The mushroom circle had been a doorway, a dizzying plunge into another reality in the span of a heartbeat. It was a rush, like plummeting six stories with the stomach-lurching thrill of freefall, the familiar grit of the city dissolving into something breathtakingly, terrifyingly unfamiliar. The sight of streetlights and concrete blurred, swallowed by the sudden emergence into a hall of entwined trees. Ivory branches, so intricately tangled they formed walls of living sculpture, stretched towards a canopy thick with leaves that shimmered like captured starlight, their jewel-toned hues a blend of blue, opal, and deep purple, bathing the long hallway in an ethereal, otherworldly glow.
A real shame I was rocking the oversized Wicked sweater and silky pajama pants combo instead of, you know, a ballgown.
My neck arched, a silent gasp escaping my lips as I took in the impossible beauty, the air itself humming with a gentle energy, a windless symphony that stirred the branches. Corvus gently set me down, his hand lingering at my waist, a constant, reassuring warmth against the thin fabric of my pajamas, a subtle possessive claim that sent a shiver tracing a path down my spine.
How could a place like this exist, hidden just a mushroom-circle away from the ordinary? No, I had to stop asking logical questions. Corvus had made it clear he wasn’t bound by human limitations, so this inhuman realm was simply an extension of his nature, something that defied my previous understanding of the universe.
Corvus allowed me to saunter at my own slow pace, his hand a light but firm pressure at my back, guiding me along the illuminated path of pale, mismatched stone slabs. The air here was different, cleaner, carrying the subtle scent of damp earth and sweet, blooming night flowers. When we reached the end of the path, where a large, ornately carved black stone door stood sentinel between two spindly birch trees that seemed to weep silver light, I stopped and stared back.
The mushroom circle, our rabbit hole to wonderland, now seemed impossibly small. It was barely visible among the luminous stones, a discarded portal to a life I was rapidly leaving behind, one pajama-clad step at a time.
Corvus laid his hand on the stone door and stepped back as it swung inward, its movement accompanied by a deep, gravelly grinding sound. Behind the door was a long, descending corridor carved from the same dark stone. Ornate torches of glowing orbs, like captive starlight, nestled in pewter sconces that resembled half-moons, casting a cool, theatrical gleam across the rough-hewn walls. The air shifted again, carrying the scent of damp moss and something subtly metallic, like old iron and tin.
We descended into the earth, the hall of luminous trees fading behind us. The stone corridor was cool against my bare feet, and the silence here was profound, broken only by the soft echo of our steps, a soundtrack to our subterranean adventure. After a short walk, the corridor opened into a small, circular chamber. Three doors, each crafted from a different type of wood and adorned with unique carvings, punctuated the curved walls. The air here was warmer, tinged with the comforting aroma of dried herbs and beeswax.
“Where do these lead?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. It felt like a choose-your-own-adventure book, but no indication of what page each might lead to—whether it be midnight tea or a dragon den.
Corvus hesitated, his gaze flicking over the doors as if weighing his words. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his intense blue eyes. “The one to your left leads to the guest chambers,” he said. He gestured towards a heavy oak door carved with swirling patterns of autumn leaves. “I’ll have your room prepared presently.”
“And the others?” I pressed, my gaze drawn to a slender door of polished cherrywood adorned with carvings of circular thorns and a larger, more imposing door of dark, unvarnished wood with what looked like celestial maps inlaid with thin silver.
He shifted his weight, his gaze fixed on the stone floor for a moment. “The one straight ahead leads to my chambers,” he admitted, his voice a shade quieter than before.
I eyed the moon phases and aligned planet patterns, circles within circles, a celestial dance engraved on ebony. The faintest sheen of silver catching the swirls. I got the connection with the silver—with whatever the silver pendant he wore meant to him—but I hadn’t taken him for an astrologer.
“And the last one?” I gestured towards the reddish-brown, crown-carved door.
Corvus finally met my gaze, a careful, almost guarded expression on his face. “That…leads to the throne room.”
Throne room. The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. I stopped, my bare feet suddenly feeling rooted to the cold stone, as if gravity had decided to take a sudden interest.
“Throne room?” I repeated, the disbelief evident in my voice. I looked at him, really looked at him, taking in the air of ancient power that clung to him, the effortless command in his bearing. My mind raced, trying to reconcile the brooding stranger who’d saved me from a monster with the image of someone who resided in a place with a throne.
No matter how many answers I got, there were always more questions, like a hydra of curiosity. Who was Corvus, really, to have a bedroom next to a throne room?
“There will be time for us to speak after you sleep,” he promised, with a low voice that intoned a note of finality.
I wanted to protest, to demand answers then and there, but…well, firstly, he was right. I was running on fumes, my eyelids feeling lined with lead. Even the small bursts of energy brought about by the magical sights were only momentary wakefulness, a shot of espresso delaying an inevitable crash. And secondly, I didn’t have the energy to fight for answers. Because it was always a fight, a verbal fencing match where I usually ended up unarmed and confused. I couldn’t recall getting a single straight answer from him since the whole monster-on-a-train debacle.
But, despite the many unsettling revelations, I knew one thing I knew for sure: a sliver of trust had taken root in the fertile ground of my near-death experiences. I trusted him enough to come here—to this bizarre, subterranean palace—and to accept the offer of a room, even if it was situated down a mysterious hall from what sounded suspiciously like a royal audience chamber.
“Sure, later,” I mumbled, the words thick with exhaustion, because even after he’d twice saved my life, I wasn’t ready to grant him a clean slate. The unease lingered, a prickly suspicion that he held more cards than he was willing to show. I still didn’t know the extent of his knowledge, his potential involvement in the supernatural storm that had suddenly wrecked my life, and the nagging possibility that he was somehow connected to the monsters that had come after me.
Corvus opened the oak door adorned with carvings of intricately veined autumn foliage, holding it open with a silent invitation. I stepped through the tall doorway, unsurprised to find yet another stone hall, the air here cooler, carrying the faint scent of decaying leaves, aromatic smoke, and sweet spices. But this area…felt different. Lived-in.
Between the arched doorways were faded frescos, their kaleidoscopic pigments softened by time, depicting scenes of a world both impossibly beautiful and strangely familiar: a willowy woman draped in woven leaves instead of fabric, her eyes the colour of moss, skin the fresh shade of a spring leaves, more tree spirit than person, cradling a cornucopia overflowing with the rich bounty of an autumnal harvest; a bearded old man with burning coals for eyes and powerful, toned forearms working at a glowing forge, his hammer raised in mid-strike; delicate pixies, their features sharp and angular, with iridescent dragonfly wings, dancing in a circle, each holding a strand of shimmering silver that they wove into the pattern of a constellation; a serene woman with long, loosely braided hair the reddish-brown of cherrywood, wearing a simple white dress and holding a bouquet of soft violets, bold pansies in shades of twilight, and the creamy white blooms of oakleaf hydrangeas; and, at the very end of the hall, a familiar looking path of shimmering black stones—one half of the path that haunted my dreams. The aged pigments were particularly worn on that last fresco, the black stones almost faded to a ghostly grey, as if touched by centuries of longing or fear.
“My Lady’s room is ready,” said a gruff voice, startling me.
I spun, surprised by the sudden company, my sleep-addled brain foolishly looking around at eye-level before realizing the voice came from much lower. The person—being—was no taller than my hip, with a large head crowned with wiry grey hair, eyes as wide as my palms, striking black with a startling hint of deep brown iris, her nose bulbous and weathered, and skin the colour of polished alabaster, etched with deep wrinkles. Yet, her exposed lower arms were surprisingly toned, hinting at a strength that belied her age or size. She wore a simple grey tunic over a dark grey skirt, belted with worn brown leather from which a few intriguing items hung—a small drawstring bag, a dagger sheathed in tooled leather, a thin conical object engraved with glowing runes, and a sturdy mattock with a dark metal pick and an oak handle worn smooth with use.
“Gneiss will attend to you,” Corvus explained, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at the small being.
“Nice?” I repeated, a tired smile tugging at my lips as I looked down at the old, short humanoid woman.
She nodded, her wide eyes blinking slowly. “Like the rock,” she clarified, tapping a gnarled hand on the cool stone wall, which, considering the sheer amount of rock I’d encountered so far, was about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine.
“You can trust Gneiss with anything,” Corvus promised, his voice carrying a weight of sincerity. “She is loyal to me beyond measure.”
It was an unsettling statement, echoing the earlier mention of a throne room and the inherent need for loyalty that implied. My mind swirled with unanswered questions, the mystery surrounding Corvus deepening with every revelation. But, as he’d said, sleep first, answers later. Maybe.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, his blue eyes holding mine for a fleeting, intense moment that stole my breath. He turned to leave.
But I stopped him with an ingenious, “Um.” He paused, his broad shoulders half-turned back towards the way we’d entered, the soft light casting his silhouette as a subtle shadow that stretched between us.
“Do you have cell service down here, and maybe…a phone I could borrow?” I asked, not expecting much in this medieval-looking, high-magic environment.
He frowned, a furrow appearing between his dark brows. “Human communication technology doesn’t function here.”
“No bars,” I said, choosing to focus on the immediate inconvenience rather than the frightening implication of his statement. Based on the sheer volume of stonework and the earlier descent into the earth’s embrace, I clung to the belief that the lack of signal was merely a geological block. “That’s fine. Tomorrow’s problem. Sleep now.”
He bowed his head, a formal gesture that felt strangely appropriate. “Rest well.”
I felt the absurd need to curtsy in return, a ridiculous, sleep-deprived impulse. It looked as awkward as it felt, but somehow, not acknowledging his strange formality felt rude. A small, genuine smile touched his lips at my attempt, a fleeting softening of his intense features, and then he turned and left without another word, his silhouette receding down the orb-lit hall until the heavy oak door closed behind him with a soft thud. I watched him go, my gaze lingering on the closed door, a strange mix of relief and lingering unease swirling within me.
“This way, dearie,” Gneiss said, her gruff voice surprisingly gentle. She had already opened the door closest to the faded fresco of the black stone path, revealing a dimly lit chamber beyond.
“Thank you, Gneiss,” I mumbled, a wave of exhaustion finally washing over me as I stepped into the room. It was a small space decorated with a few tables, a couch, a large wood cabinet, a narrow bookcase carved into the wall, a narrow partition, and a wall of crawling ivy, glowing a warm green.
It was a small space, surprisingly cozy despite the stone walls, decorated with a few sturdy tables that looked like they’d survived several geological eras, a surprisingly plush-looking couch upholstered in a deep russet velvet, a large wood cabinet that probably held ancient artifacts or maybe just spare linens, a narrow bookcase carved directly into the wall, filled with leather-bound volumes, a narrow partition crafted from woven branches in shades of ebony and cobalt blue, and an entire wall covered in crawling ivy that glowed with a warm, internal green light, like a botanical nightlight.
“I’m afraid I don’t have your particulars,” she said, her wide, black eyes studying my oversized sweatshirt and silky pajama pants with an unreadable expression, before moving to stand beside the delicate wood partition, “but this should be comfortable enough to sleep in for one night.”
“Oh, these are fine,” I said, perhaps a little too quickly.
“You don’t need to go wearing your…outer garments to bed,” she said, her gruff tone softening slightly. “You’re not putting anyone out.”
“These are my pajamas,” I said, plucking self-consciously at my faded Wicked sweatshirt, suddenly feeling strangely embarrassed about my decidedly un-medieval sleepwear.
“Apologies, my lady,” Gneiss said with a relieved chuckle that sounded like rocks tumbling downhill. “I don’t keep up with human fashion. Though I did see a rather…striking ensemble involving ripped denim and safety pins within one of the scrying pools. But now I’m a bit embarrassed to show you what I had picked out for tomorrow. I promise to send one of our allies to pick out something more…current.”
“No, that’s fine, really,” I said, picturing myself in some sort of itchy, medieval gown. “I’m sure it’s…appropriate. Until I get my clothes from home.” I desperately hoped I’d be able to return to my real life to reclaim my wardrobe…and everything else I’d unknowingly left behind.
“It might be some time, dearie,” she warned sympathetically, her wide eyes conveying a surprising depth of understanding. “At least let me wash those for you. After what you went through, I know what a comfort clean clothes are.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic. “You don’t have something I could, maybe, wash my face with?” My face felt like a dried riverbed, grubby and puffy from the recent onslaught of fear and tears.
“Already thought of it,” she said with a surprisingly mischievous grin, her toothy smile flashing a glimpse of larger-than-human lower canines. She went over to a sturdy table that held a shallow bowl of water, the surface reflecting the soft green glow of the ivy. “You can wash up first, if you like.”
“I would, thanks.” I went over to the bowl and took the soft, slightly scratchy cloth she handed me. I dipped it in the water, which was surprisingly warm, a delightful sting against my still-chilled fingers. I wiped my face and neck, scrubbing away the grime and salt, and then returned the cloth to the edge of the washbowl.
“Oh, don’t be bashful,” Gneiss teased, a knowing glint in her black eyes. “I’ll even turn around.” She stepped away with surprising agility for someone who looked like a sentient boulder, facing the door, her sturdy back to me.
I wasn’t honestly comfortable undressing in front of a complete stranger—especially an inhuman one, even if she seemed surprisingly nice. But the lure of clean clothes and the sheer exhaustion weighing me down nudged me toward compliance. I raised my sweatshirt over my head, keeping it close in case I needed rapid concealment from any unseen eyes. I quickly patted down every area that had been intimately acquainted with fear-induced sweat. Then, with the grace of a startled gazelle, I shuffled to the partition, my bare feet silent on the stone. I undressed with record-breaking speed, wriggling into the plain, silky shift hanging over the woven branches. It was surprisingly cool against my skin, but not uncomfortably so, and probably made of material more expensive than anything I’d ever worn to a fancy dinner, let alone to bed. I grabbed my discarded clothes, held them in a tight, slightly shameful ball, and stepped back into the open.
“Lovely,” Gneiss said, turning back with a nod of approval. “Let me take those.” She took the pile from my arms, her surprisingly strong grip making me wonder what else she could lift. “Now let’s get you comfortable.” She led me deeper into the chambers, past the woven partition, into another room—the bedroom, presumably. Hopefully, it had a bed and not just a pile of particularly soft rocks.
The bedroom was small and circular, mirroring the outer chamber, but felt instantly more intimate. The walls were the same cool grey stone, but softened by tapestries depicting faded autumnal scenes: stags with impossibly large antlers grazing beneath trees whose leaves blazed in hues of silver and deep purple, their edges blurred with age; women with long, flowing hair gathering fallen leaves in woven baskets, their expressions melancholic. The air here was still, carrying a faint, sweet scent that reminded me of dried lavender and old paper.
A large, four-poster bed dominated the center of the room, its dark wood frame intricately carved with twining vines and clusters of berries, looking as though it had stood for centuries. Thick, cream-colored linens were piled high. I was powerless to resist the allure of that bed and the chance of a dreamless sleep.
Against one wall stood a tall, ebony-dark wardrobe, its wooden doors intricately inlaid with iridescent opal. A single, glowing orb was suspended from the ceiling, emitting a soft, cool-toned white light. Peeking through a slightly ajar door, I glimpsed a collection of clothes that seemed to span centuries: a velvet gown with a tightly laced bodice, a simple linen shift embroidered with delicate flowers, acid-wash jeans straight out of the 80s, all hanging side-by-side as if waiting for their owners to return.
Near the wardrobe, a small, dusty table held an assortment of what looked like art supplies: dried pigments in small clay bowls, a collection of worn brushes with frayed bristles, and several unfinished sketches on parchment, their delicate lines hinting at landscapes both familiar and unknown. On a nearby shelf, nestled amongst smooth, grey stones and dried herbs, lay an assortment of small, personal objects: a familiar-looking tarnished silver locket engraved with a swirling script, a delicate bone comb missing a few teeth, a sapphire broach worn smooth with handling, each object radiating a faint sense of lives lived and lost.
My mind prickled with an odd feeling of familiarity, a faint whisper of recognition that I couldn’t quite place. The melancholic beauty of the tapestries, the worn comfort of the aged furniture, the silent stories held within the collection of forgotten objects—they stirred something within me, a vague ache of nostalgia for a place I couldn’t possibly know.
But the insistent pull of the bed, the overwhelming weight of exhaustion, was more compelling than my nagging curiosity. The mystery of this room could wait. For now, the only thing that mattered was that the bed looked soft and warm.
Gneiss, surprisingly spry for some so broad, pulled back the thick layers of covers. The bed was high, and I had to execute a rather undignified scooch to haul myself up onto the yielding mattress. Then, with a surprising tenderness, Gneiss tucked the covers around me, the heavy linen instantly cocooning me in warmth.
“There you are, my Lady,” she said, her voice surprisingly sweet despite its gravelly timbre. “Sleep as late as you like. I’ll know when you’re ready.”
I offered a tired smile in thanks, trying to ignore the tiny pin-prick of discomfort at the idea of her knowing when I was ready. Was that magic? Or would she just be lurking in the corner, waiting for me to stir? Maybe the bed itself had a built-in ‘Wake Up Now, Peasant’ enchantment.
“I’m not sure I want the answer, but…I think not knowing is going to keep me awake,” I rambled, my brain already starting to fog.
“You can ask me anything, dearie,” she said, her wide, dark eyes unwavering. “And I am certain my sire would prefer that you did ask me. No one around here is offended by questions.”
He’d said she was loyal, a statement that now echoed with a slightly ominous undertone. Would she lie for him? Was that why he preferred I interrogate her instead of him? No. Despite the throne room and his previous evasiveness, I couldn’t quite believe that about Corvus. There was a strange…honesty in his intensity, even if it was often shrouded in cryptic pronouncements.
“You said ‘sire,’” I noted, my sleep-addled brain latching onto the term. “I honestly don’t know much about him, but I’d have to be really oblivious not to notice he’s…important. Like, ‘owns a castle’ important. But what is he?”
“A difficult question to answer,” she said, her brow furrowing, making her look even more like a disgruntled garden gnome. “How can we name mountains and pretend to say we know what they are?”
I rubbed my temple, a familiar ache starting to bloom. That was precisely the kind of philosophical non-answer I was afraid to get. “I don’t think he’s a mountain. Though he does have a certain…brooding presence.”
Gneiss chortled, a sound like pebbles rolling down a hill. “Apologies, my Lady. It’s not that I don’t want to answer, but there are some things that are dangerous to say aloud—it could endanger your very life.”
I froze, the drowsiness momentarily banished. “And knowing who he is would be dangerous?”
“If said the wrong way,” she admitted, her wide eyes suddenly losing their gentle quality. “But I think it would be safe to say…” She paused, thinking over her answer with the same meticulousness I’d seen in eyes deciphering a spreadsheet. She stroked her wrinkled, surprisingly hairy chin. “It should be safe to say, as you have already suspected, he is important. Although he has not officially inherited the title, we call him the Lord of Dusk.”
My stomach knotted, a cold dread coiling within me. The monster that had possessed Mrs. G had mentioned the Lords of Dawn and Dusk. So I was targeted because of Corvus—him and whoever the Lord of Dawn was. But why? Was this some kind of supernatural turf war, and I was collateral damage?
“So, he’s, what? Heir to a soap empire?” I asked with a weak attempt at sarcasm, my dry humour feeling decidedly damp. “Or a big-time landowner?”
“Only humans dispute land,” she corrected sourly, her tone implying my ignorance was almost painful. “But this realm…” She paused, shaking her head once, cutting the thought off. “Once he officially inherits the crown, his power will only be matched by the rulers of the other courts.”
My eyes popped open wide. Suspicion confirmed, and then some. ‘Inherit the crown’ really narrowed his position down to someone royal.
“He’s a prince?” I guessed—the word feeling oddly surreal on my tongue.
“There,” she grinned, a flash of surprisingly sharp teeth in the dim light, pleased with her subtle evasion. “And I didn’t even need to say the word.”
A heaviness hardened inside my head, making my brain feel like a rock. “You couldn’t tell me that?” I frowned, raising a single, sleepily accusing brow.
“The rules are tricky,” she grumbled under her breath, sounding like she’d had this argument many times before.
“Can you tell me what a court is?” I asked, figuring I might as well try to piece together this bizarre puzzle.
She pursed her lips, considering. “Should,” she agreed. “It’s common knowledge…among the fair folk. It’s one of the great powers of our world—a court is all the creatures belonging to a particular realm, and the very essence of that realm itself.”
“And Corvus’ realm is…?”
Her dark eyes narrowed into slits, suddenly guarded. “Tricky. I’ve never had to say…That might be too specific.”
I sighed heavily and closed my eyes, the weight of exhaustion pulling me down. This realm was his. What did I know about it? Stone. Aged autumnal decor. Moody lighting everywhere. Muted colour palette. And then…what had the murderous monster said…? Oh.
“The Lord of Dusk,” I said, the words feeling heavy and significant as they left my lips. “So this is the Court of Dusk.”
“Well done, dearie,” she congratulated, a hint of genuine admiration in her gruff voice. “Welcome to the Dsuk Court. Now, close your eyes and surrender to sleep. I can try to answer more when you wake.”
A sleepy smile touched my lips. “Fine,” I sighed drowsily, the darkness at the edges of my vision growing. “Thank you, Gneiss.”
She patted the thick, woven sheets at my feet, a surprisingly maternal gesture. “To sleep,” she said, her words directed towards the glowing orb suspended above, as if commanding it. The light promptly dulled, bleeding out into a soft twilight before plunging the room into complete, velvety darkness. I heard her quiet movements, the soft rustle of her tunic, and then the gentle thud of the heavy door closing behind her, leaving me alone.
As I drifted into the welcoming numbness of sleep, an eerie realization pierced the fading edges of my consciousness. The monster’s hissed question echoed in the darkness: “You know them both in this life?” If Corvus, with his dominion over this stone and shadow realm, was the Lord of Dusk…then Kay, with his sun-kissed allure and radiating warmth, was the opposite in every way…Kay was the Lord of Dawn.
So why were two opposing forces interested in little old me?