The road stretched ahead, winding through the last breath of dusk. Silence settled over the group like a heavy blanket. No one spoke. Even Thimblewick, usually a relentless source of commentary, lay curled against Verek's shoulder, unmoving. The message stone in Verek's pocket throbbed—not just with arcane weight, but with expectation, a silent summons awaiting a response.
Their first camp was quiet. The stars glimmered, distant and pale, and the wind shifted often, threading through the trees like a half-remembered whisper. Though the forest creaked and leaned with unsettling familiarity, no threat came. Watches passed without alarm. Yet every fire crackled with unease, every glance lingered too long in the dark.
By the second night, the woods had changed. Bark shimmered with unnatural luminescence, and gnarled limbs twisted into deliberate shapes—forms that felt more sculpted than grown. Pale-winged moths spiraled overhead, glowing faintly as if born from a dying fire. Even the vines had begun to pulse faintly, their rhythm oddly in sync with the breathing forest.
Dax eyed one such vine, nudging it with his blade. "Weird stuff," he muttered, unease curling his words. "Doesn't feel like it belongs here. It's like the deeper we go, the less real it all gets."
Ezreal didn't look away as he examined the growth, his voice cool and clipped. "It doesn't. This isn't Servitus. Not anymore. Whatever's blooming here isn't natural. It's spreading."
The third day brought them into a shallow valley thick with mist. As the fog peeled away, it revealed a village nestled among the trees—a settlement none of them recognized, though it seemed both well-kept and ancient.
It was pleasant. Too pleasant.
Whitewashed cottages lined the cobbled lanes, their windows framed with bright flowers. Moss hung like curtains from the eaves, and the villagers greeted them with a warmth that felt too prepared, too rehearsed. Their eyes gleamed, not with joy, but with recognition. As if they'd been waiting.
Caylen's voice was low, skeptical. "Bit on the nose. Looks like someone took a cozy village and hit copy-paste."
Verek's sharp gaze lingered on the geometry. "Too symmetrical," he murmured. "Almost… calculated."
Ezreal's skin crawled. The sky had turned lavender—not a sunset, but a lifeless smear, like paint dragged too thin across a rotting canvas. Birdsong looped in unnatural cadence, like a melody rehearsed too often. His eldritch sight flickered at the corners of his vision, catching seams where there should be none.
At the inn, a silver-haired woman welcomed them with a smile stretched a fraction too wide. Her hands trembled as she passed out keys. The stew she served smelled right—bread and root vegetables, hints of rosemary—but tasted hollow, as though built from memories instead of ingredients.
The market opened at sunset. A woman too flawless to be real offered spiced cider, her eyes reflecting no light. A bootblack with rotted teeth buffed shoes with something that looked disturbingly like skin. Every answer to every question came too easily—who the mayor was, how old the village had grown, how many travelers passed through. Polished. Hollow.
Ezreal wandered from the group, slipping into the chapel. The altar gleamed—perfect, pristine. When his fingers brushed it, the stone warped, rippling like water under pressure. Illusion. Not sanctity.
Caylen drifted through the square, watching fireflies swirl in loops that never broke pattern. Dax stood by the well, his fingers brushing moss to reveal old carvings—symbols no mason had etched. Beneath the inn's porch, Ezreal sat cross-legged, whispered an Infernal word, and flared his sight once more.
There. Hidden like a heartbeat—an unseen door below the tavern. A villager crossed the square, their feet gliding inches above the ground.
By morning, Verek was already drawing. Three houses circled in his sketch, each identical down to warped shutters and rotted timbers. "This place," he said, conviction weighting his words, "it isn't real. Not by any natural shaping. Someone's forcing this. Holding it together by will."
Dax chewed on stale bread, staring into the fog. "Whose will?"
The answer arrived before they could speculate further.
They were summoned to the mayor's office—a grand hall with columns of veined marble that rose far higher than the modest village should allow. Banners hung in tattered regality, their sigils long forgotten. At the far end of the chamber, something hovered.
It spoke, its voice like oil on water. "Welcome. We are honored to host heroes."
Something in the air fractured.
Verek felt it first—a ripple beneath the skin of the world. Anti-magic. Not divine, but corrupt. He murmured a spell, subtle and old, designed not to shatter illusions, but to unveil them.
And the truth cracked through.
A floating orb of mottled flesh shimmered into view. Eyestalks swayed gently, like weeds in stagnant water. A massive, fanged mouth yawned beneath a single, bloodshot eye.
The walls of the office withered into rot. Villagers twisted, skin sloughing like old wax. Beneath pale masks, gray-skinned duergar crouched in stolen bodies. A laughing child opened its stomach to reveal a second, grinning mouth.
Something shifted.
Their bellies clenched as the stew curdled into rot.
Rot. Spores.
Maggots—still writhing.
Verek dropped, choking on bile.
The floating horror pulsed. "I trust the town was… accommodating?"
Dax moved without hesitation, smashing a lantern to the floor. Flame spread across the straw thatch like a vengeful tide. Ezreal whispered, and his spell split the veil further. Caylen raised his symbol, not with sanctity, but with song—sharp and defiant.
The village unraveled.
Cottages folded in on themselves. The cobbled square cracked wide. Vendors collapsed into twitching husks as the true inhabitants clawed free—wisdom devourers, skittering and snarling with too many teeth.
Ezreal rose, sword hissing free. "I knew it," he said through clenched teeth. "They were baiting us."
Verek staggered upright, wiping blood from his lips. His voice rang out, incredulous and enraged. "This wasn't just an illusion. That thing—it's the anchor. This whole place is stitched from its mind!"
The creature chuckled, flesh rippling. "I offer sanctuary. A dream woven clean of pain. Is that not what you crave?"
No one answered.
The Oracle continued, "See, out there. I was nothing. A mind without shape. Forgotten, hunted. But here—here I built meaning. I gave them peace!"
Ezreal folded his arms, face unreadable. "Your butcher served us a rat nailed to driftwood."
The Oracle blinked slowly. "Ah yes. Jasper. A delightful prankster."
Verek's voice turned cold, honed to a blade. "There is no Jasper. No butcher. No village. Just your delusion—and the corpses propping it up."
The eye narrowed, the room dimming. "This is my sanctuary. These are my people."
"Then why the lies?" Verek's voice cracked like lightning. "Why the masks?"
The creature shrieked, voice raw and thunderous. "Because the truth hurts! Because the world is broken! But here—I am king!"
The silence afterward rang hollow, echoing through the rotted hall.
Ezreal let out a breath, slow and deliberate. "So we're doing this the hard way."
The Oracle's eye pulsed with violet fire. Flesh twitched, and madness trembled beneath its voice.
"Guards," it hissed, "apprehend our guests."