The carriage landed with a jolt in a narrow alley. The soil was dark and damp, puddles gathering like little dams across the broken street. The air reeked of rot and decay. At the center of the road stood an ancient well, its stones worn smooth. Two children, no older than seven, struggled to draw water, though what spilled into their pails bore a sickly brown hue. Beside them a skeletal dog slumped, eyes glazed, ribs protruding—it looked more corpse than beast.
Crooo! Crooo! Cuuuuu!
The carriage rattled as its wheels struck the ground. James and Henry stepped out, each from opposite doors.
Boom!
The frame of the carriage gave way, collapsing in on itself. A wheel rolled free, splashing into a puddle before sinking with a hollow gulp.
"Ha… we barely made it before the patchwork seal reverted," Henry muttered, exhaling sharply. His gaze swept the ruined street, wearied yet determined. "If only there were a way to craft seals without stipulations—runes that endured, that simply were. Then perhaps… perhaps I could restore this kingdom."
From his pocket, he drew a silver whistle and blew twice before tucking it away again.
Harald and Hedwick stirred. Their bones cracked with sharp, splintering sounds, like axes striking timber. Slowly, their towering forms bent and folded, shrinking until they stood scarcely above James's ankles. They had become cats, sleek yet uncanny, their colors unchanged, their essence unmistakable.
"Wow…" James breathed, eyes wide with awe.
"Fantastic, aren't they?" Henry said, his eyes gleaming with boyish wonder. "No matter how many times I witness it, it never ceases to fascinate."
He paused, turning toward the paddle. "But wait—before we go, there is something we must do."
Henry murmured a low incantation, and the stagnant water shivered. A bubble of murky liquid rose from the paddle, trembling as though reluctant to obey. Slowly, it swelled, wavering in the air, until it hovered ominously above James.
"Wait—wait!" James cried out, panic sparking in his chest as realization struck.
"If we are to blend in, we must look like them, mustn't we?" Henry said with a sly grin. He released the seal, and the water collapsed onto James, drenching him from head to toe.
James sputtered, soaked through. His hair clung to his face in dripping strands, his once-clean garments stained into dull browns.
"Something is still missing," Henry mused. He stepped forward, seized James's robes, and tore them with deliberate precision. In mere moments, James resembled the ragged children wandering about.
"What the hell are you doing?!" James snapped, struggling to pull away, vision blurred by the sting of dirty water in his eyes.
"Quiet down," Henry hissed, his tone sharp and commanding. "You'll draw attention."
When James's vision finally cleared, he blinked—and froze.Standing where Henry had been only moments ago was not the same man. In his place now stood a stranger: a gaunt figure draped in dark, tattered robes, his long hair spilling in uneven waves down his shoulders. His posture bent forward, frail and malnourished, his very presence unsettling.
"Henry? Where are you?" James cried, panic lacing his voice.
Before he could take another step, the stranger lunged, seizing James by the mouth and muffling his shout.
"Mmff—mmm!" James struggled wildly, his arms thrashing, his feet kicking against the stone. He tried to bite, claw, anything to break free from the man's grip.
"Calm yourself… Calm yourself, it's me, boy," the figure rasped.
James's heart, which had been beating like a war drum, began to slow as realization crept in. His wide eyes darted over the stranger's sharp features, then narrowed with disbelief.
"H… how did you—"
"It's a secret!" Henry cut in abruptly, his voice now unmistakably familiar despite the disguise. He released James, then turned with a faint smile, motioning for him to follow.
James followed hesitantly. Every step felt heavier, his chest tightening as though invisible hands were pressing against him. His eyes darted everywhere, trying to take in every shadow and flicker of light.
The deeper they walked into the city, the more the scenery shifted. Narrow alleys and crumbling walls gave way to a wide, lavishly decorated quarter. Lanterns glowed in hues of violet and crimson, casting strange, elongated silhouettes across the cobblestones. At the center stood a grand, cracked billboard with gilded letters that read:
"PIXIES OF THE NIGHT."
Beneath it, women lingered, draped in fishnets and long fleece coats. Unlike beggars or common street folk, their clothes carried a strange, deliberate elegance—worn yet purposeful. Most looked to be in their mid-twenties, though a few appeared younger, their faces painted to mask both age and emotion.
Pheeeee!
"Come here, darling… Let us show you a time you'll never forget," one of them called, her words curling like smoke. She exhaled from a long, pencil-thin cigarette, the ember glowing in the dim air. Her face was painted stark white, with rouge-red cheeks, and from her back sprouted small black wings. A curly tail swayed lazily behind her, almost hypnotic in its motion.
Henry said nothing. His pace remained steady, eyes fixed ahead.
"Come now, don't be cruel," the woman continued, her voice velvet-soft and laced with temptation. "Surely you wouldn't leave a girl like me shivering alone in the cold?"
James tried to avert his gaze. The women they passed were dressed in ways that left him uneasy, their near-bare figures making his steps falter."Professor! Where are we going?" James asked, quickening his pace to keep up."Shhh. We're almost there… And don't call me Professor. My name will be Zihard." Henry's voice was low, yet steady, as his stride lengthened.
Zihard? The word struck James's thoughts like a stone in still water. Confusion rippled through his mind.
After a few more turns, they arrived. Before them stood an old, weathered tavern. Its walls sagged with age, and from above, a sign swayed on rusted chains:
"Dragon Tooth and Scale."
From within came the charm of a piano—its melody threading through the night like smoke—while a raspy voice sang:
"Looking back, the sun would always shine,Your hand in mine, our hearts aligned.
The laughter echoed in the gentle breeze.Moments frozen in golden memories."
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Inside, the tavern glowed with warm golden light. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood, spilled ale, and the faint bite of cigarette smoke. Every corner was alive—shoulders pressed against shoulders, strangers swaying together, faces beaming in joy.
At the heart of it all sat the piano man. He was older, perhaps in his sixties, with a crown of silver hair and hands sculpted by decades upon the keys. His jacket was frayed at the elbows, but he wore it as though it were silk, with dignity woven into every gesture.
Henry made his way to the bar and ordered whiskey—the amber liquid catching the light like fire in glass.
The piano man's voice softened, a baritone worn smooth by time. His playing was tender and deliberate, every note a memory. His eyes were closed, as though seeing the very moments he sang of:
"Golden days, they'll never fade,A love so pure, a bond we made.
The skies were brighter, the world so wide,With you, the stars were my guide."
At last, Henry raised his head from the rim of his glass. His eyes found the piano man's, and for an instant, recognition passed between them. He lifted a hand in a quiet signal.
The song slowed. The final notes lingered in the smoke-filled air, settling over the tavern like a blessing.