The mushroom circle had been a doorway—the earth opening beneath my feet. A dizzying, stomach-lurching plunge into another reality in the span of a single heartbeat.
The familiar grit of the city dissolved into a breathtaking, terrifying plummet. Concrete and streetlights warped, blurred, then settled into a hall of entwined ivory trees—branches tangled so intricately they formed living walls, stretching toward a canopy thick with leaves that shimmered like pinned stars. Jewel-toned light in hues of opal, indigo, and deep purple bathed a path in an ethereal, dreamlike glow.
It was a real shame I was rocking an oversized Wicked sweater and silky pajama pants combo instead of a ballgown.
My neck arched back, a quiet gasp escaping my lips as I took in the impossible beauty. The air itself hummed with a gentle, windless energy that stirred the branches and made the skin on my arms prickle. It felt wild, untouched… and strangely, unnervingly familiar. Like a pentimento on an old canvas—a forgotten sketch buried under years of paint, suddenly bleeding back through to the surface.
Corvus set me down gently. My bare feet met pale, mismatched stone slabs, and my knees immediately wobbled. His hand caught my waist—a steady, anchoring warmth that kept me upright when gravity turned my limbs to jelly.
He didn’t rush me. He adjusted his pace to my timid, dragging steps, keeping a light but firm palm at my back as he guided me down the illuminated path. The air here was different—cleaner, crisp—carrying the scent of damp earth and sweet, blooming night flowers.
At the end of the path, a large, ornately carved black stone door stood sentinel between two spindly birch trees that seemed to weep silver light. I stopped and glanced back over my shoulder. The mushroom circle—our rabbit hole to Wonderland—now looked tiny and distant, a discarded portal to a life I was rapidly leaving behind, one pajama-clad step at a time.
Corvus laid his hand against the dark stone. With a heavy, grinding groan, the door rolled back, revealing stairs carving deep into the earth. Ornate pewter sconces shaped like half-moons held glowing orbs of captive starlight, casting a cool, theatrical gleam across the walls.
We descended into the quiet dark. The stone was cold against my bare soles, my hesitant steps echoing louder than his heavy leather boots. When my tired limbs betrayed me on an uneven step, he caught me before I could fall—his grip sure, steady, and immediate.
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
He offered only a small, quiet nod in return.
There was no forced small talk, no obligation to fill the space between us with empty words. My eyelids felt lined with lead, and mercifully, the silence didn’t feel tense or demand performative politeness. It was an uncomplicated quiet. Corvus simply set the pace, shielding me with his shadow as we moved deeper into the dark.
The stone stairs opened into a wide circular chamber. The air shifted—warmer now, and rich with the comforting aroma of dried herbs and beeswax. Three wooden doors punctuated the curved stone walls, each uniquely carved.
“Where do these lead?” I asked, my voice raspy from exhaustion. It felt like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, though there was no telling which page led to midnight tea and which led to a dragon’s den.
Corvus hesitated, his intense blue eyes flicking over the doors as if weighing the cost of giving too much away.
“The one on your left leads to the guest chambers,” he said, gesturing to a heavy oak door carved with swirling autumn leaves. “I’ll have it prepared for you.”
“And the others?” I pressed, leaning slightly into the stone wall for support. My gaze drifted to a slender cherrywood door bound in carved thorns, and then to a massive ebony door inlaid with thin, shimmering silver paths like a celestial map.
Corvus shifted his weight, looking down at the stone floor for a brief moment. “The centre door leads to my chambers,” he admitted, his voice a shade quieter than before.
I eyed the intricate silver patterns on the ebony—moon phases and aligned planets swirling in an endless dance across the dark. He clearly had some connection to silver—first the pendant he wore, now the marker for his room. But I hadn’t pictured him as an astrologer.
“And the last one?” I gestured toward the reddish-brown door carved with a stylized crown.
Corvus finally met my gaze, his expression guarded. “That… leads to the throne room.”
Throne room.
The words—unexpected and ridiculous—made the air thin. Hot—too hot. My bare feet suddenly felt rooted to the cold stone.
“Throne room?” I repeated, the disbelief cutting right through my fog of fatigue. I looked at him—really looked at his dark peacoat, his effortless posture, the quiet authority and steadiness in every gesture. My mind spun, trying to reconcile the brooding guy who’d just hacked up a monster in my living room with someone who lived next door to a throne. Who was this guy?
“We will speak after you sleep,” Corvus said softly. It wasn’t a suggestion.
The instinct to demand answers parted my lips, but a massive, jaw-cracking yawn stole the moment. My body was done for the night. Or morning? I had no idea what time it was. Whatever adrenaline had carried me through the mushroom circle was gone, leaving behind a bone-deep crash.
Besides, the fallout would still be there in the morning.
“Sure. Later,” I mumbled, crossing my arms over my Wicked sweater.
I trusted him not to let me die—that much had been paid for in monster blood. Twice over. But a clean slate? Not a chance. He was still holding more cards than he was willing to show. Learning what game he was playing—whatever horrible game I’d found myself a part of—was priority number one. Tomorrow.
I just needed to reset my brain with sleep first.
Corvus pushed open the oak door carved with veined autumn foliage, holding it with a silent invitation. I stepped through the tall frame into a hall where the air was cooler, carrying the faint scent of decaying leaves, aromatic smoke, and sweet spices. Unlike the barren stone chamber, this space felt… lived in.
Faded frescoes lined the stone walls between door arches, their kaleidoscopic pigments softened by time. Even through the haze of my exhaustion, the artist in me stirred. The brushwork was exquisite—sweeping, confident strokes that felt eerily, intimately recognizable, like looking at an old sketchbook I couldn’t remember filling.
My eyes swept across a willowy woman draped in woven leaves, her eyes the colour of moss, more tree spirit than person. She cradled a cornucopia overflowing with the rich bounty of an autumnal harvest and creamy-white rowan blossoms. Beside the tree spirit was the recognizable shape of a pixie, with sharp, angular features and iridescent dragonfly wings, holding a silver thread braided into a shimmering constellation.
But a glimpse at the end of the hall suddenly stole my full attention.
A path of shimmering black stones stretched across the plaster, half-faded to a ghostly grey. My fingers moved on instinct, tracing the edge of the painted stone before I could stop myself. The texture under my fingertips, the specific way the highlights were built up in layers of bone-white and indigo—it sent a cold, electric shiver straight down my spine. This was one half of the path that had haunted my dreams all my life.
The aged paint was so worn, but the strokes were there. I knew this hand. I knew this style.
“My Lady’s room is ready,” a gruff voice rasped.
I spun, my sleep-addled brain looking at eye level before realizing the sound had come from much lower.
The woman—or whatever she was—barely reached my hip. She was broad and solid, her skin the pale, unyielding grey of polished granite, etched with deep lines around her bulbous nose that looked carved by a chisel rather than age. Wiry grey hair crowned her large head like steel wool, and her palm-sized eyes were a striking obsidian with flashes of earthy brown. She wore a simple tunic belted in worn leather, from which hung a small drawstring bag, a leather-sheathed dagger, a runic slate, and a heavy iron mattock.
Despite her tough, stony exterior, her wide eyes swept over my oversized sweater and bare, dusty feet with an unmistakable, sharp worry.
“Have you dragged her here without shoes?” she demanded, her gaze snapping up to level a disapproving stare at Corvus.
For all his terrifying presence and shadowed aura, Corvus didn’t argue. He simply exhaled a slow, long-suffering breath, offering her a rare, subtle softening around his eyes.
“Gneiss will attend to you,” Corvus said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet, warm amusement.
“Nice?” I repeated, a tired smile tugging at my lips as I looked down at her.
She let out a dry huff that sounded like two river rocks grinding together. “Like the rock,” she grunted, tapping a gnarled, stone-pale knuckle against the wall. “G-N-E-I-S-S. Metamorphic. Banded. Tough as the earth beneath your boots—if you were bothered to wear any.”
Gneiss clicked her tongue, immediately stepping forward to take my arm. Her grip was startlingly strong, cool as marble, but her hold was undeniably gentle as she began steering my heavy, dragging body toward the last door. “I’ll get you sorted, don’t you worry,” she said.
“You can trust Gneiss with anything,” Corvus promised behind us, his voice heavy with sincerity. “She is loyal to me beyond measure.”
It was an unsettling statement—a reminder that I’d been pulled into a world of throne rooms and a queen who wanted me dead. Questions piled up in my mind, a growing stack of mysteries I was too frazzled to sort through. But as Corvus had said: Sleep first.
“I will see you tomorrow,” he said. His ice-blue eyes held onto mine for a fleeting, intense second that stole my breath. He turned to leave.
“Um,” I offered, a masterpiece of sleep-deprived eloquence.
Corvus paused, his broad shoulders turning back toward the door we’d entered. The soft light casting his silhouette was a subtle shadow that stretched between us.
“Do you have a phone I could borrow? Or, uh, anything with internet access?” I asked, not expecting much from a subterranean stone castle, but praying for a miracle.
A faint furrow appeared between his dark brows. “Human technology does not work here.”
“Right. No bars underground,” I mumbled, choosing to focus on the cellular inconvenience rather than the terrifying possibility that I was completely cut off from the human world. “That’s fine. Tomorrow’s problem. Sleep now.”
Corvus bowed his head—a slow, formal gesture that felt rooted in another century. “Rest well, Dani.”
I felt an absurd, sleep-deprived impulse to curtsy in return. My knees wobbled as I gave a clumsy, lopsided dip, instantly regretting it.
A small, genuine smile touched the corner of his lips—a rare, breathtaking softening of his sharp features that made his eyes warm. He wasn’t mocking the attempt. He lingered for one more quiet heartbeat, then turned and walked down the orb-lit hall. The heavy oak door closed behind him with a soft thud.
I watched the closed door, my mind floating in a hazy space between relief, awe, and a blank, dozy exhaustion.
“This way, dearie,” Gneiss said, her gruff voice surprisingly gentle. She had pushed open the door closest to the fresco of the black stone path, revealing a dimly lit chamber beyond.
“Thank you, Gneiss,” I mumbled. Shuffling through the doorway, my eyes adjusted to the dim room.
It was a small space, surprisingly cozy despite the rough stone walls. Sturdy wooden tables that looked as though they’d survived several geological eras sat alongside a plush couch upholstered in deep russet velvet. A narrow bookcase carved directly into the wall held leather-bound volumes, a woven partition of ebony and cobalt branches offered a hint of privacy, and an entire wall of crawling ivy glowed with a soft, internal green light—like a botanical nightlight.
“I’m afraid I don’t have your particulars,” Gneiss said, studying my oversized sweatshirt and silky pajama pants with wide, unreadable black eyes before stepping beside the partition. “But this should be comfortable enough to sleep in for one night.”
“Oh, these are fine,” I said, maybe a little too quickly.
“You don’t need to wear 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.
Gneiss let out a relieved chuckle that sounded like rocks tumbling downhill. “Apologies, my lady. I don’t keep up with human fashion,” she said. “Though I did see a rather… striking ensemble involving ripped denim and safety pins within one of the scrying pools some years ago. Now I’m a bit embarrassed by what I picked out for tomorrow. I promise to send one of our allies to fetch something more… current.”
“No, that’s fine, really,” I said, picturing myself forced into an itchy, floor-length corseted gown. “I’m sure it’s fine. Until I can get back to reclaim my own wardrobe.” And my phone, and my sanity.
“It might be some time, dearie,” she warned sympathetically, her wide eyes heavy with understanding. “At least let me wash those for you. After what you’ve been through, clean clothes are a small comfort.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic. “You don’t happen to have something I could wash my face with?” My skin felt like a dried riverbed—grubby and tight from the overflow of fear and dried tears.
“Not my first day,” Gneiss said with a surprisingly mischievous grin, her toothy smile flashing larger-than-human lower canines. She waddled over to a sturdy table holding a shallow bowl of water reflecting the ivy’s green glow. “Wash up first, if you like.”
Thanking her, I took the soft, slightly scratchy cloth she handed me and dipped it into the water. It was delightfully warm, sending a soothing sting through my chilled fingers. I wiped away the grime and salt, returning the damp cloth to the basin’s edge.
“Oh, don’t be bashful,” Gneiss teased, a knowing glint in her dark eyes. “I’ll turn around.”
With surprising agility for someone who looked like a sentient boulder, she spun on her heel to face the outer door, her sturdy back turned to me.
I wasn’t entirely comfortable stripping down in front of a complete stranger—especially a stone creature—but the lure of clean clothes and jittery fatigue won out over modesty. Raising my sweatshirt over my head, I kept it close like a shield just in case I needed rapid concealment. I quickly patted down every area that had been intimately acquainted with fear-induced sweat, then shuffled behind the partition.
With the speed and grace of a startled gazelle, I wriggled into the plain, silky shift hanging over the woven branches. The fabric was cool, fluid, and likely made of material more expensive than anything I’d ever worn to a fancy dinner, let alone to bed. Grabbing my discarded clothes in a tight, protective ball, I stepped back into the open.
“Lovely,” Gneiss said, turning back with an approving nod. She reached out and took the pile from my arms, her casual strength a subtle reminder that she could probably crush a boulder with her bare hands. “Now, let’s get you into bed.”
She led me past the partition and toward a door deep in the chamber. I followed close behind, silently praying for an actual mattress and not just a pile of particularly soft rocks.
The bedroom was small and circular, mirroring the outer chamber, but felt instantly more intimate, cluttered with history.
The cool grey stone walls were softened by faded autumnal tapestries depicting stags beneath trees with silver-purple leaves, their edges soft and blurred by time. The scent of the air—dried lavender, beeswax, and the dusty sweetness of old paper—tickled something in my memory. A welcoming, nostalgic feeling.
A large, wooden four-poster bed stood in the centre of the room. The frame was simple and sturdy, unburdened of detail, the dark timber smoothed by hand until the grain felt like silk beneath my palm. As I reached out, my thumb slid instinctively into a small, smooth notch carved near the headboard—a tiny detail my hand seemed to recognize before my brain could even process why.
Against one wall stood a tall, ebony-dark wardrobe, its edges gently rounded with care. Peeking through the 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.
Beside the wardrobe, a small, dusty worktable held an assortment of art supplies: dried, powdered pigments in small clay bowls, a handful of worn brushes with frayed bristles, and unfinished parchment sketches. A tingling impulse flexed my fingers closer, the sticky residue of crushed minerals and ground berries remembered on my skin.
On a nearby stone shelf sat a few small, personal treasures. My eyes bypassed the carved bone comb and went straight to a tarnished silver locket resting on a bed of dried herbs. The swirling script etched across its hammered surface was faded, but the shape was unmistakable—a mirror image of the silver pendant hanging around Corvus’s neck.
My chest tightened with a shallow ache. Logically, I knew I was a stranger here—a pajama-clad intruder carried into a subterranean world just so I could escape monsters lurking in my real life. But my body didn’t care about logic. The way the room smelled, the handcrafted warmth of the aged wood, the silent story held in those worn brushes… It felt like stepping into a room I had stepped into a thousand times before.
Gneiss, surprisingly spry for someone so broad, stepped past me and pulled back the thick layers of cream-coloured linen. The bed was high, and I had to execute a rather undignified scooch to haul myself onto the mattress. It was like sinking into a cloud made specifically for the shape of my tired bones.
With surprising tenderness, Gneiss tucked the heavy covers around my shoulders, cocooning me in warmth.
“There you are, my Lady,” she said softly, 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 prickle of discomfort at the idea of her knowing when I woke. Was that magic? Or was she going to lurk in the corner like a stone sentinel? Maybe the bed had a built-in Wake Up Now, Peasant enchantment.
“I’m not sure I want the answers,” I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep. “But not knowing is going to keep my brain spinning.”
“You can ask me anything, dearie,” she said, her wide, dark eyes unwavering. “My Lord would prefer that you did. No one here is offended by questions.”
He’d said she was loyal—a statement that now echoed with a slightly ominous undertone when paired with my Lord. Would she lie for him? Despite his evasiveness, I couldn’t bring myself to doubt Corvus. He was cryptic, and his intensity was… a lot. But he wasn’t dishonest.
“You said ‘Lord,’” I noted, my hazy brain latching onto the word. “I’d have to be blind not to notice he’s important. Like… owns a castle important. But what is he?”
“A difficult question,” Gneiss said, her brow furrowing until she looked like a disgruntled garden gnome. “How can we name mountains and pretend to know what they are?”
I hung a heavy hand over my eyes and rubbed above the brow. A familiar ache was blooming behind my temples. No matter how many answers I got, there were always more questions, like a hydra of curiosity.
“I don’t think he’s a mountain,” I said, slightly slurred. “Though he has that brooding stone wall thing going for him.”
Gneiss chortled, a sound like pebbles rolling down a hill. “Apologies, my Lady. It’s not that I wish to withhold the truth. But some things are dangerous to speak aloud—words that could endanger your very life.”
My eyelids fluttered open, a spark of fear pushing back the drowsiness. “Knowing who he is would put me in danger?” I asked.
“If said the wrong way,” she admitted, her wide eyes growing serious. She paused, pondering her words with the care of an accountant auditing a spreadsheet. “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. The monster that had taken Mrs. Gilbert’s appearance had hissed about the Lords of Dawn and Dusk. So, I’d been targeted because of Corvus—and whoever this other ‘Lord’ was. But why?
“So, he’s… what? Heir to a soap empire?” I offered weakly, my sarcasm running on empty. “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 dry, gritty eyes popped open wide. Inheriting the crown really narrowed his position down to someone royal.
“A prince,” I murmured, the word feeling bizarre on my tongue.
Gneiss flashed a sudden grin, her sharp lower canines catching the soft light. “There. And I didn’t even have to say the word.”
A heaviness hardened inside my head, making my brain feel like a rock. “You couldn’t tell me that?” Cheek rolling into the pillow as I raised a single, accusing brow.
“The rules are tricky,” she grumbled under her breath.
“Can you tell me what a court is?” I asked, trying to piece together the puzzle before my consciousness slipped away completely.
Her lips pursed, considering. “Should,” she agreed. “It is common knowledge among us fair folk. A court is a power—it is all the creatures belonging to a particular realm and the very essence of the realm itself.”
Fair folk.
The phrase sent a sudden, cold shudder straight through the warmth of the blankets. Fairies. The word conjured images of delicate, sparkling storybook creatures—the exact opposite of the grotesque, teeth-baring monstrosities that had hunted me. The monsters of my life were fair folk.
“And Corvus’s realm is…?” I prompted, my eyelids growing impossibly heavy, closing against me.
“Tricky,” she said quietly. “I’ve never had to say… I fear saying the name might be too close.”
I let out a long, slow exhale, sinking deeper into the mattress. This realm belonged to Corvus. A realm of stone. Glowy orbs. Faded autumn tapestries. Shadow.
“The Lord of Dusk,” I whispered, the title settling into the quiet room. “This is the Court of Dusk.”
“Well done, very clever, dearie,” Gneiss praised, genuine warmth in her gruff voice. “Now, close your eyes. We can talk more when you wake.”
“Fine,” I breathed, unable to fight the tide of sleep pulling me under any longer. The overwhelming drowsiness was more compelling than my nagging curiosity. “Thank you, Gneiss.”
She patted the heavy blanket over my feet—a simple, maternal gesture. “To sleep,” she commanded, addressing the glowing orb above.
The light promptly dulled, bleeding into soft twilight before vanishing into complete, velvety darkness. I heard the quiet rustle of her tunic, the soft scuff of her steps, and the gentle thud of the heavy door closing.
As I drifted into the welcome haze of sleep, a thought pierced through the haze. The monster’s hissed question echoed in my mind: You know them both in this life?
If Corvus, with his shadows and stone, was the Lord of Dusk… then Kay, with his sunlit charm and radiant warmth, was his exact polar opposite. Kay was the Lord of Dawn.
So why were two opposing forces interested in little old me?