Behind the General Store, in a crumbling double-storey terrace, lived Felecia Cromwell.

  The house leaned into decay—grey timber weather-worn, the balcony condemned, windows fogged, and the courtyard buckled with weeds.

  Miles Durant leased it to her out of charity more than commerce. More often than not, Felecia lived rent-free; for money was scarce, and Miles’s heart too pious to demand payment. The Light lives in those who help the helpless, he’d told her. But Felecia suspected it was the memory of his own mother’s hardship that truly stayed his hand.

  To repay her debts, Felecia worked for Miles, stacking shelves or sweeping the store’s creaking floors. And yet, he always insisted on paying her whatsoever he could spare, slipping coins into her hand, even as she protested. For the rest of her keep, she gutted and scaled fish at the market. She made and mended her own clothes; grew what vegetables the shallow soil in the courtyard could sustain; and after nightfall, lit only a single candle that she carried with her around the house. Such were the struggles of a widow in an age of privation.

  Her husband had been a miner—like so many in Othilia—toiling in the dark depths of the mountains to pocket his share of the yield. Yet his wage did not save him; for when Tunnel 23 collapsed, Henry Cromwell was crushed beneath a monstrous weight of timber, steel, and rock. It was Ajax Tenorman who hauled Henry’s broken body from the mines, his massive frame silhouetted as he climbed through smoke and dust. Felecia collapsed onto her husband’s body in the sharp stones of the mining yard, her howl of grief but a mote in the surrounding chaos. The memory haunted her even to this day, gnawing at the back of her thoughts, rearing constantly in her dreams.

  Their savings were long since gone by the time the funerals were over. The modest compensation from the Wordsworth Mining Co. had paid for a pine coffin and a small reception, little more.

  Her son Brody was a disappointment. He drifted from job to job—wainwright, carpenter, bloofire mechanic—quitting each in turn with complaints of boredom or mistreatment. The truth, Felecia knew, was simpler: he lacked hunger for honest work.

  In desperation, she threatened to drag him to the mines, though the thought filled her with dread. Like an addict swearing each night to quit come morning, her threats were hollow. Brody had learned to hear the tremble in her voice, the guilt she couldn’t outrun—that sending him below would betray Henry’s memory.

  For the last six months, Brody had done nothing of substance. He fished when the mood struck him, selling his catch at the market for a few coins. That money never came back to his mother: whether he gave it all to the bartenders of the town, or delivered it directly into the pockets of the card dealers, he came home empty-handed—eyes vacant, shoulders slouched, sullen as dusk.

  And so, she bore the ruin of house and home alone. Deep lines were now carved into her face, and her hands were calloused, but her spirit endured. Every morning she rose with the light of dawn, cradling the stubborn belief that today would bring hope; that tomorrow would be better; that after all her struggles, the Light would take pity on her. Each day she eked out an existence; each night, she retired with the meagre comfort of survival.

  Yet she was not without moments of despair, not without doubt, not without the cold and cruel whisper of the Shadow, speaking from the darkness beyond her candlelight, that insisted quite the opposite: that hers was the sum of her lot, and that soon enough, everything she so desperately held together—by her toil and by her will—would crumble in her hands.

  Felecia was pottering around the house, listless as she tried to whittle away the hours. Dull light slanted into the rooms. The faint smell of mildew clung to the walls and the furniture, mingling with the reek of fish that lingered on her clothes and hair.

  She had spent the morning with a book, which failed to hold her attention, and knitting winter jumpers for herself and Brody. But her hands ached from the tight pull of the yarn, and her eyes were heavy from another night plagued by worry—for money, for her son, for her whole sad, sorry excuse for a life. She was due at the General Store by three; so for now, she had taken to tidying—a futile task, like wishing for rain in the desert.

  As she came into Brody’s room, the chaos within almost overwhelmed her. She swore under her breath, as parents do when confronted by a child’s total disregard for order. The blankets were a tangled mess on the floor; plates and cloudy glasses crowded every surface, teetering on the edges of overstuffed drawers; and the reek of unwashed clothes hung thick in the air, like smog around a factory. She gathered the plates and glasses, straightened whatever she could, and tossed a pair of threadbare underpants into an already overflowing bin.

  Then she saw it.

  On the bedside drawer, half-buried beneath an ancient fishing magazine held together with dry tape, was a porcelain bowl. She lifted the magazine and saw what lay inside.

  Like lightning spearing a ridge, and thunder shaking the earth, all attention is seized by the terror of a storm. The household gathers—at doors, at windows—and both in awe and with fear, they stand and witness the wrath of Lord Wind, unable to turn away. So too Felecia Cromwell was seized by the dusty brown powder in the porcelain bowl.

  The flame of recognition flared deep within her. She reached for it, her fingers trembling.

  She brought the bowl to her nose, and the faint, acrid scent consumed her. Though its potency had faded, she knew it instantly.

  Strife.

  Her knees weakened as the memory surged back. It had been twenty years since she had tasted it. Twenty years since she left her body behind, drifted through auroras and stars, and found Fairyland.

  Felecia and Henry had been strifers, their quiet addiction a shared escape. Each full moon, they lay on the cool grass beneath the stars, indulging together, their souls dancing, fusing, dissolving. Henry had called the full moon a doorway, and strife the key.

  He laughed as they drifted, a child’s laughter, brimming with hope: It’s time for another adventure, my queen. Let’s go see the fairies.

  And then Henry died, and their dreams of Fairyland died with him. Grief had drowned her cravings; and in the years that followed, she had neither the money nor the desire to replenish their stash. She gave up the demon spice.

  She thought she’d left it behind. But now, with strife beneath her nose, the ache returned. It pulsed through her mind, obliterating all other thoughts. The years suddenly collapsed. All that remained was the memory of bliss. She cared little for how Brody had come by it; her son had vanished with the rest. The demon spice had narrowed her world, honing her perception to but a single point: the bowl of dusty brown powder in her palm.

  She sank onto the edge of the bed. The frame groaned beneath her. Her fingers dipped into the demon spice, trembling as they pinched at the faint remnants. She brought it to her lips, pressed it to her tongue.

  The bitter tang filled her mouth and throat. Her heart quickened. The rush of pleasure filled her head, then spread to her whole body. The room began to tilt, the edges of reality softening, melting …

  Then came the pull. Like filings snapping to a lodestone, so Felecia Cromwell was pulled from the world. Her body fell backwards, landing in the crumpled blankets. Her eyes fluttered, then closed.

  After all the years, all the hardship and pain, Felecia Cromwell returned to Fairyland.

  It was a place shaped by the hand of divinity. Before her, green hills rolled outward, verdant and eternal. A warm breeze carried the scent of fresh flowers. A lake stretched before her, its surface shimmering like diamonds beneath a golden sun.

  The trees were impossibly tall, their canopies weaving a tapestry of emerald and gold that swayed on the breeze. The mountains loomed vast and eternal, snow glinting on their lofty peaks. Their majesty demanded reverence.

  Felecia’s feet brushed against the grass, her steps light and unburdened. The shadows of Othilia, its hunger and its decay, were as distant as the memories passed down from the lives of one’s parents. She felt as she had the first time Henry kissed her atop Cujo’s Crossing—weightless, whole.

  This was paradise. This was Fairyland.

  She came to the water’s edge. Kneeling, she cupped her hands and dipped them into the water. It was cool, clear as glass. She drank deeply. The water rushed through her—cleansing, revitalising. It was holy. This she was certain. A quiet sigh escaped her lips as that sense of serenity bloomed within her like a flower unfurling in the light of the dawn.

  And yet, as the ripples stilled and the lake returned to glass, Felecia realised something she had never before known in Fairyland. An absence. The songbirds that once graced these waters with their melodies were nowhere to be found. The trees, usually alive with a lilting laughter, were silent. The air, though warm, carried no hum of life. It was as though the world held its breath.

  Her serenity faltered, wilting at its edges. For the first time, she shivered. She felt the tiniest prick of unease. She dipped her hands again. Ripples spread, reached the centre—and stilled, as if the lake itself resisted her touch. The water was unnaturally still.

  She rose and looked around. The trees were taller now. Darker. Their gnarled branches loomed with quiet menace. The light of the sun had faded, its golden hue turned pale and cold. The mountains sneered. Something was missing. Something had changed.

  She was alone.

  “Hello, my queen.”

  Felecia whirled, her heart leaping into her throat. On the knoll behind her stood Henry, bathed in a light that cast no shadow.

  He was untouched by time, his dark hair full and wild as she remembered it. He wore the colourless clothes of a miner, the Wordsworth Mining Co. logo stitched on the breast; yet he was peculiarly clean, unmarred by the dirt and grit of the underground.

  “Henry,” she whispered, her voice weak—as though merely speaking his name might cause him to vanish.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Henry said.

  Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as she stepped forward, reaching out to touch his face. “I missed you so much,” she said, her voice breaking.

  Henry grinned. He grinned. But something in the curve of his lips was wrong—too sharp, too knowing. Before her fingers could meet his cheek, he turned abruptly and fled. He darted down the hill toward the forest.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Henry! Wait! Where are you going?”

  He didn’t answer—just disappeared into the trees, swallowed by the growing dark.

  For but a heartbeat Felecia hesitated. Then she followed. She ran over root and stone, bare feet slapping moss and damp earth. She chased his fleeting silhouette into the depths, twisting and turning around tree and stone.

  At first the forest was illuminated by radiant beams of light spilling through the canopy. Then the light faded. As a cloud blots the sun, so twilight fell.

  She pushed herself harder, her breaths coming in ragged gasps, her pulse thudding like the strike of a smith’s hammer.

  “Henry! Please! Stop!” Her voice did not carry, as if the shadows themselves swallowed the sound.

  Then he was gone.

  Felecia staggered to a halt, her chest heaving. She turned in frantic circles. The forest was shrouded in gloom. The light was extinguished entirely. Her cries went out into the thick silence and received no answer.

  “HENRY!” she called again, and desperation frayed the edges of her voice.

  From the forest depths came a reply. Not Henry’s voice—no—but something ancient, and brimming with hate. It was the tyrannical howl of a monster that stalked the darkest caverns of nightmare.

  She could not move. Her limbs betrayed her. Her limbs betrayed her. Her mind shrank—screaming, yet silent. Her eyes darted wildly, searching for the source, but the darkness stole any glimpse of the beast.

  Then came the crack of wood—violent and vociferous, as though an immense weight had pressed against a tree until it snapped like a toothpick. The beast growled—a sound like lion’s roar fused with a hound’s bark, as loud as a train’s horn. Another crash followed, closer this time. A colossal entity was moving through the forest.

  And it was coming for her.

  “Henry?” she mewled in a broken voice, tears streaking her flushed cheeks.

  The monster howled again. Her heart thundered as terror surged through her. Felecia burst into blind flight, the forest now a blur of shadow.

  The monster followed, a pandemonium of destruction. Trees snapped, stone cracked, the earth groaned as something vast and merciless ploughed through the forest. She dared not look back, but she could feel its presence, growing, looming, closing the distance.

  She stumbled, fell, scrambled to her feet—and ran again. But the monster was relentless.

  And still the darkness stole more of the world. The faintest impressions of trees disappeared, and Felecia ran now in a void of unabated shadow.

  She had crossed into Underland.

  Panic consumed her. Earth and sky were gone. There was only darkness.

  Her legs burned, her chest ached, but still she ran …

  And then—it caught her.

  Her soul screamed. The darkness swallowed the sound. Terror, in its final form, closed around her—and crushed her.

  And Felecia Cromwell was devoured.

  Virgil leaned over the desk in his office, a map of the mountains spread before him. It showed the known paths and contours around the copper mine. He had added his own notations—circles, arrows, question marks—trying to construe the most likely routes for smuggling. Beside him lay Iman Lazuli’s report, its pages dog-eared and messy with Virgil’s handwriting, detailing his suspicions of a copper theft from the Wordsworth Mining Co.

  The theft concerned him—but what gnawed deeper was the inefficiency of his Guardians. How had they missed this?

  The thud of heavy boots on the old floorboards brought Lee Heston into his office. He had come from the archives. His shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled unevenly. Dark shadows framed his eyes. Fatigue and irritation clouded his features.

  “We need to reconsider our categories,” Heston said, his tone flat yet exasperated.

  Virgil didn’t look up. “You convinced me six months ago that a chronological system was the optimum.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.” The words sliced through Virgil’s focus.

  Virgil straightened, his face hardening. “Then you’ve wasted six months of my time.”

  “It was a trial, Virgil. And I’m not convinced it’s failed. Not entirely. But it’s clear that the current system is cumbersome. I’m now in favour of alphabetising.”

  Virgil’s eyes narrowed. “Which, if you recall, was my original suggestion.”

  They squared off, their voices rising.

  “I was trying to make it better—”

  “By overcomplicating it!”

  “It’s not over-complicated! It’s nuanced!”

  “Nuanced?” Virgil barked, slamming his hand down on the map. “The archives are a labyrinth, Heston. It takes hours to find a single report, and now you’re telling me the system you’ve insisted on isn’t working? Do you have any idea how much time we’ve lost because of your ‘nuance’?”

  Heston’s fatigue gave way to a flash of anger. “If we’re losing time, it’s because Guardian Force is stretched too thin. We’ve been drowning in reports for years, and none of us can keep up—”

  “That’s an excuse,” Virgil snapped. “If you’d listened to me in the first, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “I listened when you said we needed order,” Heston countered. “But order doesn’t mean perfection, Virgil. You demand it, and it doesn’t exist. Not here. Not in this place.”

  “I never asked for perfection—after you argued, quite incessantly, against my suggestion, I asked you to find me a perfect system, which you have clearly failed to do.”

  Virgil took a deep breath, shook off his irritation, and turned his gaze back to the map.

  “Do you know why I demand order, Heston? Because when order fails, chaos rules. And chaos doesn’t just slow us down—it kills. It leaves bodies in the streets. And I am tired of burying this town’s dead.”

  Before Heston could respond, a knock came at the front door. Virgil’s head snapped up. He frowned, stormed out of his office, and descended the stairs. Heston followed, slower.

  Virgil opened the door to the waiting room to reveal the doctor. He stood pale in the doorway, twisting his black hat with trembling hands.

  “Chief Commander,” he said with half a nod. “There’s been a death. Felecia Cromwell. It seems she took the demon spice.”

  Pity came first to Virgil’s old and tired face; then his eyes darkened. Only two days ago Giles had found the pouch of strife. The Chief Commander had done his duty as the baron ordered, and the strife was destroyed. He had sworn Giles to silence, had insisted that the incident was isolated when he knew the truth …

  Virgil exchanged a pointed look with Heston, who stood at the foot of the stairs, his expression hardened by the doctor’s words.

  “Heston, come,” said the Chief Commander.

  Heston nodded.

  Without grabbing his coat, Virgil followed the doctor out of the office. Heston locked the door behind them. Upstairs, the map of the mountains and its unsolved riddles lay forgotten.

  Virgil stood over Felecia Cromwell’s lifeless body, the dim light of her home veiling everything in gloom.

  The sight was pitiful. She lay twisted in her blankets. Her face was frozen in fear, staring into the abyss. The acrid stench of strife clung to the air, faint but unmistakable.

  Angry and exhausted, Virgil frowned as he knelt beside the bed. He sifted through the broken porcelain, fingertips brushing the brown dust, tracing patterns into grief.

  The doctor stood against the wall, arms folded, face unreadable save for the faint furrow of his brow. “She was already cooling by the time I arrived,” he said, his tone clinical, detached. “Her son saw her this morning. No signs of illness. I’d place the time of death around midday. The demon spice went straight for her heart. Poor woman—grief and hardship had already hollowed her soul. The spice was just the final blow.”

  Virgil’s frown deepened. At first he said nothing. His gaze lingered on the broken bowl. He shook his head at the needless tragedy. This woman had died, like so many before her, scared and alone.

  “It matters little now,” he said.

  “That’s three dead in three months. Strife is here, Virgil—it is undeniable. And it is sowing death in our soil.” His voice sharpened with frustration, breaking through the cool detachment. “Have you made any progress on this? Or shall I tell the undertaker to start digging more holes?”

  Virgil rose slowly, brushing his fingers on his pants. “We maintain the narrative as discussed,” he said, his tone curt, final.

  “And what is that narrative, exactly? That these deaths are isolated? That there isn’t poison coursing through the veins of this town? The bodies are piling up, Chief Commander. If my silence is to continue, I must ask for more remuneration. I cannot be expected to bear the cost of complicity without adequate compensation.”

  Virgil’s eyes were like stone. “You’ll get nothing from me.”

  “Then you ask too much,” the doctor said. “Othilia rots, your Guardians scramble in the dark, the baron sits in his villa counting coins—and you would have me hold my tongue.”

  “It is not my request,” Virgil said, his voice rising, “but the baron’s command. If you wish for greater compensation, consult the baron yourself.”

  The doctor scowled. Like a man discovering cockroaches in his walls—scurrying, feeding, breeding filth—so was the doctor’s disgust.

  “You’ve forgotten your oath, Virgil. You serve Othilia no longer. You serve only the baron. I never thought I’d see the day when Virgil Decinta would become nothing more than a lackey.”

  “And I never thought a bribe could silence you, Dr. Nadler. Or have you convinced yourself that your hypocrisy is lesser than mine?”

  The doctor shook his head, stark disbelief straining his countenance. A hollow laugh escaped him. He pushed off the wall and strode out of the room.

  An oppressive silence followed. Virgil sighed, glanced again at the broken bowl, then at the woman’s stiff hands. And for a moment, he wondered if the doctor was right.

  The kitchen was a dank cloister, the light struggled through the dirt-streaked windows and the moth-eaten curtains. The smell of mildew and stale air was a reminder of the house’s decay.

  Heston sat at the worn dining table across from Brody Cromwell. Elbows on the table, notebook open, Heston barely looked at him.

  His gaze flicked up briefly as the doctor passed through, pulling a pipe from his pocket. His expression unreadable, he passed over Heston without a glance and exited the house.

  Brody sat slumped in his chair, grief-stricken. He fidgeted with his own fingers, pulling at his skin, picking at his nails. His eyes were bloodshot and distant.

  “It wasn’t yours?” Heston asked, his tone flat, almost bored.

  “It wasn’t,” Brody murmured. His hands were trembling.

  Heston looked up. He was unconvinced. He had seen the faint red fissures in the whites of Brody’s eyes, the telltale sign of the demon spice. Strife may have killed his mother, but Heston knew with utter certainty who had brought it into the house. He let the silence hang until it pressed down on the young man like an anvil.

  “I know you’re lying, Master Cromwell,” Heston said flatly, his voice devoid of pity. “And you would do well to maintain that lie.”

  Brody flinched as though struck. He opened his mouth to protest but faltered.

  “Forget the damn spice,” Heston said. “You’ve seen what it does. That’s your lesson. Don’t forget it.”

  Brody’s face crumpled. He buried it in his hands and began to sob. Heston watched him impassively, his pencil hovering over the notebook. He offered no comfort, no reassurance. Grief, to Heston, was a weight a man bore alone.

  “Forget you ever tasted it,” Heston said, quiet but firm. “Your mother died of a heart attack—that’s what I’ll report. That’s what the town will believe.”

  Brody’s hands dropped to the table. Tears stained his face, etched with raw desperation. “Will the pain go away?”

  “No,” Heston said. “But you’ll learn to live with it.”

  And so, the death of Felecia Cromwell soon appeared in The Othilia Times. A heart attack, cruel but natural. A tragedy.

  There was no mention of the demon spice. Not in print. Not in whispers.

  Coming up in Chapter 7…

  A line crossed.

  And a Commander begins to break.

  but the man he swore to obey.

  Chapter 7: The Road to Ruin

  Coming next Thursday.

  Some truths are only found when everything else is lost.