Caelum woke with a start, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. The room was dark, the fire in the hearth downstairs long dead, but the air felt alive, thick with something he couldn’t name. His heart pounded, a rhythm that matched the faint hum from the parcel on the table. He hadn’t meant to sleep, only to rest his eyes, but exhaustion had betrayed him. The storm still growled outside, rain hammering the inn’s roof like a fist. He sat up, the bed creaking under his weight, and rubbed his face. His dreams had been jagged—flashes of a tower draped in silk, a child’s voice calling his name, and fire, always fire, licking at the edges of his vision.

  He stood, checking the parcel. The leather wrap was untouched, but the silk inside seemed to pulse, a slow, deliberate throb. “Fucking imagination,” he muttered, shoving the thought down. He was tired, that was all. Tired and stuck in a shithole village that didn’t belong on any map. He needed to find Ash, get directions to Elnair, and get the hell out before this place crawled any deeper under his skin.

  The inn’s common room was empty when he descended the stairs, his boots loud against the warped wood. The fire was out, leaving only ash and a faint smell of burnt pine. Brida was nowhere in sight, but the villagers’ eyes lingered in his memory—those unblinking stares, like they knew something he didn’t. He pushed open the door, stepping into the gray dawn. The rain had eased to a drizzle, but the fog was thicker now, a heavy curtain that muffled sound and blurred the edges of the village. Mystic Nights stretched before him, its crooked houses leaning like drunks, their windows dark but watchful.

  He started down the main road, if you could call it that—a muddy strip lined with shops and homes, all built from the same weathered timber. The spiral symbol was everywhere: carved into doorframes, etched on signs, even scratched into the dirt at his feet. It made his skin crawl, though he couldn’t say why. People moved through the fog, their shapes vague but deliberate. A woman carrying a basket of bread paused to stare, her eyes narrowing as if trying to place him. A man sharpening a knife outside a butcher’s shop didn’t look up, but his hands slowed, the blade hovering. Caelum kept his head down, his hand near his sword. He wasn’t here to make trouble, but he’d be damned if he let trouble find him first.

  “Lost, are you?” a voice called, thin and reedy, from an alley. Caelum turned, his fingers tightening on the hilt. An old man stood there, hunched and wrapped in a tattered cloak. His face was a map of wrinkles, but his eyes were sharp, glinting like wet stones. “You’ve got the look of someone who don’t belong.”

  “Passing through,” Caelum said, his voice flat. “Need directions to Elnair. You know the way?”

  The old man chuckled, a sound like dry leaves. “Elnair, is it? Roads don’t go there from here. Not anymore.” He stepped closer, his gaze flicking to the parcel under Caelum’s arm. “What’s that you’re carrying, boy?”

  “None of your business.” Caelum shifted his stance, ready to move. “Point me to the road out, and I’ll be gone.”

  The man’s smile widened, showing too few teeth. “Road out? Oh, you’ll find it when it wants you to. Mystic Nights keeps what it takes.” He turned and shuffled back into the fog, his laughter trailing like smoke.

  Caelum’s jaw tightened. Fucking riddles. He kept walking, scanning for any sign of Ash—hoofprints, a broken branch, anything. The village seemed to shift around him, streets twisting in ways that didn’t make sense. He passed the same butcher’s shop twice, though he hadn’t turned. The spiral carvings seemed to pulse in the corner of his eye, but when he looked directly, they were still. His compass was useless, the needle spinning lazily, and the fog swallowed any sense of direction. He was starting to hate this place.

  At the village’s heart, he found the inn again, its crescent moon sign swinging gently. He hadn’t meant to loop back, but there it was, like the village was herding him. Brida stood outside now, sweeping the porch with a broom that looked older than she was. She glanced up as he approached, her eyes crinkling with that same knowing smile. “Morning, Caelum,” she said, like they were old friends. “Sleep well?”

  “Not really.” He stopped a few feet away, the parcel tucked tight against his side. “You said something last night. About me returning. Care to explain?”

  Brida leaned on her broom, her gaze steady. “You’ve got his face. His eyes. Spitting image, really.” She tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle. “You’re sure you’ve never been here?”

  “Positive.” His voice was sharp, but doubt gnawed at him. The dreams, the silk, the way this place felt too familiar—it was all wrong. “Who’s ‘he’?”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  She shrugged, turning back to her sweeping. “Someone who mattered, once. Long time ago.” She paused, her broom stilling. “You’ll want to keep that parcel close. Things like that don’t come through here by chance.”

  Caelum’s hand tightened on the leather wrap. The hum was stronger now, a vibration that crawled up his arm. “It’s just silk. For a job.”

  Brida’s laugh was short and bitter. “Just silk? Boy, nothing’s just anything in Mystic Nights.” She pointed down the road. “If you’re looking for answers, try the chapel. Father Holt might have words for you. Or go to the Virell house, though Mara won’t take kindly to strangers.”

  “Virell?” The name felt heavy, like a stone dropped in his gut.

  “The old family. Last of their line lives there now. Mara. Sharp girl, but broken in her own way.” Brida’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “Be careful, Caelum. This place remembers.”

  He didn’t answer, just nodded and turned away. The chapel or the Virell house. Neither sounded promising, but he needed something—directions, a lead, anything to get him out of this fog-choked trap. He chose the chapel, figuring a priest might be less likely to stab him than some noble recluse. The road led him past more staring villagers, their faces half-hidden but their eyes always on him. A child darted across his path, stopping to gape before running off, whispering, “He’s back.”

  Caelum’s stomach churned. He quickened his pace, the parcel’s hum growing louder, like a heartbeat syncing with his own. The chapel came into view, a squat stone building with a steeple that leaned slightly, as if bowing to the fog. Its door was carved with spirals, of course, and stained glass windows glowed faintly, though the light behind them seemed wrong—too red, too alive.

  Inside, the air was heavy with incense and wax. Candles flickered on an altar, casting shadows that danced like figures. A man stood at the front, his back to Caelum, dressed in black robes that hung loose on his thin frame. He was muttering, his voice low and rhythmic, like a chant. Caelum cleared his throat, and the man turned.

  “Welcome,” the priest said, his voice warm but his eyes cold, like he was sizing Caelum up. He was older, maybe fifty, with a face carved from hard years—sharp cheekbones, graying hair, and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m Father Darrek Holt. And you are?”

  “Caelum Vyre,” he said, keeping his distance. “Just passing through. Need directions to Elnair.”

  Holt’s smile twitched. “Elnair’s a long way off. Storm’s got the roads all wrong.” His gaze dropped to the parcel. “What’s that you’ve got?”

  Caelum shifted, shielding the parcel with his body. “A delivery. Silk. None of your concern.”

  Holt raised his hands, palms out, like he meant no harm. “No offense meant. It’s just… unusual, seeing something like that here.” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

  “No.” Caelum’s voice was hard, but his mind raced. Brida had said the same damn thing. “I’ve never been here. People keep saying I have.”

  Holt’s smile returned, thinner now. “Mystic Nights has a way of remembering faces. Stay long enough, you’ll see.” He gestured to a pew. “Sit. Rest. The storm will pass.”

  Caelum didn’t move. “I’m not staying. Just tell me how to get out.”

  Holt’s eyes flickered, something dark passing through them. “The roads will clear when they’re ready. Until then, you’re here. Might as well make peace with it.”

  Caelum turned to leave, his patience fraying, but the parcel pulsed again, stronger this time, like a hand squeezing his chest. He froze, glancing down. The leather wrap was still secure, but the silk inside was moving—not visibly, but he felt it, coiling like a snake. He looked back at Holt, who was watching him with that same cold smile.

  “Careful with that,” Holt said softly. “Some things don’t like being carried.”

  Caelum didn’t answer. He pushed out of the chapel, the fog greeting him like an old enemy. The village was closing in, the streets narrower, the spirals sharper. He needed answers, and the priest wasn’t giving them. Brida’s words echoed: the Virell house. Mara Virell. If she knew something about this place, about why everyone looked at him like a ghost, he’d make her talk.

  The Virell house wasn’t hard to find. It stood at the edge of the village, a crumbling manor that looked like it had been grand once, now half-swallowed by ivy and decay. The fog seemed to avoid it, curling away from the walls like it was afraid. Caelum approached the door, his hand on his sword, the parcel humming louder now, a rhythm that matched the pounding in his skull. He knocked, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

  The door creaked open, and a woman stood there, young, maybe his age, with dark hair and eyes like chipped flint. She was striking, but not soft—her face was all angles, her posture tense, like she was ready to fight or flee. “What do you want?” she snapped, her voice low and sharp.

  “Caelum Vyre,” he said, meeting her glare. “I’m looking for Mara Virell.”

  “You found her.” Her eyes flicked to the parcel, and something shifted in her expression—wary, almost afraid. “Where did you get that?”

  He didn’t answer, just held her gaze. “I need to get to Elnair. People keep saying I’ve been here before. You know why?”

  Mara’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You shouldn’t be here. And you definitely shouldn’t have that.” She pointed at the parcel. “Get rid of it. Now.”

  “It’s a job,” he said, his voice hard. “I’m delivering it. That’s all.”

  She laughed, a bitter sound. “Nothing’s that simple in Mystic Nights.” She stepped back, her hand on the door, like she might slam it. “Leave. Before dusk. Or this place will remember you.”

  Caelum opened his mouth to argue, but the fog behind him thickened, and the hum from the parcel turned to a low, insistent whisper. He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew one thing: he wasn’t leaving until he understood why this village felt like it had been waiting for him.