remained intact. Like an impenetrable fortress, he thought; however, rather than keep a powerful force out, it kept one in, locked behind strands of woven gold.

Sighing, Clay slumped in his chair and turned the page. He didn't need the book, but he wanted it, prefered the physicality of it. It gave his hands something else to do and took his mind off—

A thumb-sized spider crawled over Clay's knee.

Weaving through the hairs on Clay’s leg, it skittered to a stop, and as a wave crashed overhead, it lept, swinging on silk to the blanket of moss below.

Clay watched a little envious as the creature hurried over four-leafed clovers, clambered through half-buried scrolls and broken plant pots until it disappeared beneath the arch of an upturned book. What an adventure for such a small spider, Clay thought.

A wave crashed, the hanging plants shook, and Clay picked at the threads of his leather cuffs.

Perhaps one day, someone would find his lamp, his home, his prison beneath the waves of the sea, rub it thrice, and set him free.

But until then, he’d turn the same pages... Read the same stories... Waiting for his own to begin.

“There he is again,” Pearl murmured, straightening an orange silk scarf on display. “Skulking the market like a stray mutt, his coat a tatty rag and his whole life strapped to his back.”

“Who is he?”

“Nobody really knows.” Raising an eyebrow, Pearl stooped over the table. Intrigued, Flavian leaned in, too, meeting his merchant in the middle. “And if I'm being honest,” she whispered, “Everybody's too frightened to ask. They're afraid he’ll, you know—” Pearl touched a jewelled finger to her throat and swiped it all the way across.

“He doesn't look THAT bad,” Flavian said.

The two watched the stranger as he drifted between the close-knit market stalls. Never once did he look up or acknowledge another, his face hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat.

He weaved through the crowd like a practised art. With ease, surety. A man quick with his mind and confident in his intentions, free flowing, and invulnerable to the judgement of others.

He had nothing holding him down and nothing, at all, to lose. And unlike before, Flavian found himself admiring that.

“So he's a drifter,” Flavian said, “a little unorthodox perhaps,” he admitted and folded his gloved hands under his armpits, “but he doesn't look frightening.” Flavian shrugged. “Handsome, maybe.”

“Ah, but you would say that, wouldn't you“—she tapped her nose—“‘Cause you haven't heard the stories.”

Flavian quickly glanced back at the stallholder and just caught the sharp twinkle in her eyes before he turned back around. “You just said nobody knew anything about him.”

“Not personally, no,” Pearl said, “But, you know, people hear things, and... They talk.”

The stranger slipped behind a display of carpets, and Flavian briefly lost sight of the man. A moment later, he reappeared only a row of stalls away.

“Just look at him,” Pearl scoffed, and Flavian did.

Beneath the shadows of the multicoloured stall canopies, Flavian couldn't see much detail of the stranger's appearance. But as the man moved, a shaft of sunlight slipped between a crack in the overhanging awnings and fell over the stranger's shoulders and neck, and Flavian caught sight of the pink welt of a scar across the ridge of his adam's apple.

“He's practically feral,” she spat.

Flavian frowned. “And because of that, you judged him so quickly? You came to that rapid conclusion—that he's violent, a madman—based on his appearance and a rumour?”

Pearl's face soured, her rouge-painted lips puckering, and she busied herself by pulling the crease from a yellow scarf dangling above her stall. “Well, it's true.”

“And what would you say about me? What rumours would you spread? Or,” Flavian added slowly, “what about young Abigail—”

“Abigail’s death was unfortunate,” Pearl declared. She stopped fiddling with her scarves. “Wait, how—!”

“But it could have been prevented, couldn't it, Pearl.” Flavian smiled, and the woman's face reddened as he came in close and whispered, “Had you not said anything.”

“Well, I don't... I’ve never—”

“Come on, Pearl,” Flavian cooed, “the whole town knows it was you. It's always been you. You, with your scarves and that big. Gaping. Mouth!”

Flavian tugged off his glove.

His skinless, boney hand clamped around Pearl's throat. Her eyes widened. She began to claw wildly at Flavian's arm.

Nobody came to her aid, for all they saw was a merchant selling her wares to a young man—a gift probably, for his sweetheart or his sickly, ailing mother.

But that was all speculation; they all saw what they wanted to see. What they believed to be the truth.

Except for one.

The stranger, Dante, appeared at Flavian’s side. Without a word, he removed a single box from the fold of his bag. Simple in design and cut from yew, Dante opened the lid and placed the box on the table on top of one of Pearl's red scarves.

From her eye, a single tear fell. It slid down her cheek and to the exposed bone of Flavian’s hand. He felt nothing. No warmth, no bitter sting of guilt. Her tears fell, but her signs of remorse meant nothing to him; they meant nothing to her.

Flavian squeezed. His bones dug deep into her skin, squelching, cracking.

He pulled, tearing out her throat.

The woman collapsed to the floor. Blood gurgled, and Flavian placed the raw, pulsing flesh into the box.

“A scarf perhaps,” Flavian suggested, staring down over the stall. The woman squirmed, and Flavian gestured to his neck. “To hide the, you know.”

Flavian tugged his glove back on, and Dante returned the box to his bag. Together, they weaved through the crowd away from the town and onto the next one.