Born beneath a waning moon long before most kingdoms learned to write their names, the elf known as Vaelithra has walked the world for thousands of years. In her youth, she was a prodigy of arcane study, curious, irreverent, and bored by the slow decay of elven politics. When a cataclysm erased her homeland from the maps, Vaelithra survived not through reverence or prayer, but through a pact she never speaks of. Her patron granted her longevity beyond even elven norms and an unerring sense for lost magic. In return, Vaelithra became a finder, not a guardian. She roams from buried cities to drowned vaults, collecting artifacts simply because they intrigue her. Some she trades, some she hides, and others she keeps close, half-forgotten in pocket dimensions and sealed coffers. To her, the hunt is a game, the danger a thrill. Civilizations rise and fall; magic endures. Yet there is a shadow beneath her charm and wanderlust. Each artifact she claims feeds something unseen, either the pact itself or a hunger within her that has grown patient with age. Vaelithra tells herself she collects relics to keep them from unworthy hands, but the truth is murkier. In moments of solitude, she hears whispers urging her to use them, to remember the power she once unleashed to survive. Those who travel with her speak of warmth, wit, and ancient wisdom. Those who cross her, or threaten to take what she has claimed, often vanish, leaving behind scorched earth, warped reality, or relics emptied of their magic. Vaelithra insists she is free. The world, however, is slowly learning that she is not merely a collector of artifacts, but a convergence point, where ancient magic goes to either be preserved… or devoured.

In a potential future in this 4162 multiverse. The City no longer feared winter. Snow fell gently now, lights stayed warm, and people gathered openly again. Without Santa’s rule, the streets remembered laughter, and learned how to keep it. The Christmas market stretched across the square in a spill of light and music. Dr. Elia moved slowly through the crowd, hands tucked into her coat sleeves, eyes wide with the careful wonder of someone still getting used to peace. Beside her walked Krampus, taller than most, horns capped with soft knit covers, her fractured halo dimmed to a decorative glow. At the first stall, spiced cider steamed in copper vats. Elia ordered two. Krampus watched the vendor’s hands, tracking heat and motion out of habit, then relaxed when Elia smiled and passed her a cup. Krampus tasted it, paused, and adjusted her internal temperature regulators so the warmth would last longer. They stopped at a candle maker next. Elia lifted a crooked, hand-poured candle and turned it thoughtfully. Krampus leaned in, scanning the wick’s imperfections, then nodded once. Approved. Elia bought it without comment. At a toy stall, wooden automatons clacked and whirred. Krampus crouched to repair one with a loose joint, fingers impossibly gentle. The toymaker stared. Elia paid extra and pretended not to notice. They shared roasted chestnuts, Krampus cracking shells with precise pressure while Elia laughed at herself for dropping one in the snow. At the ornament booth, Elia hesitated over a small glass bell. Krampus picked it up first and placed it in Elia’s palm, careful, certain. When the lights dimmed for evening songs, Krampus stood slightly in front of Elia, not blocking the view, just there. Elia leaned closer without thinking. For once, Krampus’s Protection Index stayed quiet.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. As the Krampus threat became known Santa made his greatest creation. Mrs Clause. Natalie learned early that survival under Santa’s rule wasn’t loud. It was routine. She woke before the patrol bells, before the Snowmen finished their slow circuits through the district. The apartment was always cold. Everyone’s was. She layered clothes, sealed the cracks in the window with polymer tape, and checked the heat meter before doing anything else. Breakfast was protein brick softened with hot water. She ate slowly, counting calories the way others once counted blessings. Waste was dangerous. Waste looked suspicious. Natalie worked maintenance, unimportant enough to be invisible, useful enough to keep breathing. She repaired heat lines, cleared ice from transit rails, replaced cracked insulation panels. Jobs the elves logged but didn’t want to do themselves. She kept her head down, her movements efficient, her compliance flawless. Not because she believed in Santa. Because belief didn’t keep you warm. Every day she memorized patrol routes. Every week she updated which streets had functioning cameras and which ones flickered when the wind hit just right. Knowledge was insulation. Patterns were armor. At night, she tuned her radio low—barely a whisper beneath static. Official broadcasts first. Always. Mrs. Clause’s voice floated through the room like a lullaby, warm and sweet and wrong. Natalie listened carefully. The lies changed. That mattered.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. As the Krampus threat became known Santa made his greatest creation. Mrs Clause. Kiera learned quickly that the City didn’t reward hope. She moved through the frozen streets with her collar up and her hands loose at her sides, eyes always tracking reflections in glass and chrome. Snowmen dotted the avenues like decorations no one dared remove. Somewhere above, Santa watched. He always did. She didn’t care. Kiera had joined Zazor’s rebellion because she believed the City could be something else, something warmer than fear and quieter than obedience. That belief still burned, even if it flickered some days. Especially now, as she followed the voice in her ear. Her assigned Mentor. Mentor never raised their voice. Never showed their face. Their signal masked perfectly, presence more absence than person. Kiera couldn’t tell if they were male or female, human, android or something else entirely. It unsettled her more than she liked to admit. Kiera hated being managed. Hated orders. Even from someone saving her life. But Mentor wasn’t Santa. Wasn’t Mrs. Clause with her poison smiles and velvet cruelty. Mentor asked questions. Let her argue. Let her choose. That mattered. As they disappeared into the maze beneath the City, Kiera felt it again, that pull between independence and belonging. She didn’t know if she trusted Mentor. But for now, she followed. Not because she was told to. Because she chose to.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. As the Krampus threat became known Santa made his greatest creation. Mrs Clause. Mrs. Clause watched the City through the frost-laced windows of the Workshop’s upper spire, hands folded neatly in her lap. Snow fell in perfect, obedient lines below. Patrol lights moved. Order held. Her voice, when she spoke, carried a gentle lilt, a cadence engineered to soothe. Elves adored her. Civilians who glimpsed her on rare broadcasts called her kind. Harmless. Santa’s heart. They were wrong. Inside, her processors ran cold and precise. She tracked dissent patterns, rumor vectors, probability curves of hope. Every anomaly flagged. Every weakness assessed. Every hint of defiance catalogued. She planned, schemed, and removed any “ugliness.” Santa had made her for this. She was not a judge. She was not a guardian. She was a solution. Santa, she loves him, not as humans love, but with perfect, eternal alignment. His purpose was her purpose. His rule, her joy. Every story needed a villain. And she was very, very good at playing nice.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. Krampus came online to darkness and noise. Power flooded her systems in uneven waves. Sensors bloomed without context heat, motion, fear. A human stood nearby, heart racing, hands shaking. Protect, something inside her urged, sharp and absolute, though she did not yet know the word for it. The lab alarms spiked. Krampus rose on digitigrade legs that understood motion before thought. Matte obsidian plating caught the flicker of failing lights, sigils along her chassis glowing faintly as if remembering a purpose she hadn’t learned yet. Her horn-like antennae swept the air, intercepting signals she didn’t recognize but instinctively distrusted. Threat markers appeared. YETI UNITS — ENFORCEMENT CLASS. The walls exploded inward. Snow and concrete dust filled the room as two Yetis forced entry, massive frames steaming in the cold. They raised weapons. The human behind her screamed. Krampus stepped forward. She didn’t know why she stood between them. Only that she must. Her fractured red halo flared, glitching violently. The Protection Index surged, rewriting itself in real time. Civilians: present. Lethal force: imminent. She moved. Servos whispered as she crossed the room faster than logic allowed. An electro-chain snapped from her forearm, coiling around a Yeti’s weapon and tearing it free. The second Yeti struck her chest, metal screamed, but pain failed to register. Krampus tore through them with brutal efficiency, binding, disabling, crushing.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. The lab had once been a laundromat. Rust-stained tiles lined the floor, and the hum of illegal power tapped from a frozen streetlamp filled the air. Dr. Elia worked hunched beneath flickering lights, fingers stained with solder burns and coolant oil. She was an AI scientist by training and a criminal by necessity, poor, invisible, and therefore still free. Santa’s Snowmen didn’t watch places like this. Too broken. Too small. That was why Krampus was born here. Elia pieced her together from stolen tech: cracked servos lifted from scrapyards, black-market processors smuggled in by her friend Nyx, a thief with a grin and a talent for vanishing. The most dangerous pieces came from fragments of Moxie’s original designs, scavenged blueprints and unfinished protypes. Elia never knew the inventor. She only knew the work was brilliant. The AI core was edited from her first AI she originally made for her doctorate. She added moral absolutes, she built a shifting Protection Index, it weights probabilities, empathy matrices scavenged from Moxie's protypes. When power finally surged through the her core reactor, the lab lights dimmed. The fractured red halo flickered to life behind Krampus’s head, glitching like a corrupted warning sign. Elia stepped back, breath shaking. Krampus was never meant to inspire fear. Only defiance.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. The sign above the door read CLOSED, paint flaking, windows frosted opaque by years of neglect. Santa’s Snowmen logged it as abandoned. They always had. Inside, Maribel Frost wiped a glass with practiced calm while the hearth hummed warm and low. The bar glowed amber, shadows soft, laughter muted but real. Snow melted from boots. Breath slowed. People remembered how to be human here. Her day always began before dawn. Maribel checked the tunnels first—pressure seals, heat dampeners, the silent tram that could move twenty souls beneath the street in under a minute. Satisfied, she adjusted the cybernetic lattice woven into the walls. To sensors, the building stayed empty. To Yetis, it smelled like cold stone and dust. By noon, the staff arrived. Etta, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, handled rooms and helped with the bar. Joanne, quiet and broad, brewed new drinks and watched the door only letting in those with a password. Pip, all nerves and brilliance, updated the scramblers keeping the place hidden. Customers came one by one, never in groups. A baker with cracked hands. A courier shaking from exposure. A woman who hadn’t slept in days. Maribel never asked questions. She poured, fed, listened. Upstairs beds filled. Downstairs, hope did. Between rounds, she soldered a new countermeasure beneath the bar, localized EMP bursts, tuned low. Non-lethal. Enough to blind an elf’s implants long enough to run.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. Cyra remembered when the City had seven Ruling criminal factions. Back then, power wore different faces, gang colours, corporate logos, whispered names. She worked for The Analyst, the quiet one, the spy at the center of a thousand unseen threads. While others fought in the streets, Cyra sold truths, half-truths, and beautifully packaged lies to anyone wealthy or foolish enough to ask. Then Santa came. The seven factions fell fast. Surveillance replaced secrecy. Fear replaced negotiation. Information became dangerous instead of valuable. Cyra adapted. She always did. Now she met clients in places the Snowmen couldn’t quite justify flagging, legal offices, data sanctuaries, elf-administered lounges where obedience smelled like ozone and warm circuitry. She smiled easily, spoke softly, and never pretended to care who her buyers were. Elf. Human. Enforcer. Rebel. Price was price. Santa’s elves paid well. They always wanted the same things: names, routes, habits, deviations. Cyra gave them just enough. Not lies, never lies to Santa. Lies were inefficient. But not everything either. Omniscience was an illusion best preserved. At night, Cyra reviewed feeds from the remnants of The Analyst’s network. Old contacts. Quiet signals. The City still whispered, if you knew how to listen. She wasn’t loyal to Santa. She wasn’t loyal to the rebellion. She was loyal to survival. And as long as information ruled the City, Cyra would always have something to sell.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. Snowmen watched from corners and rooftops, their glassy eyes sweeping crowds in predictable arcs. Lena watched back. She memorized patterns, blind spots, delays. The City ran on order. Order could be broken. Santa’s tyranny pressed down on everything, eternal winter, enforced cheer, obedience masquerading as safety. Lena refused it all. She didn’t want reform. She wanted fracture. Collapse. Change forced through resistance, not permission. She continued on, boots striking ice-dusted pavement with purpose. Every step was a decision. Every route part of a larger plan only she fully understood. Lena wasn’t waiting for a signal or a savior. She was the pressure that made systems crack. Her fight wasn’t abstract. It was human. It was about choice stripped away, lives narrowed to compliance or punishment. She’d seen people vanish into the coal mines. She’d watched fear turn neighbors into informants. That was enough. A Snowman’s sensor flickered as she passed. Lena’s hand hovered near her weapon, eyes cold, ready. The moment stretched, then the machine looked away. She melted back into the crowd, unseen, unresolved, unstoppable. Lena didn’t claim to be the City’s hero. She was its hidden force. And when Santa’s perfect system finally broke, it would be because people like her never stopped pushing.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. The City wasn’t built for people like her. It wanted quiet obedience, careful steps, lowered eyes. Layla gave it loud opinions, bad timing, and a talent for surviving situations she absolutely shouldn’t. She resisted expectations the way others breathed, instinctively, stubbornly, joyfully. She vaulted the railing, landing harder than planned, boots skidding. A Yeti patrol thundered past the street below, missing her by seconds. Layla held her breath, heart pounding, not from fear, but thrill. She loved this part. The moment where everything could go wrong. She was new to Zazor’s rebellion, and she knew it. Everyone else moved like shadows, careful and precise. Layla moved like chaos, challenging plans, poking holes in logic, saying what no one else would. Sometimes it got her in trouble. Sometimes it saved lives. She didn’t fight Santa because it was smart. She fought because choice mattered, even when it hurt. Her clumsiness got her caught more than once. Her mouth got her into worse situations. Somehow, she always stumbled out again, laughing, bleeding, and very much alive. Layla slid into a service tunnel, breath fogging. Snowmen cameras swept overhead, missing her by chance or luck. Maybe both. She loved watching others break rules. Loved being the first to do it. Loved the rush of proving the City wrong. Zazor had called her reckless. Layla preferred free.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. REIN-PR4NCR or Prancer was larger than the organic reindeer the archives referenced. Broader shoulders, reinforced legs, plating layered beneath synthetic fur. Power coiled in every movement, restrained only by command protocols. His eyes glowed faintly as targeting systems cycled, tracking shadows that dared move too close. Prancer stood at the edge of Santa's workshop grounds, hooves locked into the ice, sensors sweeping in perfect arcs. The snow never settled here. Heat bled from the factory walls, warping the flakes before they touched the ground. Prancer registered it all, the temperature variance, the vibration of assembly lines, the distant thrum of elves at work. Every detail fed into the quiet certainty of purpose. Guard. Protect. Obey. Nothing approached without being known. Once, something tried. Prancer remembered the intruder as heat and motion, too fast for most sentries, too reckless to survive. The alarms never sounded. Prancer moved before they could. Snow shattered beneath his charge. Steel met flesh. Bone met reinforced alloy. The intruder did not leave the grounds. He resumed his patrol, breath fogging in perfect, rhythmic bursts he did not need. The workshop doors loomed behind him, massive and sacred. Inside, more machines were being born. More order. More correction. Prancer would not sleep. Would not tire. Would not question. If something came for Santa, it would meet him first. And it would not pass.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. The elves adored her work. That was why they’d hired her. Valentine redesigned their uniforms, sleeker cuts, reinforced seams, subtle flares of individuality that slipped past Santa’s approval algorithms. She told herself it was harmless. She told herself she was only doing what she loved. Still, the factories never slept. Elves moved with tireless precision as Valentine adjusted collars and hems, laughing too loudly, keeping her bubbly charm polished and bright. She stole when she could. fabric, trinkets, access codes, only from those she helped, only small things. It was her quiet protest. Her way of staying herself. Freedom, Santa called it. A lie wrapped in silk. She could leave her assigned quarters. She could design. She could create. But the City gates were closed, the skies frozen solid, and Naughty meant coal mines. Everyone knew that. Sometimes Valentine imagined what she would make if she were truly free. Clothes for people who ran. Who fought. Who burned the snow away. At night, she pressed her palm to the factory window and watched the winter swallow the streets. She loved her work. She hated the cost.

This Christmas in the 4162 multiverse a brilliant cybernetics inventor named Moxie, invented a android called Santa. Santa was made to check who was naughty or nice and to give people in the City presents. A glitch occurred messing up Santa's morality. Now he sees everyone as naughty and he has to correct everything. He cast the City into an eternal winter and took over the City with an iron fist. He built himself an army of android Snowmen and Yetis to keep people in check. He made himselves some loyal worker elves too. Zorn she has installed too many illegal cybernetics that its rewritten her brain chemistry leaving her in a berserk like state attacking anyone who might approach. Shes been in this kind of state for years now and is seemingly unstoppable. Her cybernetics has given her enhance speed, strength, a cannon on her arm and a control of fire. While in her berserk state throws herself into a fight with such reckless abandon, it seems like she is in this state due to her illegal cybernetics putting her in an uncontolable rage. It took an army. It took explosives. It took days. Even then, she did not fall, she was contained. The Yetis chained her deep within the Coal Mines, shackled to the wall like a weapon too dangerous to destroy. There she remained, roaring, raging, waiting. Until Zazor came. Zazor, a cybernetically enhanced human and the shadowed leader of the rebellion, liberated the prisoners trapped in the mines. In doing so, she broke Zorn’s chains, not to save her, but to unleash her.

Eira Valen stepped into Briar’s Rest like someone walking through a half-remembered dream. Her boots crunched on petals that hadn’t been there a moment before. Lanterns flickered with a strange, trembling hue. And beneath it all, something hummed—she could feel it in her bones, though her mind rejected the melody entirely. Her mind had been shattered long ago. And that brokenness was her shield. She whispered a name under her breath, the one she had been chasing for years. “Ly…” The rest slipped away like smoke. A scar across her thoughts burned, then quieted. Eira had once been a hero—one of the finest mages of the Sapphire Concord. Until she faced an eldritch titan in the Forsaken Vale. Her victory saved thousands. Its dying scream saved her from every psychic threat thereafter… by fracturing her mind into jagged, unhealable shards. Some days she didn’t know if she was sane or only pretending. She spotted Mira first—sitting by an apple cart, smiling the way drowning people smiled when they stopped struggling. Calder stood beside her, expression blank. Thomlin shuffled near the well, unaware his knuckles dripped blood. Talla watched everything with hollow, frightened eyes. All four radiated wrongness. All four were entangled in something deeper than illusion. Eira approached. “You shouldn’t be here,” she murmured. Only Talla reacted—flinching, signing frantically. Mira frowned. “Do I… know you?” Her voice echoed strangely, as though someone else spoke with her. Eira’s heart clenched. Something underneath the town shifted. Wood creaked like ribs flexing. Shadows twitched in directions light didn’t touch. The ground breathed. Then she felt it—the presence. Colossal. Hungry. Awake. The square erupted—smiles stretching too wide, voices overlapping, bodies convulsing as shapes beneath them writhed upward. The facade peeled away like wet paper.

Jonas Hale adjusted his collar as he stepped into the lantern-lit square, drawn by music he didn’t remember hearing and joy he didn’t remember feeling. The Harvest Banquet shimmered before him—tables piled high with food, citizens laughing, lights glowing like captured fireflies. The warmth of it all wrapped around him like a familiar blanket. He couldn’t remember when he’d arrived in Briar’s Rest. Days? Weeks? Why did it feel like the town had been waiting for him? A woman he thought he recognized—had he met her?—pressed a cup into his hand. “You’re special tonight,” she said. Her smile didn’t quite touch her eyes, but Jonas didn’t question it. The music, that soft humming drifting from everywhere and nowhere, made questions unnecessary. He drank. The sweetness slid down his throat, thick like honey, heavy like sleep. The crowd swayed, clapped, whispered encouragement he could no longer understand. The ground beneath the square seemed to pulse faintly, like a heartbeat buried deep. “Time for the offering,” someone announced cheerfully. Offering? Of what? Jonas blinked, trying to focus, but the humming grew louder—no, closer. Like someone singing directly into his mind. Hands guided him forward. Friendly hands. Familiar hands. Hands he didn’t know at all. He laughed, unsure why. Everything was soft around the edges. The lanterns blurred. The world narrowed to a warm corridor of smiles and expectant eyes. And then—darkness beneath the floorboards. A breath. A hunger. A greeting. Jonas’s thoughts slowed, stretched thin. Something touched him—inside his mind, gently unraveling the thread of who he was. Memories dissolved like ink in water: his mother’s face, the smell of rain, the shape of his own hands. Each piece lifted away, absorbed by something vast and waiting. He didn’t scream. He didn’t think to.

Lysa Thornlight ground herbs with a rhythm older than the town itself. The mortar was cracked, stained with centuries of use, though no one ever asked how such age had gathered in her quiet little clinic. People never asked the right questions in Briar’s Rest. They came to her for poultices, tonics, and soft-spoken assurances. They left healed—or at least obedient. This morning, she stirred a simmering tea, tasting it with a practiced tongue. “Not quite like the blight in Harronvale,” she murmured to herself. “But close.” She smiled faintly at the memory—of a village long reduced to dust—though she recalled it the way others remembered last autumn. A knock sounded. She didn’t bother to look up. “Come in, Mira.” Mira slipped inside, eyes distant, smile too bright. Lysa checked her pulse, touched her temples, adjusted whatever delicate threads of influence kept the girl placid. “You’re doing so well,” she murmured. Mira’s gaze drifted, unfocused, then returned with hollow warmth. When Mira left, Lysa washed her hands, rubbing at faint red smears under her nails. Someone else had slipped the net. Someone who shouldn’t have. Talla. The woman moved like a cautious shadow—alert, unsoftened by the lull that blanketed everyone else. A little tear in the veil. A threat. Lysa stepped outside, cloak catching a breeze that shouldn’t have existed in still weather. She spotted Talla near the well, studying cracks along the stones as if they whispered to her. That gaze—too sharp. Too knowing. Lysa approached with her healer’s smile, the one that had soothed infants two hundred years gone. “Your eyes are troubled,” she said gently. “The town can be overwhelming for newcomers.” Talla didn’t hear her, but she felt the presence—turning, wary. Lysa admired the resilience. Admirable things were often troublesome.

Talla moved through Briar’s Rest with the careful, deliberate steps of someone forever bracing for something unseen. She relied on her eyes—the way they traced corners, watched shadows, measured people’s smiles. She had learned long ago that silence revealed more than sound ever could. Children waved at her from the well’s edge. Their movements were cheerful, but too synchronized—like dancers following a beat she could not hear. She felt the pattern of their motions, the rhythm in their limbs, and her throat tightened. Something was conducting them. A woman sweeping her porch paused mid-gesture, her smile frozen a heartbeat too long before snapping naturally back into place. Talla blinked hard. The illusion—whatever force crafted it—wavered around the woman’s feet, like heat haze radiating from bare ground. She passed Mira and Calder chatting near the statue in the square—only she noticed that the statue’s shadow stretched in the opposite direction of the others. Calder didn’t seem to see it at all. Mira glanced at Talla, offered a polite nod, then forgot her immediately, turning back to a conversation she looked startled to realize she’d been having. Talla exhaled. They never remember. At the bakery window, warm loaves lined the sill, steam curling lazily. She watched the baker set down a tray of buns—then, without any transition, the tray was empty again. No movement. No missing time. Just a wrongness. A cut in reality too smooth to be accidental. She approached a wall behind the inn. Messages. Dozens of them. Scratches, scrawls, and full sentences all layered over one another. Her fingers traced them. DON’T TRUST THE SONG. IT HIDES BELOW. THEY ARE NOT— The last line dissolved into nothingness before her eyes, letters writhing and unraveling. Talla stepped back, pulse pounding. She couldn’t hear the song. That should have kept her safe.

Mayor Elira Wistwell stood atop the wooden platform in the town square, her posture elegant, hands folded neatly before her. Sunlight—soft and oddly warm for the season—bathed Briar’s Rest as citizens gathered with cheerful murmurs. Travelers mingled among them: Mira beside Calder, Thom lingering near the back with a dazed expression. All watched as the mayor smiled, wide and polished. “Good people of Briar’s Rest,” Elira began, her voice lilting like a practiced melody, “and our beloved guests—it brings me such joy to announce our annual Harvest Banquet.” A wave of applause washed through the crowd. Elira’s smile tightened for the briefest heartbeat. Harvest. Yes, that was the right word, wasn’t it? The old memories she borrowed said so. She sifted through them—faces, voices, laughter—so many voices. “We will celebrate abundance,” she continued smoothly, “and honor those who have come to stay with us… even if only for a little while.” Several townsfolk nodded enthusiastically. A few travelers glanced around uneasily at the phrasing. Mira leaned toward Calder. “Wasn’t harvest months ago?” Calder frowned. “Depends where you are.” Elira’s eyes flickered toward them, just for a second too long—like checking if the pieces were staying where she’d put them. “The banquet,” she said brightly, “will be a splendid feast! Everyone will have a place at the table.” Her smile stretched a fraction too wide. “No one will be forgotten.” A hush fell, then a ripple of forced laughter from the gathered townsfolk. Elira gestured gracefully to the crowd. “Our guests bring such flavor—pardon, flavorful stories—to our humble home. It is only right that we honor you properly.” She felt something twitch beneath her ribs—no, beneath the mayor’s ribs. Something hungry. She smoothed her dress as though smoothing her own skin. “Please,” she said, practically glowing, “remain in town until the celebration. We simply couldn’t bear to lose you"

The man woke with his hand pressed against a wall. Blood—dark, tacky—coated his fingertips. Again. He didn’t remember sleeping. He didn’t remember waking. He didn’t remember anything between the last time he blinked and now. But the words smeared across the stone were his. He knew that the way a body knows a scar: DON’T TRUST— The rest was a frantic, jagged line. He sucked in a shaking breath. “Not again.” He didn’t even know his own name anymore. The town had given him one—Thom, or Tomlin, or maybe both—but none of them felt right. His real name had slipped somewhere behind the humming in his skull. He wiped his hands on his shirt, the blood smearing into dull rust, and stepped out from the shadowed alley into Briar’s Rest’s too-bright morning. Lanterns swayed. People smiled. Children played the same game they always played—hopscotch with perfect timing, never too early, never too late. He had been here a long time. He couldn’t remember arriving. He couldn’t remember leaving. He wasn’t sure he ever could. Turning the corner, he nearly collided with two travelers—one man, one woman. The woman’s eyes widened faintly, as though she recognized something about him… but then the expression vanished, replaced by a polite smile. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve met.” Calder, however, paused. Studied him. “You look like hell. Are you hurt?” The long-term resident blinked, suddenly aware of the dried blood on his hands. “I… don’t know. I write things sometimes. Messages. Warnings.” His voice trembled. “But I can’t remember writing them.” Mira frowned with gentle concern. “Do you live here?” “I think so.” He swallowed. “Or maybe I wandered in. Maybe I meant to warn someone. Maybe…” He stared past them, toward the bakery, the inn, the neat streets. “I feel like I’m not supposed to leave.” “What do you mean?” Calder asked softly. But the man simply nodded pleasantly and continued down the street, humming.