Brinn sighed. He’d been doing that far too much down here. It was starting to mess with his whimsical charm, but, what was he to do? Separated from his party, trapped with a wizard that refused to lay his cards on the table despite the fact that they were on the same team, the lich they came for turns out to have good falsetto, and now he’s supposed to play along with some corpse child’s fairy tale tea party? This job was beginning to push on the edges of Brinn’s adventuring experience. He knew enough to know that this time, he’d gotten himself in deep, deep over his head.

  Speaking of Favel, the elf didn’t waste a second—but his decisiveness led to little. The moment he got over the mask having affixed itself to his face, he shot at the creature sitting at the table immediately with a wave of ice magic. It collided first with the table sending the silver finery on the table clattering this way and that into the grass, covered in frost. It continued on to the girl—yet when it made contact with the monster in front of him, the wave dissipated around her like she wasn’t even there.

  Brinn blinked. The table was fine. The feeling of frost mana still bandied itself in the air, the only evidence that anything he had seen just happened—but aside from that, something only a specialized mana manipulator could have sensed in the first place, it was as if nothing had occurred at all. Except—the girl was gone.

  The serenity only lasted for a moment, before she appeared again, a foot away from Favel, her arms crossed in indignation. The elf redoubled his assault as Brinn dived underneath the table. He fingered at an explosive vial in his sash, waiting for an opportunity to throw it as Favel let loose yet another ice spell at the girl. Again she ignored it—it washed over harmlessly. Favel scowled, and seemed to switch gears, his haste spell coming back into effect. He blurred backwards, away from the table, flickering back and forth as he tried to put distance between himself and his “opponent.” Brinn made to run closer, to throw the vial, but just before as she started moving, he hesitated. This place was thoroughly under her power. Something in his gut told him fighting would only make this worse. From what Brinn could tell, the girl still hadn’t moved.

  As Favel ramped up for another, more powerful spell, Brinn noticed a shift in the ambient mana—not another illusion, or a teleportation. This came from Favel, a sudden surge of heat mana beginning to work its way from his hand and coalesce itself. He opened his mouth, and begin to speak something—an invocation?—Brinn heard the beginning, a “buh” escaping from Favel’s lips; but it was cut off as vines whipped their way up from the ground beneath the wizard, wrapping themselves around his wrists and dragging him into a squatting position.

  “No, it’s not time for that. Save it for when the fun starts!” said the girl, and when he blinked, she was back at the table. Favel with her, mouth forced shut, eyes held forwards. To Brinn’s astonishment, as the vines began to grow thorns that tore into Favel’s skin, an undead stepped out of the tree-line and gently placed a chair underneath him.

  Brilliant, Brinn thought. Guess I’m going to have to…to…

  To Brinn’s horror, for the first time in a long time, his train of thought…stopped short. The constant revelations, the twists and turns, they were already too much—and he could tell it was all just getting started. Brinn was physically and mentally exhausted, and this day was turning into a nightmare. He supposed it was probably nighttime, outside of the bounds of this illusory garden. No, Brinn reminded himself. It’s not illusory. It was real. It was dangerous. This wasn’t the bard they were dealing with, and even if it were, Brinn was beginning to understand the kind of threat that was dawning on them. At a loss for what else to do—Brinn stood stock still, for the first time in his life.

  He stood that way for some time, like a deer that turned at the last moment just to see a dwarf bearing down on it with an axe—until the childlike voice rang out again, with manic amusement.

  “One of you already broke the rules,” she said. There was something cunning behind her eyes, but Brinn couldn’t shake the feeling he was looking at a child—or whatever was left of one. “Will you do the same?”

  Brinn still couldn’t respond. His breathing was heavy, and he was starting to feel a little nauseous. He steadied his breathing, tried to center himself. He’d been through more intense situations before. Dozens! Most of them were just a little less strange. Slowly, his breathing slowed, and he let the fog over his brain pass like a morning fog in the midday sun. He tried to examine the situation rationally. He couldn’t solve this with violence, or at least not yet. Favel had proven that to them the hard way. He took a step forwards—and felt another shift. In a single step, he had brought himself across the entire clearing—some three hundred feet in a moment. He wound up directly in front of the table, a chair just beside him, already pulled out. Favel had come with him, somehow, and now he sat at the table, vines wrenching his hands politely to his knees. The man’s posture was stiff, and strained. He shook, slightly.

  He looked at the child. He could see the black sludge—‘ectoplasm,’ some called the ooze that came from overflowing death mana. It seeped between the seams where her flesh had been sewn back on, seemingly more than once. He wondered what was still in there. Was something else puppeting the body like a marionette? Or, worse—had someone really done something like this to a child? Brinn had to move. The girl was in charge here, and he’d already seen what happened when one of them breaks the rules. Brinn looked to Favel, restrained to a chair. Favel gagged as a vine wrapped it’s way around his mouth. Frankly, the way he was trying to bite the plants into submission would have been funny in any other context. Now that it had happened, Brinn could see the order magic pulsing through the air when he was teleported. The girl’s doing, of course—that she was in control here would have been obvious to a child. But Brinn could see something different in the mana, too. Her control was being amplified, many times over by the environment, somehow. He had felt the mana signature before, but Brinn couldn’t place it.

  For now, he would have to play along. He breathed in, and bowed, deeply; with a flourish. In any court in the world, it would have been ridiculous, even insulting, but Brinn was banking on the hope that whatever sat in front of him truly had the mind of a child. She—it—whatever—might see it as exotic, fanciful.

  He spoke, trying to keep his voice steady:

  “Thank you, for your hospitality,” he started. His back strained to maintain the ninety degree angle he’d forced it into. “May I ask the lady her name?”

  To Brinn’s immense relief, she clapped, rapidly. The way a princess would if someone gifted her a pony. He resisted his urge to raise his head, to end the bow before she’d acknowledged it. He resisted the urge to spit on the ground. Childish game or not, it’d been a long time since Brinn had treated anyone with this much deference, let alone a monster.

  “Thank you!” said the creature, and Brinn stood in relief, taking it as acknowledgment of his respectful bow. His back ached from the strain of holding the position considerably longer than expected. “You, young prince, can call me Amelia.”

  That was it? No “destroyer of worlds” or “bringer of oblivion?” That was surprisingly rational, for a lich. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he had expected—Brinn heard a choking noise from Favel’s direction. He broke eye contact with the creature—Amelia—to spare the wizard a glance. the vines still fighting to obstruct his mouth. It had been nearly a minute, before the girl spoke, and Brinn had to admit the elf must have some remarkably strong teeth to tear through the enchanted plants like that. Maybe it was an elf thing.

  I think I’m letting this bard-lich thing get to my head, I need to focus.

  Brinn shook his head, trying to keep his eyes open. When had the air in the garden gotten so…heavy? The warmth and humidity was going to put him to sleep, but he needed to focus.

  “Amelia,” he repeated. “A beautiful name, for a wonderful hostess.”

  “And charming, too,” said Amelia. Her voice scratched out of her throat. Her sewn-on fingers wrapped delicately around a teacup. “I should probably let your friend breathe for a moment, shouldn’t I?”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Amelia flicked her wrists, and the vines that had been trying to cocoon Favel’s head receded. He heard the elf groan in agony as the barbs pulled themselves free of the skin on his torso and neck. His clothes were blotted with spots of bright red blood. Brinn looked at the mana in Favel’s body, trying to determine if the vine’s had poisoned him, but he seemed…fine. The elf’s head sunk, and he heaved. Brinn felt for the elf, but they had to stay on her good side.

  “Favel,” he said, keeping his voice calm and steady. “You should thank the young mistress for letting you go.”

  Whatever this thing was, it had the intelligence of a child. Flattery would get them everywhere—or it would at least get them past the psychological torture part of the affair and into the fighting for their lives part of the affair as fast as possible. Brinn was beginning to question of the labyrinth was affecting his priorities. He fingered idly at the corks of his vials. They hung loosely from his sash. None of these would help him here, not yet—unless, of course, he wanted to blow them all up then and now. The explosive vials sat in the highest pouches, closest to his heart. He imagined his heart beating its way out of his chest, smashing the vial and blowing them all to the hells.

  Reluctantly, Favel acquiesced.

  “Thank, you, miss…Amelia,”

  Brinn had to keep himself from flinching, the way the elf spat the name. Amelia stared at them, blankly. She seemed to be expecting something. The undead that had sat Favel down seemed to loom closer over each of them.

  “Shall we..have tea?” said Brinn, frowning. He waited.

  And there was nothing. The girl still stared at them, blankly, like a wind-up doll that had simply ran out of tension. He felt the garden start to shrink around them. Something was wrong here. The girl couldn’t have been half his height but her presence loomed over him like a tower. He was a pea under the finger of a tiny, malevolent god. He could see her sawing him apart, stitching him back together a thousand different ways—Brinn started out of the haze as he realized his mistake..

  “I—ah! Of Course! How could I have been so rude? We had you at a disadvantage!” said Brinn. The pressure seemed to lessen immediately with the realization. “I am Brinn—an alchemist. This is Favel. He’s our wizard,” said Brinn, stammering.

  Favel continued to stare silently at the table, eyes drilling a hole into the plate in front of him.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” said the girl. The terrifying presence was gone. “You may sit.”

  Brinn let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He felt the blood begin to flow to his limbs again. He felt jittery. He pulled out the chair closest to him, and sat down. The table was set with a silver dinner plate, knife, and fork. He could smell tea being brewed, somewhere.

  “So,” said Brinn, trying to keep the momentum of the conversation moving. “What about your other, er…fine…guests?” He gestured vaguely towards the collection of monstrously deformed toys, and corpses.

  “Oh, them?” she said, sweetly. The batting of her eyes was horrific, rather than cute, considering the sewn-on seams of her skin. They were blue, though—and they contained oceans in them. This being was ancient. “They’re my friends. Charles, Claude, Cadney, and Mr. Trumblekins. They broke the rules. ” Brinn heard Favel sputter, probably worried the same might happen to him. Amelia caught on.

  “Don’t worry, silly. You’ve been punished enough.”

  Brinn heard movement behind him. The clinking of glass. Another sewn undead servent leaned over Brinn from behind, pouring the tea with stiff, blackened hands. He could practically feel the stench coming off of it. Ectoplasm seeped from where Amelia had sewn them. The work hadn’t been nearly as fine as that she’d done to her own flesh, and the tension of the thread alone seemed to be the one thing holding its skin to its muscles. Its face was blank. Devoid of emotion, almost peaceful. Brinn’s magical senses could see the black death mana coursing through him like little wisps of light, jerking the limbs this way and that like a puppet.

  Brinn looked at his tea with the same senses as the sewn undead finished pouring. He frowned, trying to work out if there was some kind of trick here—but from his magical senses to the scent in the air, all Brinn could see was…a cup of tea. He waited for confirmation from Amelia, and when she nodded, he took a sip—and it simply tasted of tea. A little more bitter than he was used to, perhaps a plant not native to this continent—but nothing magical. Nothing poisonous. Brinn had built up immunity to a variety of common poisons, but even that couldn’t guarantee his safety—and as far he knew, Favel had nothing. The sewn undead repeated his pour for Favel, and Amelia.

  In the unexpected calm, Brinn found his mind clear. He decided to try and work out more about the situation he and his party had found themselves in.

  “So, milady,” said Brinn—and then once again, he hesitated. What would be the right question? He frowned. He should have thought of one before this happened. He took another sip of his tea. She stared at him, blankly, expecting him to continue. “I hear there’s a bard in the labyrinth,” he finished, and trailed off lamely.

  To his surprise, the girl’s eyes went wide with delight as she sipped at her own tea. “Oh, you figured it out? Father was worried he had been too subtle…”

  Father? Thought Brinn, horrified. The bard was her father? Had he done this to his own child? He realized he had been staring for some time. He took another sip of his tea, trying to buy a moment to find the right reaction. Halfway gone. No violence until the tea is finished, Brinn reminded himself. What exactly is going to happen? I need to be ready for anything.

  “Ah,” said Brinn. He needed to appear untroubled, nonplussed. “And is your father here? Will he be joining us?”

  He took another sip as he waited for the girl to set down her glass again. About a quarter of the teacup was left. The inside was patterned with vines—green and lush, much like those of the garden that seemed to encroach further away from the tree line and towards the little soirée with every passing moment. Was it just him, or had the noonday sun that hung over this place began to darken? No, he wasn’t crazy. There was a red tint to the sky. The sun had begun to set only minutes into their parley. The girl only smiled.

  “Of course not, silly. He’s not going to introduce himself so early in the story, that would spoil all the fun!” she covered her mouth as she giggled, high and scratchy. Her voice ate away at his sanity, just a little.

  Brinn swallowed. He thought. Favel remained silent, staring into his plate in frustration. Whatever the elf was thinking, he seemed to be trusting Brinn to see them through this particular encounter. Amelia looked at him expectantly, still, seeming to want Brinn to continue filling the silence—but what else could he ask, that she’d actually be willing or able to answer?

  “How many of you are there?” he asked her, finally.

  “How…many of us?”

  “Er…liches,” he clarified, dumbly. Favel tensed, seeming to recognize Brinn’s mistake before he did. Amelia scowled, her presence flared.

  “I’m no lich,” she said. Death and order mana, mixed together, exuded from her pores and into the air around her. “And neither is father. We’re more than that,” she finished. Defiant. Daring Brinn to challenge her. Brinn instinctively cringed away. Her patience with him was thinning. He took another sip of his tea, smaller this time, aiming to buy as much time as he could before the hammer dropped. An eighth left.

  “Would you…elaborate, milady?”

  To Brinn’s disappointment, she found that Anabella had finished her tea.

  “Maybe next time,” she said, and locked eyes with him.

  He stared.

  She stared back.

  Brinn gulped, and finished his tea. The warmth hit his stomach, and the shadow of the setting sun flickered like a candleflame—and then it was gone, revealing. a new facet of the garden. It was a dark irreality that settled over the clearing like a suffocating blanket. There was no moon, no stars above their heads. Only a cold, chilling blackness. The trees, and the plants surrounding the table began to twist and writhe, contorting themselves into new, impossible shapes. Their arms cloyed out for them. He could barely make out the girl’s face, but he could still make out the smile pulling its way across her lips.