SCENE 4- CRYSTAL

  Outside the borders of the Peace Circle lay a place where the land had long since forgotten warmth, light, and reason. A choking fog blanketed everything, thick enough to strangle the sun, casting the world in permanent dusk. The mist glowed faintly purple at the edges, as if stained by a lingering curse, making it impossible to see more than a few paces ahead. Paths twisted and disappeared, reshaping themselves like the folds of a serpent's tongue, and the silence was always wrong—too quiet, until it wasn’t.

  When the land was dry, it cracked open like old skin, and where it wasn't, murky, fetid water gathered into shallow basins—three feet deep, always dark, always moving with a ripple that had no source. The ground itself was treacherous, offering no comfort or consistency. One misstep could swallow a traveler whole.

  And above all else was the miasma. It pulsed from the surface like festering boils—bloating, stretching, threatening to burst with venomous release. The air was sharp with the sting of rot and something worse: a smell that didn’t belong to the natural world, something more ancient and angry. Breathing it too long twisted the senses, filled the ears with whispers that didn’t stop, and made even the bravest minds forget their own name.

  This was where Victoria and Crystal had built their haven—just beyond salvation, and just close enough to strike when the time was right.

  Crystal smoothed her fingers along the arch of her thick brown eyebrows, pausing in her silent critique of her reflection before stepping away from the mirror. The soft glint of her glass-handled brush, resting delicately on the dresser, caught her eye. She reached for it with the same casual care that always followed her morning rituals.

  But the moment was shattered—literally—by the sharp crack of the door flinging open, slamming so violently against the wall that the floor trembled beneath her feet. The sudden noise startled her, forcing her to fumble with the brush, as it flipped out of her hand, it hit the floor, fracturing on impact, each shard of glass reflecting back her wide, blinking eyes in a tiny fragmented mosaic.

  "Jeepers creepers, Victoria!" she hissed under her breath, exasperation making her voice brittle.

  Victoria stood in the doorway, her figure still haloed by the hallway's cold light, a wide and unnervingly bright smile stretched across her lips.

  "Crystal!" she chimed, voice dripping with the kind of cheer that immediately raised suspicion, especially given the weeks of gloom that had cloaked her like a second skin.

  Crystal crouched to gather the broken shards, muttering under her breath as the pieces floated back together, the familiar warmth of a recovery spell stitching them whole. She spared Victoria a wary glance.

  Victoria strode into the room, moving with unnatural ease, her chin held arrogantly high. "Where's my red dress?"

  "You don't have one," Crystal answered flatly, brushing her now-mended tool through her hair, trying to pretend that the encounter wasn't gnawing at her nerves. "You said red made you too... hungry, remember- something like that, it stirred up old cravings—blood and all that."

  Victoria hummed, absentmindedly unpinning the long, thick braid of her snow-white hair. Silky strands tumbled over her shoulders, framing her flawless, unblemished face. Her silver eyes glinted with a wildness barely kept at bay, a glimmer that no amount of magic could smooth away.

  "We're going to have a guest," she cooed, as if the announcement were cause for celebration.

  "And?" Crystal arched a brow, unconcerned, tugging at a wayward eyelash as she glanced back at her reflection.

  "I have to look welcoming, Crissy." Victoria's voice danced playfully, her hands busy sifting through her jewelry. "Now, what color eyes do you think I should have?"

  Crystal gave a snort. "Does it really matter?" She abandoned the mirror altogether, her curiosity drawing her toward the cage suspended from the high, arched window.

  The creature inside—a girl, though at the moment dressed in the illusion of a fairy—flitted weakly against the golden bars, wings twitching with exhaustion. Meyrin, once a sharp-tongued priestess, now little more than a captured spark of herself. When her strength failed, she would settle into the center of the cage, clutch her face in her hands, and weep until her throat grew raw. Then the cycle would begin again.

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  It had only been three days since Meyrin was snatched from the temple—three days since she’d been separated from Mika. Stuck in this cursed place, time wilted like dying petals, and silence bore the weight of something far worse than her tears ever could."

  "Poor girl, poor soul," Crystal mused, tapping the glass lightly. "Where is your Prince Charming, I wonder? Three days now... I'm beginning to think he's lost his way."

  "He'll come," Victoria said with unsettling certainty, her voice a soft sing-song that sent a cold ripple across the room. "No man leaves a priestess in my hands and gets away with it." A dark little giggle escaped her lips.

  "The plan is set." Crystal's green eyes narrowed as she stepped away from the cage, rubbing her hands together, a sharp glint of calculation flickering behind her usually soft gaze.

  "The Great Land will be mine again," Victoria purred, her voice changing from fine-tuned to shedding its cheerful lilt for something heavier, more venomous. "And this time, no one will stop me. Not their precious 'weapon,' not their armies, not their prayers. I'll tear this pretty little world apart, right down to its roots."

  A faint wisp of smoke coiled from her nostrils, her smile stretching into something that exposed inhumanly sharp, pointed black stained teeth.

  As if chastened, Victoria's mouth shifted, her teeth retracting into perfect human uniformity once more. Her expression softened, though the danger still lingered in the curl of her lips.

  "Anyway," she sighed dreamily, "I still want a red dress. Red means sexy... or at least, it does to most people. I prefer it as the color of blood."

  Crystal snorted again, this time with less amusement. "One day, you'll get so hungry you'll end up biting yourself."

  Victoria grinned, the shadows returning behind her eyes. "Because I'm delicious," she purred, voice thick with self-admiration, before her tone snapped sharp and commanding. "Now get me a red dress."

  Crystal paused, lifting her gaze to fully study the woman before her. Victoria was the very image of seduction and power—white hair cascading like silken snow, flawless porcelain skin unmarred by even the faintest imperfection. A slender, lethal figure poured into a revealing black bathing suit that flaunted her sculpted curves. Every inch of her looked as if carved by the hands of a god... but Crystal knew better.

  Beneath the carefully woven glamour, beneath the borrowed beauty, was a creature so monstrous even its own reflection would recoil in terror. If it weren't for Crystal's talents, Victoria would have long since wasted away—consumed either by her own form or the gnawing guilt of a war she could no longer recall.

  Unfortunately, she had never truly trusted Victoria—not from the moment she found her crawling from the rubble, half-mad and reeking of death. But the creature had known things, said things—fragments of memories and names she had no right to know. That was enough to keep Crystal close. Somewhere behind that porcelain mask and toothy smile was a thread of truth about her brother’s fate, and Crystal intended to unravel it—no matter how long it took. Revenge could wait, but answers could not.

  Crystal's gaze drifted to her own reflection for a moment, her thoughts distant. She was no fool. Her youthful face, the black hair streaked with unnatural green, and the deep emerald eyes were the product of her own craft. Her dark blue dress with purple lace was fraying at the ends, but she had little care for fashion. She was over a century old, and looked no older than a child—a fact that rarely drew warmth from others, only wariness.

  But it hadn't always been like this.

  Her brother, a kind mage with a gentle smile, had raised her after their mother, Magnelyn, had died giving birth. Witches were not meant to bear children, not truly, but their mother had defied nature twice—once with her brother, and once with her. Their little family had been small, but full of dreams, dreams painted by her brother's words.

  He spoke often of the Land's beauty, before the war:

  "The Land transformed into something magical. Apples that cracked open, their seeds planting themselves. Mangoes that floated gently from their trees. Grapes that burst like laughter in your mouth. And the air—so sweet and light, it sang like a lullaby."

  "And that," he once said, "is why Mother named you Crystal, my dear. It was on one of those days—the waters were so clear, they danced in the air, as if the whole world had been reborn."

  But then the war came. He left, promising to return, to build the peaceful life they'd dreamed of, but the promise had dissolved into silence. He never came back.

  And in his place, she had found Victoria—curled in the rubble of a crumbling cave, broken, bruised, and beastly. Crystal had felt no pity, only suspicion. The creature might've stolen her brother's life, or worse, known the truth of what really happened. So she had taken her in—not as an act of kindness, but as a means to an end.

  Victoria's voice sliced through her thoughts. "Oh please," she scoffed lazily, "there's no way I'm ever going to remember what happened that day."

  Crystal tilted her head, her voice quiet, but edged. "It's a damn shame."

  Her words hung in the air like a spell, though her face remained unreadable. Whether Victoria was lying, or some curse had stolen her memory, Crystal wasn't sure. But one thing she did know: if anger were a thing she still allowed herself to feel, she would've wiped that smug, gleeful smile off Victoria's face a long-long time ago.

  She peeped at the window, it was too dark outside to see anything, and it's too hard with the human eye to tell day or night.