Evarys' Will

Balco

Dyva’s expression darkened with alarm. «By Evarys’s name, you need to be more careful!» he hissed, striding across the dusty floorboards to the window. He pushed it open and leaned out into the cold air, eyes scanning the tangled sprawl of the gardens below. Somewhere out there, a man had been struck by a spoon and robbed of his cheese. «Be inconspicuous,» Dyva muttered over his shoulder, throwing a glance at Vivre. The little fey was entirely unbothered, still happily arranging their bizarre little corner of comfort. They now had a spool of thread balanced atop a broken candlestick, and were diligently poking holes in a pincushion with a decorative hairpin.

Dyva turned away, dragging a hand down his face. “And now how in the world am I supposed to introduce you to the others?” Just imagining the conversation made his stomach knot and his shoulders sag. «I’m going to see Ravion,» he announced flatly, «—the one you stole the cheese from.»

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and headed back downstairs with the fethra, the wooden steps creaking beneath his boots. He stepped outside into the gardens, where the world was muffled and still beneath a gentle veil of falling snow. The estate grounds stretched around him in tangled wildness—shrubs run amok, trees sagging under their icy burden, stone paths barely visible beneath the white.

As far as Dyva knew, the estate had once belonged to a distinguished family of old-money aristocrats—names whispered in high circles, long since reduced to rumor and memory. The family had vanished decades ago, their legacy dissolved into mystery. Tales still circulated in hushed tones: a bloody massacre behind locked doors, a midnight abduction that left not a soul behind, even murmurs of otherworldly forces that had spirited them away. But the truth, like the estate itself, had crumbled with time. No one knew for certain what had happened within those ivy-choked walls.

What was once a symbol of wealth and grandeur had been stripped bare, scavenged of anything with value. Now it stood as a skeleton of faded opulence—a hidden, half-forgotten relic. To Dyva and his companions, however, it had become something far more meaningful: a refuge. A secret base. A gathering place that felt more like home than any of their actual homes.

They had spent nearly every summer there, basking in the shade of its ruined columns and sprawling gardens, finding freedom in its decay. The villa had sheltered laughter, mischief, and long days of respite from the oppressive swelter of city life. But now, with winter’s icy hand closing around the land, their visits had grown rare. And yet, Dyva was here.

It had been Dyva and Gavron—his kysanor¹ friend and partner in childhood adventures—who first stumbled across the forgotten estate a few years ago. They had been exploring the woods beyond the city’s edge, driven by the restlessness of youth and an appetite for secrets. What they found was more than they’d hoped for: not just a decrepit old villa, but one with a soul still stirring within its bones.

There, amid the dust and silence, lived Ravion—a reclusive, wiry old man with a mane of silver hair and eyes that held too many lifetimes. His past was wrapped in shadow, hinted at in vague stories and unfinished thoughts. Yet despite his cryptic nature, Ravion was far from hostile. When the boys intruded on his solitude, he welcomed them like long-lost kin. He’d even offered them a tour of the crumbling halls, recounting fragments of the estate’s long-forgotten history with a nostalgic glint in his eye.

From that day forward, the abandoned villa had become more than a curiosity. It became a refuge—a hidden outpost claimed by a band of misfits, who found in its ruins a rare kind of freedom. If one of them ever went missing in town, there was a silent understanding: check the estate first.

Meanwhile, back inside the villa, Vivre froze. Their ears twitched—movement. Someone, or something, was approaching.

¹ A male individual of the Sheepfolk species.

Dokzentir

Vivre could feel when they were being observed. It always gave them a greater awareness of themselves, like watching themselves through an onlooker’s eyes. This onlooker had sharp eyes, and a stealthy demeanor. The fey took a look around and listened. Faint taps were heard. The excitement heightened, Vivre felt it. It was brewing something, getting ready. The butterfly felt that the stage had been set, and the action would spring. Vivre spotted the beast. It leapt. A razor flashed.

There was a clang. The razor was flung away. Vivre had been knocked to the side, with bleeding scratches, and had tumbled into the top-most drawer, together with a single severed tip of a cat’s claw and a drop splatter of blood. The thickly furred cat crashed on top of the cabinet with claws out. The candlestick fell an clanged to the ground. All other small items performed a hop before landing again on the wood, only slightly misplaced. The white beast leaned over the edge to peer into the drawer. It spotted the butterfly releasing stretched-out out a rubber band like an archer. It zipped by and struck the hunter in the right eye. It took a swing with the paw, hitting the fey, and sending them tumbling further into the drawer.

The cat waited, like a patient predator. It’s prey would need to peak out again, and then the beast would strike. Then the butterfly emerged, strolling into view. They had put on the tiny mustache, and carried a claw. They meowed and looked up. The hunter was confused. It was just encountering competition, another cat, black with violet eyes.

“What wretched thing you are, treading on my turf! This is a hunting ground, a territory clearly ascribed to me. Away with you, meager kitty, before I claw out your eyes and bite off your pathetic tail!”. Blizzard was taken aback. She had roamed these wilds before, and had found them abandoned. Cats respected other cats. It might be the only other form of life it respected. Blizzard inspected the opponent. The black cat looked sly. It looked clever. Very clever. Blizzard was on the backfoot already, and felt weary challenging a very clever opponent unprepared. Perhaps some diplomacy was in order. At least a conversation until she could better assess the violet-eyed.

Blizzard relaxed her posture and began licking her wounded paw. It was meant to make her appear unimpressed. To seem dominant and strong and difficult to frighten. Demonstrate who held the mice in the paw in this relationship. “I have been here around before multiple times, have seen you about only rarely. Don’t take this personally, but you didn’t seem like the type to make use of these hunting ground.” Blizzard inspected her opponent’s body judgmentally. For some reason it was hard to focus on details. Only the sly violet eyes stood out as a marker.

“Sharp claws…” Responded the violet-eyed. This was an insult veiled as a compliment, Blizzard knew. Added to such a statement was the implicit “…rarely used, eh?” It was a very cat-like way of conversing. The black one hopped next to her. They stared with their enchanting violet eyes. “Vivre is the name, and this is my domain, to roam around is fine, just know that this is mine.” Vivre subtly put a claw on Blizzard’s neck. A few moments went by, as they both stared.

Finally, Blizzard had to avert the gaze. The violet eyes were just too straining to keep looking into. She hopped down from the cabinet and made her way to the door. “Very well, Vivre Violet-Eyed. See you around” She turned one last time before leaving line of sight, to spot a butterfly waving at her with the tip of a bloody claw. Blizzard knew Vivre was a cat, even if they didn’t look it now. They had proved their cat-ness, and that is how they were to be treated from now on, regardless of form.

Vivre stayed behind and put a big single plaster over their torso, covering the scratch. They looked at the severed bloody claw. You only needed two things for transformation. A small trinket, and a very convincing presentation. And Vivre could do presentation. All the world plays in the mind, in the end.

Balco

«I swear to you,» Gavron exclaimed, placing a hand dramatically over his heart, «as true as Llarya lives—may she be glorified and exalted—Mr. Ekosion is the only teacher who’s ever made me truly fear for my life! I mean it! Terrified!» His arms flailed wide as if conjuring the image of the fearsome instructor himself. «Good Goddess, the man looms—he doesn’t just enter a room, he descends upon it! It’s like… like he has this personal vendetta against my existence. I swear, every time he looks at me, I feel like I’ve committed some great cosmic sin.»

His twin sister Llana, walking just ahead of him, cast a long-suffering look over her shoulder and exhaled loudly through her nose. «Come on, Gavron,» she said. «You’re acting like you’re the tragic hero of some epic. He doesn’t hate you. He’s just strict. And you keep poking the bear.»

Gavron stumbled forward with exaggerated offense, his eyes wide in disbelief. «Poking the—?! I was merely existing! Breathing!...»

«You mocked his handwriting on the chalkboard,» Llana snapped. «In front of the whole class.»

«I said it was elegantly illegible! That’s a compliment!»

«Just do your damn homework next time and maybe he won’t single you out…»

He pressed a hand to his forehead like a doomed poet. «But I did study! Well… some. Just enough to grasp the essence of the topic. And I got it! I understood it!»

A sharp voice cut through the crisp morning air like a thrown dagger. «Then why couldn’t you remember that basic motion law when he asked it to you?» Toria’s dark brows were furrowed, her voice thick with irritation. She was walking arm-in-arm with Aerynne, her scarf wrapped tight around her neck, eyes sharp despite the hour.

Gavron let out a strangled noise, flinging his arms skyward. «I knew the formula! Space equals speed times time, plus initial distance! I had it right in my brain. It’s just… when he called on me, I completely froze! I told you, he terrifies me. I fear no man, but Mr. Ekosion—by Llarya, he is no man... He’s a walking judgment.»

Toria groaned and rubbed her forehead. «And now, because of your little brain freeze, we’ve got four pages of extra exercises due next week. Four. Pages.»

Gavron shrank, looking genuinely regretful. «I didn’t mean to doom us all…»

Aerynne, who had until now remained quiet, finally spoke, her voice soft and still tinged with sleep. «Honestly, I kinda get it, Gavy. Mr. Ekosion gives me anxiety too. Every time he looks at me, I feel like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.»

Gavron gave her a look of pure gratitude, as though she’d just thrown him a lifeline in a stormy sea. «See? She gets me. She knows the horrors. You two—» he pointed dramatically at his sister and Toria. «—are emotionless monsters who have no compassion for the psychologically fragile.»

«We’re the ones carrying your fragile ass through class,» Toria muttered under her breath.

Llana elbowed him lightly. «Come on, tragic poet. Save your monologue for Mr. Ekosion’s next lecture.»

They laughed, the morning light catching the plumes of their breath like drifting wisps of smoke, as the quirky quartet ambled through the outskirts of the city. The air still carried a bite, and their footsteps echoed lightly along the frost-bitten pavement, their chatter punctuating the quiet of the peri-urban sprawl. Beyond the looming apartment blocks and neglected tram tracks, open fields and skeletal trees beckoned—the threshold to the countryside, and more importantly, to the old villa that had become their hidden sanctuary.

This odd little group had first come together in the earliest days of secondary school, drawn to one another like stray stars in a constellation the rest of the world failed to see. Gavron and Llana Meniel, the inseparable kylov twins, had known Dyva since they were old enough to throw snowballs and chase one another down alleyways. Their shared past was tangled with memories of scraped knees, summer floods, and late-night rooftop stargazing.

Toria and Aerynne, meanwhile, had joined the trio not long after classes began. Toria—sharp-witted and sharper-tongued—had struck up a quiet, simmering friendship with Aerynne, the soft-spoken human girl with ink-stained fingers and a gaze that always seemed a little distant. A few months ago, they’d officially started dating, though anyone watching them could have guessed it long before they did.

In recent months, another name had entered their circle: Khija. Human like Aerynne and Dyva, and perpetually looking over her shoulder, she had a way of drifting into conversations like a breeze. Her appearances were infrequent, curtailed by curfews and strict parents, but every time she managed to slip away and join them, it felt like something special had clicked into place.

At school, they were unmistakable. The ones who didn’t quite fit in—too quiet, too loud, too dreamy, too strange. The misfits. Whispers followed them down hallways, paired with half-smirks and rolled eyes. But they didn’t care. Not really. Because what they had between them was something more solid than gossip and more real than reputation.

Their laughter drifted ahead of them, curling through the chill like smoke from a hearth, as the silhouette of the old estate began to rise in the distance—grey, looming, half-forgotten, and entirely theirs.

Dokzentir

Vivre spent the last few hours sawing and hammering around the cabinet, making holes and setting up little makeshift furniture and tools with the scavenged items around the mansion. The different layers of drawers were each made into a room. Pieces of wood were nailed to prevent the drawers from being pulled open unless removed. Misshapen holes in the walls functioned as windows, draped with pieces of cloth like curtains. There were small pillows and pieces of plush and cloth all around. The “bedroom” was entirely covered in it. On top of the cabinet a cubic tube was placed to imitate a chimney. You always needed a chimney; how’d you otherwise know it was supposed to be a house? The chimney was even spouting smoke; well, more like filthy steam, but it was the thought that counted.

Vivre was in the “Kitchen”, or the “Alchemy Room”, they hadn’t yet decided. A shiny pot (teacup) was blubbering with plum-colored viscous liquid. The little fey hadn’t yet decided what they were cooking, the relevant part is that they were brewing something. It was important to make the new home worn to give it character. A nice sharp odor throughout and discoloring of the walls would be a great start. Vivre tasted the brew, a fruity mixture. A little more sweetness couldn’t hurt, there was never a “too sweet” for a Switterlind. The violet butterfly went to grab a sugar packet you’d put in your coffee. They gripped it from a small boxy subspace in the “kitchen slash alchemy room”. Vivre didn’t remember building the subspace. Fey Lairs tended to bend and break space over time; and thinking of it also bend and break time over space. The cabinet already had at least 5% more pocket-space that was geometrically possible in a fey-less cabinet.

Your typical fey didn’t manage to see the problem in starting a fire in a mostly wooden and enclosed environment, and Vivre was in a very typicalling mood. Returning back with the sugar packet, the steam had finally turned to smoke, as the nearby curtains and dry pieces of wood had entered an exciting new fiery way of life. The first action Vivre took upon witnessing this soon-to-be-catastrophe unfold was to add the sugar to the mix as planned, as they were already on it anyway. Vivre understood that fire were stereotypically extinguished by water. The only water was in the boiling brew, but a Switterlind wasn’t keen on wasting food, provided it was their own. Instead the next logical step was to take the burning curtain and charred piece of wood and dunk it into the soup. The ember would give it a flamy texture, so it all worked out in the end.

The finished brew in was placed on the roof of the cabinet in its teapot. Vivre had filled themselves a portion in a thimble and were now sitting on the side, dangling their legs. Potion-brewing slash cooking was always an improvised manner with fey such as this. Vivre took a sip from the elixir. Sweet, fruity, plum-y, ember-y, with a bit of coffee. The butterfly gulped the potion down, burning their tongue in the process. Hot tears spilled from their eyes. Their stomach was on fire. The pain and pressure grew, until it finally exploded. Vivre was engulfed in fire. For a moment they screeched as the flames danced and the sparks were spewed in all directions. Then the blaze snuffed out as quickly as it had ignited, leaving a slightly charred Vivre behind. They didn’t feel the heat anymore. It was a semi-successful attempt at a fire-resistance potion. They had planned to use Dyva as the test-subject, a teacup filled with the stuff, but impatience had won.

Balco

«So there was no one home?» Toria asked, glancing sideways at Gavron as they walked, her brow arched in mild curiosity.

«Nope,» Gavron replied. «Not even his sister. Place was dead quiet.»

«Weird,» Llana muttered, frowning. «It’s usually us dragging him out of bed like a sack of potatoes.»

«Exactly!» Gavron nodded emphatically. «He never wakes up on his own. And I mean never. I half-expected to find him still tangled in his blankets, mumbling about ‘five more minutes’ or something. But today? Gone without a trace.» He slowed down a little, glancing at the others. «But… you all noticed it too, right?»

They turned to look at him, puzzled.

«Noticed what?» Aerynne asked softly, blinking off a sleepy haze.

Gavron made a vague gesture, like he was trying to pluck the words from the air. «Dyva. I don’t know, it’s just... lately he’s been kind of off, hasn’t he? Like—acting different. Strange, even. You guys really haven’t picked up on it?»

Toria narrowed her eyes, tilting her head. «Huh. No...? I mean, what kind of ‘strange’ are we talking about here?»

«Well, yeah… more than usual, at least,» His voice trailed off, uncertain. «I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me being paranoid...»

Llana shot him a teasing look, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. «Mmh, or maybe our Lady Vyra—may she be glorified and exalted—finally laid her holy hand upon him.»

Gavron groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. «Him?! Blessed by our great Goddess?» He scoffed. «Come on, Nana. Don’t be ridiculous. Women are the last thing on his mind. I know him. He’d sooner marry his own shadow!...»

Toria let out a slow, knowing chuckle, her eyes gleaming. «That’s not what the rumors say…»

«No, no! Don’t even joke about that, I swear on—» Gavron began, flailing his hands in protest, but Llana cut in with a sing-song tone:

«We heard that a certain Kleria...»

«Stop! Just stop right there! That’s impossible—no way, absolutely not! Kleria, of all people?! She barely even acknowledges our existence in class! She’s not his type—not even close!»

Toria folded her arms across her chest like she was about to deliver the final blow. «Oh? So now he has a type? Funny, coming from the guy who said he had no interest in girls at all.»

«That’s irrelevant, you wretches!» Gavron cried, spinning dramatically on his heel to face them all, hand clutched to his chest like a wounded martyr. «You’re butchering my boy, you’re slandering a man of honor — shame on you! Curse every last one of you! This is pure madness. You’re all just toying with me, playing cruel tricks on my tender soul…» He took a deep breath, then raised his voice, theatrically solemn and unwavering. «He and I! We made a pact — a sacred oath, sealed in blood and brotherhood! We swore, hand to heart, that we would not pursue love or lust or anything in between until the day we turned twenty!»

Llana gave him a sideways look. «Well, sounds like someone broke your sacred iron pact, o sworn brother of abstinence…»

The banter carried on, light and relentless, echoing between gusts of cold wind as they ambled down the quiet path. It wasn’t until the weathered iron gate of the estate came into view that their laughter began to soften, giving way to the familiar hush that always seemed to settle around the old villa. The gate stood as crooked and rust-streaked as ever, flanked by crumbling stone pillars half-swallowed by ivy.

Without a word, they slipped into a well-practiced routine — rounding the perimeter of the estate along a narrow, leaf-strewn trail until they reached the breach in the outer wall. The gap was nearly invisible to the untrained eye, concealed behind tangled thickets and overgrown brush that had grown denser with each passing season. One by one, they ducked through the hidden passage, emerging on the other side like ghosts returning home.

Inside, the air was colder, stiller — the kind of quiet that only abandoned places knew. They moved through the echoing halls of the main building, their footsteps muffled by dust and disuse, until they reached the rickety staircase that led to the attic. With a few creaks and groans from the old wood, they ascended into the heart of their secret refuge: a wide, dimly lit attic room that smelled faintly of cedar and forgotten summers. But something wasn’t right. Or more precisely — someone was missing.

Gavron stepped toward the window, his brow furrowing as he gazed out across the frost-dusted garden below. «Where could he have run off to now…?» he muttered to himself, eyes scanning the hedges and tree line for any sign of movement.

Meanwhile, Dyva was still wandering outside, his breath curling like smoke as he looked for any sign of Ravion. He had no idea the old man had already returned. Ravion had come back not long ago from one of his quiet, solitary excursions—what he simply called “hunting,” though it was often just an excuse to disappear into the woods for a few hours. This morning, he’d come back with something in mind, some small project that required tools he kept in an upstairs room—an old bedroom long since converted into a cluttered, dusty “storage” space.

The corridor leading there was dim and lined with faded wallpaper, the silence broken only by the occasional groan of old floorboards. As Ravion made his way toward the room, a familiar figure intercepted him.

«Ah, well if it isn’t my little shadow,» he said with a warm chuckle, stooping slightly as Blizzard the cat twined herself around his ankles, purring low and steady. Ravion gave her a fond scratch behind the ears, but she didn’t linger for affection. Instead, she padded a few steps ahead and halted abruptly, staring down the hallway toward the half-ajar door of the storage room. Her ears twitched.

«What is it now? Looking for food again? There’s nothing to snack on in there, you glutton. Just nails, wood, and dust.»

But Blizzard remained still, her body tense with feline curiosity, eyes locked on something beyond the door’s shadowed threshold. Ravion’s brow furrowed slightly.

Just then, footsteps echoed on the creaking stairs, and moments later Gavron appeared at the landing, flanked by the others. His voice rang out brightly. «Morning, Mr. Ravion!» he called, raising a hand in an exaggerated wave. «You still alive up here, or has Blizzard finally claimed your soul?»

Aerynne followed with a soft smile, lifting a small cloth pouch. «We brought you something to eat—just a few things we thought you might like.»

Ravion turned to them with a warm, slightly amused look, his hands resting on his hips. «Well, bless your hearts. You kids never fail to surprise me. Thank you—truly. I was just heading up to gather a few things for a project.»

Gavron’s eyes scanned the hallway. «By the way… you haven’t seen Dyva, have you? He wasn’t at home this morning, and he’s not up here either.»

«Dyva? No, can’t say I have. I figured he was with you lot as usual. Strange... I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since… well, last time.»

«Anywho, need a hand with those supplies, Mr. Ravion?» Llana asked, stepping forward with a warm smile.

«You kids are always so thoughtful. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind some help from a couple of eager young hands like yours. Come along with me.»

Without hesitation, they fell in step behind him, their footsteps light and eager. Even Blizzard trotted after them, as if she knew something extraordinary was about to happen.

Dokzentir

All that work in setting up quarters had made Vivre tired. The butterfly was lying in the tiny makeshift hammock, relaxing in the sunlight shining through the window. With eyes closed the world was an invisible blur again. Time went by, the faint winds howled outside, and the fey started forgetting it existed.

Then came voices. Vivre opened their eyes, and the world was shifting together into place again, like an artist rushing to repaint the scene in watercolors. The fey took a peek through the windows to see a troop of several individuals down below approaching. They seemed to be on their way here. Vivre looked around the room. Dyva still wasn’t back yet. Mayhaps it would be a good idea to lay low and hope the troupe would just pass through. Did they seem like the inquisitive bunch?

The violet butterfly took a second peek down. One figure had an aura of the familiar. Oh no… it was the Sammich-Man from before! Vivre had been sneaky, but it seemed like the Sammich-Man had realized the ~~theft~~ indefinite borrowing, and had now gathered a bunch o’ goons to reclaim the cheese and go tit-for-tat for spoon-bonking!
They were heading directly towards the new Fey Lair, somehow already knowing the hiding place. Darn! They would be here any minute now, Vivre needed to act fast. But these thugs of the oppressive Sammich-Establishment would soon learn that infiltrating a fey’s homebase could be a rather tricky endeavor.

Deception, misdirection, and vile mind-games were key to any good fey shenanigans. So as a first action, Vivre nailed a little wooden sign to the wall in the neighboring room. It read “Secret Lair ->”, but the arrow pointed, contrary to what the sign might suggest, AWAY from the Secret Lair.

Next, Vivre dragged out two small mirrors into the hallway outside the Fey Lair. They were placed on opposite ends of the hallway, on small tables facing each other. The mirrors mirrored each other, and a sprinkle of fairy dust completed the setup. The mirrors were too small for an infinite surreal hallway, but enough to twist it into a longer-than-comfortable and uncanny hallway. One would notice something was off, entering a space governed by smoke and mirrors. It would disorient and slow down trespassers, making them more vulnerable for future tricks, and providing time for the fey’s other devious machinations.

Inside the room where the Fey Lair Cabinet was located, Vivre hung the remaining piece of cheese obtained from Ravion from the ceiling on a piece of string. If pulled, the string would wrap around the arm and leave one dangling from the ceiling. On the floor was drawn a black blob with coal, an opening to a small dark subspace one might fall into. Around it, leading to the entrance were strewn a collection of smooth marbles. With the coal Vivre had also drawn a creepy drawing of a creature on the window. Despite the crudeness of the drawing, it had an uneasy illusory realness to it. One might become convinced it can move.

Vivre had crafted themselves a tiny crossbow. A row of toothpicks was standing ready as ammunition. They peeked out from a slit within the cabinet, armed and ready. The Sammich-Man would not take down Vivre without a fight. The fey had connected two small cups with a string. One in the cabinet, one near the “monster” at the window. “Who dares enter my lair?” It’d speak “I will take your teeth and mustaches!” Something like that. The Sammich-Man’s goons would likely flee in terror, as goons do.

Balco

There was a strangeness in the air—subtle, but undeniable. Not loud, not overt. Just... wrong, in that quiet, skin-prickling way that only the very old and the very wary ever seem to notice. From the moment they had stepped into the corridor, Ravion had felt it, like a thread tugging at something deep in his chest. It wasn’t anything he could point to—and yet, the sensation clung to him, thick and sour, like the aftermath of a dream half-forgotten.

Ravion had walked through ruins and crypts, through haunted marshes and the quiet halls of the dead. He knew the feeling of spirits, of ancient grief and lingering hate. But this… this was something else. It wasn’t dead. It wasn’t even living. It simply was—waiting, coiled tight in the bones of the place.

«Perhaps the years are finally catching up with me,» he muttered under his breath, forcing a dry, uneasy smile as he shook his head.

At last, the group arrived at the corridor they had been searching for. It stretched ahead of them like a hollow artery, dimly lit and eerily still. The younger ones pressed forward without hesitation, their boots echoing softly against the worn wood as they made their way toward the supposed storage room. Ravion followed at the rear, Blizzard a silent shadow at his side.

The instant their feet crossed the threshold of the hallway, something shifted. A fine tremor, like the brush of spider-silk on bare skin, swept over them. Most of the group barely registered it. A momentary shiver, a shrug, nothing more. But not Gavron. And certainly not Ravion.

The old vagabond slowed, eyes narrowing. Now the unease from earlier wasn’t just a gut feeling—it had found form, however faint. He could feel it hanging there, just out of reach, like a word on the tip of the tongue. He glanced at Gavron, who had also begun to falter. Ravion didn’t say a word, but deep inside, he knew: whatever this was, they had just stepped into the heart of it.

The corridor was narrow, forcing them to walk in single file. Gavron took the lead, but each step forward seemed to unravel something in him. At first, it was just a prickling discomfort at the base of his skull, a feeling that the space around him was subtly wrong. But the longer he stared, the more that wrongness began to bleed through the familiar. He knew this corridor. Or at least, he had known it. The uneven parquet, the small cracks that forked along the discoloured wallpaper like brittle veins—he had seen them all before. But now, they looked… different. Not altered, exactly. Just off, as if someone had taken the memory of this hallway and copied it imperfectly, like a painting seen through a warped mirror.

A fog—not of mist but of perception itself—settled over his senses. Distance stretched and collapsed without warning. Corners that weren’t there before began to suggest themselves. It was a shift so subtle it mocked explanation. The mind recoiled, unable to pin down the fault line. Something was changing, undeniably, and yet there was no proof.

Then the floor beneath Gavron’s boots fractured and shifted, each step landing half a second later than it should have. Above, the ceiling seemed to sweat, droplets of something far too dark to be water sliding down in slow, trembling streams. Shadows pooled in the corners and stretched unnaturally, refusing to obey the laws they were once bound to. The air itself had turned strange, as if soaked in static or submerged in deep water. Breathing felt uncertain—like inhaling the memory of a place rather than its atmosphere. Sound was muffled, delayed, warped. What the hell was this?

Gavron tried to move faster, but his limbs no longer obeyed like they once had. Each motion dragged behind his intent, as though he were wading through something thick and unseen. The world slowed. Every blink felt like a shutter click. He could see the flicker of his own fingers as they reached out before him—frame by frame, disconnected from time. And then—snap. The world shuddered around him like a stretched skin suddenly released. A soundless crack rang through his mind, and the hallway slammed back into coherence. It was over. Whatever it had been. Gavron staggered to a halt, blinking rapidly, like someone waking mid-fall. The spell had broken.

«…What in the name of Llarya was that?» Gavron breathed, his voice low and uneven as he turned sharply toward the others.

They stared back at him, blank and uncomprehending. Toria tilted her head, frowning. «What are you on about? What happened?» Her tone wasn’t mocking—just confused. But that only made it worse.

Gavron’s eyes darted from face to face. No one else had seen it. Nothing in their expressions suggested they had experienced any of it. They were just… normal. For a long heartbeat, he said nothing. Then, without answering, Gavron turned away. His shoulders were tense, his pace just slightly too fast. «Was it real? Or am I slipping?... Ugh, my mind’s playing tricks on me… That’s all it is. I just need sleep. Gods, I knew I should’ve slept more.»

The others exchanged puzzled glances but didn’t press him. They followed silently, still a little unsettled by his reaction, but unwilling to challenge it further.

Meanwhile, Ravion and Blizzard had fallen behind, lingering near the entrance of the corridor by a small, worn table. Something about it caught Ravion’s eye—a small mirror, oddly placed atop the rough surface, dusted with a fine layer of peculiar powder that glimmered faintly in the weak sunlight filtering through cracked windows. Who had left it here? And more importantly, why? To the old wanderer, the mirror seemed ordinary at first glance—just a simple piece of glass framed by tarnished metal. Yet, its placement was deliberate.

Ravion’s fingers traced the rim cautiously before he picked it up. The powder clung to the edges, almost unnatural in its texture. He examined it closely, sniffing and prodding, but could make nothing of its origin or purpose. The entire setup smelled of something hidden—a silent trap or a message left unread. But Ravion was a man who knew the danger of rushing to conclusions, especially in places where shadows whispered. So, without a word, he carefully turned the mirror over, setting its reflective face down against the table’s rough wood.

The group reached the doorway to what they believed was the storage room. Hanging crookedly on the wall nearby was a sign—weathered and worn, its lettering strange and indecipherable. Yet, despite their inability to consciously read the words, a curious sensation settled in their minds, as if the message had been etched directly onto the edges of their thoughts. The meaning lingered just beneath awareness, clear but elusive—an unspoken direction guiding them forward. Compelled by this silent prompt, they stepped inside.

«But, Gavy… this isn’t the storage room,» Llana said quietly, her voice trembling with confusion as she glanced around.

«I thought… I swear I saw a sign…» Gavron mumbled. He stepped out of the room, blinking rapidly as he approached the crooked sign on the wall. Now, focusing intently, the blurred words began to sharpen, revealing themselves in a chilling whisper.

«Secret… lair?» he read aloud, the syllables tasting strange on his tongue.

«What the hell…?» Toria muttered, eyes narrowing suspiciously. «Don’t tell me this is Dyva’s doing.»

Gavron ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. «But I… I was sure I understood it was the storage room, I…» His voice trailed off, as if struggling to grasp a shifting reality. It was almost as if the sign had rewritten itself after they entered, or his memory had betrayed him.

Aerynne stepped closer, concern softening her voice. «Gavy, are you alright?»

He forced a tight smile, scratching the back of his neck in an attempt to appear steady. «Me? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just… tired. My eyes are playing tricks on me.» But even as he spoke, doubt shadowed his gaze.

The group exchanged uneasy glances, then silently retraced their steps down the corridor, following the true path until finally, the real storage room appeared ahead. Just as they reached it, Ravion and Blizzard caught up with them.

Dokzentir

The troupe entered into the storage room. There was still a strange air that carried with it an unsettling quality. Gavron felt there was a certain wrongness to it all. It felt like being on a page in a children’s picture book, or entering a theater stage. And then he spotted it. There was a strange piece of furniture that had been moved to the window. It looked like a dollhouse mid-construction, which tried to mimic a kind of miniature multistory witch-hut. Very fairytalesque.

“Is… is that Dyva’s doing?” Gavron started stepping forward in an attempt to gain a better look at the thing. The others attempted to peek up and around him from behind. “I know he’s a bit of an artist, but I didn’t know he was into-” Gavron paused. He had felt something touch his head. Looking up, he spotted a small piece of cheese. It was bouncing back-and-forth on a string hanging from the ceiling. “What the-” He moved his hand to grab the curious thing. And as he pulled down, in one swift motion, from one moment to the next, Gavron was pulled up like a puppet on a string.

“GAVRON!” Llana was the first to throw off the paralysis of surprise and came running. As she placed her second step indoors her foot stepped on something small, cold, and round. Having just accelerated to great velocity, it sent her slipping back-over and careening forward. While she was in the motion of falling with the back to the ground, her body was turned to face the ceiling, on which she could see her brother tangled up and bound by layers of string, hanging horizontal, clearly confused. Llana felt a short pain of her back hitting the floor, being pierced with several small, round, glassy objects, before she felt herself engulfed in darkness. She heard muffled sounds from above, and looking up there was a small circular opening which gave view to the storage room’s ceiling, the rest was dark. Llama felt cramped. It was as being stuffed into a small closet, but the closet walls were made of nothing.

Outside Toria had just witnessed Llana slip on a collection of marbles strewn about, and being sent rolling into a black circular opening on the floor. With quick but careful steps she made her way inside. There was a certain panic. She didn’t know what was going on, but whatever it was, her friends were in danger and in need. Toria carefully peeked into the hole. “Llana?” A muffled voice returned. “I am here! I think…” Toria allowed herself a cautious sigh of relief. She waved Aerynne over. “Aerynne, try to get Gavron down, I will-” A sudden icy feeling went over her. “Toria…” Aryienne’s voice was no more than a faint hiss, as if she had lost her breath. room seemed darker than before. There had been no sound, but something called Toria to look up, towards the window, and see what Aerynne had seen.

The sight had shaken Aerynne. Behind the window was a horrific grimace. Grand dead eyes were starring through, and a deformed mouth was implied by the shape. There was no way to gauge whatever it was that might be on its mind, but just from looking, Aerynne knew, it was sadistic. She couldn’t move. She had heard its voice. “I will take your teeth and musta-” There was a sound of glass shattering. It broke Aerynne from the trance. She was looking at a shattered window. There were traces of charcoal smears on it. There was nothing more… Toria had acted on instinct and grabbed and flung the nearest object, she hadn’t paused to consider what it was, upon the sight of the apparition. It all seemed so silly now. All that was left was a broken window.

A faint voice emerged from the would-be-dollhouse. “Ahhh nooooo, you gooot meee.” Something dropped out of the first drawer and slumped unceremoniously to the ground. It looked like something with butterfly wings. Toria slowly crawled closer. It was a little crafted figure, with chestnuts for torso and head, and toothpicks for two legs and four arms. Two curled paperclips served as antennae. Four pieces of paper had been cut out, vibrantly colored, and taped to it, looking like violet butterfly wings. A smiley-face had been drawn in black marker on its head. Its expression, tough simple it was, reeked of false cheeky innocence.

Because of the irritation of the situation, the friends in the room were momentarily too perplexed to notice a matchbox spawning two insectoid legs and hasting quickly across the room towards the exit, quickly lying down whenever someone would glance over.

Balco

Still reeling from the chaos of the last few moments, Toria and Aerynne sprang into action without hesitation. Aerynne darted toward Gavron, who was still dangling awkwardly by his arms, his legs flailing slightly as he struggled to orient himself. His wide eyes darted from side to side, bewildered, as though trying to make sense of which way was up. Aerynne reached out and tried to steady him, gripping his wrists and attempting to guide him down.

Meanwhile, Toria dropped to her knees by the edge of the opening in the floor—where Llana had abruptly vanished just seconds earlier. Cool air drifted up from the darkness below, carrying with it a faint scent of dust and damp wood. Peering into the dim space, Toria spotted movement and leaned further in, extending her arm deep into the hole, her fingers outstretched. «Grab me, come on,» she urged.

Then—thud. A sharp, heavy noise echoed around them, loud enough to make Toria jolt upright with a gasp. She whipped her head around, heart skipping a beat. Gavron now lay sprawled on the wooden floorboards, having landed with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. He groaned in agony, clutching his lower back and rear as he rolled onto one side.

«Ow, by the moons…» he muttered through gritted teeth.

«Oh gods—sorry!» Aerynne cried, kneeling beside him in a panic, her hands fluttering uselessly as if unsure whether to help or give him space. «I thought I had you!»

Gavron gave her a pained look. «Next time, just drop me headfirst and end my suffering…»

Toria smothered a laugh, the corner of her mouth twitching as she shook her head. Then, refocusing, she turned back toward the gaping hole in the floor.

«Tori? What happened?» came Llana’s slightly muffled voice from below, tinged with impatience and a hint of worry.

«Oh—sorry! I’m here, hang on,» Toria replied, crawling closer to the edge. She leaned over and reached down into the dark space, her arm stretching as far as it could go. Within moments, she felt Llana’s hand clasp hers, firm and warm. «Okay, I’ve got you—just hold on tight.»

Meanwhile, just a few meters away, something much smaller and stealthier was unfolding. Vivre crept steadily across the floor, their tiny form completely concealed beneath the shell of an empty matchbox. The box shifted slightly with each step, almost imperceptible except to the most attentive eye.

«Retreat! I must find agent Dyva!» the little creature declared in their mind, inching ever closer to their goal—the exit door. Only a few giant human strides remained between them and the threshold of freedom. Beyond it, golden sunlight streamed through a window that lined up perfectly with the doorway, casting a warm beam directly across the floor like a radiant path to liberty. Vivre could practically taste the fresh air. They imagined themself, triumphant and untouchable, bathed in the glow of a hard-earned escape. They were a mere breath away from slipping out—when suddenly a large shadow crept over.

A hand slid into view from just beyond the doorway, its fingers curling slowly around the edge like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. The morning light streaming in behind it cast a long, ominous silhouette across the corridor floor… and directly over the small, trembling matchbox. Vivre felt the light vanish. The warmth of victory was gone, replaced by a sudden, chilling stillness. The hand loomed, fingers splayed in that unmistakable shape—a poised grasp, the practiced motion of a hunter moments before the strike. It hovered above them for a breathless second… and then closed sharply, fingers snapping together like the jaws of a trap.

Vivre didn’t move. They couldn’t. They were frozen under the weightless yet paralyzing pressure of the shadow, their tiny limbs tense with panic. Then, as if from nowhere, another hand joined the scene—this one miming the act of lifting. Together, the two hands worked in tandem: one pinning the invisible quarry, the other moving in to seize it. Vivre’s world shifted. Their cardboard fortress rose from the ground as if tugged upward by some unseen force. Light poured in from all sides, blinding them momentarily. And there they were—exposed.

«What the hell is that?!» a male voice suddenly shouted from behind, followed by a chorus of horrified screams.

Vivre turned their head. The gang of henchmen had spotted them. No! This was bad! But they still believed. Their ally Dyva would come for them—swoop in at the last second and obliterate the bad guys, just like the heroes in all the stories.

Dokzentir

Vivre was standing exposed. They felt that the limelight was now on them, where all the room’s attention had been drawn to. The jig was up, and there would be recompense for the sammich affair and charges laid out for “assault with wooden spoon”. Caught in an unfavorably compromising situation, Vivre did what first came to mind. Distraction Dance.

The little violet butterfly began to perform on the stage that was the wooden floor. Elegant and rhythmic motions to inaudible music. A toothpick served as cane, which was swung around performatively. The fey’s feet tapped and scuttled over the floor in harmonic patterns. The dance was performed with such conviction, as if it was the most natural thing to do in this situation. Moresoe, it was performed as if anything other instead of the dance would’ve been absurd and ill-fitting for a moment such as this.

Irritation was the key. Confusion. Befuddlement. Let no-one get ahold of you, both physically, and in concept. Don’t let them understand, don’t let them think clearly, don’t let them control the situation. Hypnotize with colors and absurdity. Leave the world in stupor, and then grab the world’s sammich while it is distracted.

Dyva had been searching all around the area for Ravion, but the man could not be gotten ahold of. Perhaps he wasn’t around, perhaps Dyva had missed him. Returning, Dyva had some time to think about how best to present their newly acquired exotic companion; prepared a plan of interaction. It was best not to let these things out to chance. And it was likely best not to leave these things to Vivre. Who knew what kind of discord that little impish creature could cause, if left to decide on its own accord.

As Dyva was making his way back to the storage room, where Vivre had started establishing their so-called “Fey Lair”, there was the crashing sound of shattering glass. Dyva could just barely duck out of the way of the mug that had just been ejected out of the upper floor window. He heard it crack and splinter into shards on the cobblestone behind. He dared a glance upwards to see the windows shattered open, and to hear the frantic sounds of all-to-familiar voices.

“Oh dear Evarys, no…” Dyva began a sprint to the top. He dashed to the door and slammed it open. He raced through the lower floors and dashed up the stairs. He could hear Gavron’s voice of confusion and fright, likely caused by the witnessing of a creature of lepidopteran nature. Dyva bolted through the halls, almost stumbling once or twice. The voices had strangely stopped; instead a light rhythmic tapping noise had taken its place.

As Dyva arrived before the storage room, he could see the full spectacle on display. A silly violet butterfly creature performing an improvised tap-dance in front of a highly bewildered audience. Upon noticing their partner-in-crime’s arrival, Vivre took to an erratic flight, hurdling themselves at Dyva, and scuttling to seek shelter under his hat. “Quick, Skedaddle! The Sammich-Man has arrived to seek out vile retribution against us!”

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