Westwood, the Island Without Sun
River stood by the window of the bunkhouse, watching the darkness press against the village like a living thing.
Without lanterns or torches, it was impossible to tell where the grass ended and the stream began. Doors remained bolted at all hours—not out of fear of the night, but of the wild boars that wandered too close, silent and unpredictable. Traps rarely worked on creatures that had learned the island as well as its people had.
Behind her, a chair creaked softly.
"You know she's gone, don't you?"
River turned.
Nanny Roe sat at the dining table, her thin frame folded into the chair as if the years had finally decided to weigh her down. A single candle burned between them, its flame unsteady, casting deep shadows across her lined face.
"She told me a month ago," River said quietly, crossing the room. "But I didn't think she was serious."
She sat opposite her grandmother, fingers curling into the fabric of her skirt.
"Why did she have to leave?"
Nanny Roe did not answer right away. Her gaze lingered on the candle flame, distant and heavy with memories she rarely allowed herself to touch.
"The world cannot hold us all, River," she said at last. "Humans have been watching for a long time. Their intentions were never as innocent as they pretended."
River's breath caught.
"If they find us—if they catch even one of us alive—they will put our kind in glass prisons for the world to see. Myths turned into spectacles. Legends reduced to profit." Nanny Roe's voice hardened. "It would be the end of the sea voyagers."
River listened in silence.
"There was a time," her grandmother continued, "when we trusted humans. We shared knowledge. We protected their ships, guided them safely across the oceans. In return, we believed they would protect us."
A bitter smile crossed her lips.
"We waited patiently while they poisoned the seas. While they forgot their promises."
River lowered her gaze, her fingers twisting restlessly.
"There is something you must understand," Nanny Roe said. "Hope is dangerous when it is misplaced. And faith—faith can destroy worlds."
River swallowed. "You're talking about me, aren't you?"
Nanny Roe reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing gently.
"When hope is rare, we cling to it with reckless devotion," she said. "And sometimes, we make choices we cannot undo."
River did not yet know that she was one of those choices.
That night, River sat alone at the entrance of the limestone cave.
No children played nearby. The darkness felt heavier than usual, pressing down until even the moon refused to shine, despite it being the fifteenth night of the month. Tomorrow, the gate at the Monochrome Borderline would close again.
Still, there was no word from Esme.
River hugged her knees to her chest, listening to the distant crash of waves against unseen shores. She had mastered the healing chants. Learned the oracle rites. Memorized the old languages whispered only beneath the stars.
But there was one spell Nanny Roe had forbidden her to touch.
The Clear Mirror.
A relic older than Westwood itself—capable of seeing across worlds, into dreams, into the underworld and the depths of the sea. It could reveal truths, summon visions, and shatter minds. That was why it had been buried deep within the mangrove swamp, its reflective side turned toward the mud, blinded by earth and root.
Evil lived inside the mirror.
Or perhaps it only reflected what already existed within those who dared to use it.
River shivered as a sudden sound echoed through the mangroves.
A low, rattling vibration.
The mirror was stirring.
Her shoulder tightened.
Then—a hand touched her.
River gasped and spun around.
Nanny Roe stood behind her, holding a torch. Her expression was grave, illuminated by flickering firelight.
"It's time," her grandmother said softly. "Follow me."
River rose without question.
Somewhere beyond the sea, a mirror had awakened.
And in Westwood, the first step toward breaking every rule had already been taken.