Chapter Fifteen #3
Then I saw them, half-shadowed figures in the boughs, revealing them—gaunt, stooped figures, their forms draped in whispering leaves, like ancient, emaciated apes.
Their faces were wrong. Smooth white masks, too large for their heads, carved with smiling lips and wide, empty eyes.
But their faces—those were the true horror.
Smooth, oversized masks of bleached white, the lips stretched in an eternal, sickening grin, the eyes wide and devoid of all feeling.
One, balanced on a precarious limb, cocked its head with a jerky, unnatural motion. Then, came a chilling echo of him, mimicking my earlier words, perfectly mirrored, issued from its frozen grin. “Did you hear that?”
Another giggled, light and mischievous, before it launched itself with fluid grace to the neighboring tree.
They spoke again—snippets of the group’s voices.
“Help me!” it cried in Jasira’s tone.
“Wait! Over here!” in Gideon’s laughter.
Then my voice: “Please…don’t leave me.”
Their tone curdled into something both cruel and infantile, a chilling childlike sing-song that raised the hair on my arms.
“Wynessa,” one cooed. “Come play. Come play.”
“They don’t want you,” said another, in a deadpan version of Erindor’s voice. “Only we do.”
“They’re Mimics,” Erindor hissed. “Don’t listen to them. Don’t speak.”
The entire group had slowed, tense and silent.
“They lure travelers off the path,” he added, low. “With voices and memories. Then they…take something.”
“What?” I asked, my eyes fixed on them in fear.
“Your heart. If they can reach it.”
A cold tremor ran down my spine, raising goosebumps. Then came more. Dozens of them.
The forest bloomed with pale masks. The trees above us shimmered with movement—thin limbs hanging, crawling, and clutching at bark. Their heads tilted in unison. Mocking laughter echoed.
“Pretty girl,” one rasped. “Soft heart. Break it. Drink it.”
“Take her smile,” another hissed.
“They’re all liars. Give her to us.”
They slithered down the trees in a silent, sinuous crawl, their forms coalescing within the deepening shadows.
Erindor stepped forward, jaw tight. “Run,” he announced, his voice carrying to each of us.
Hard. Blind. A desperate plea for air scorched my lungs, while my heartbeat exploded in my ears, eclipsing the bellowing shouts that were a chilling reminder of the proximity of the mimickers behind me.
As I stumbled through the forest as fast as my feet could carry me, roots clawed at my boots. Thorns tore at my sleeves. The forest began to blur—just shadows and speed.
Behind us, I heard someone cry out. A crash. More laughter.
They were closer.
I pushed harder, tumbling through brambles, my breath ragged—
Then, my skirts tangled around my legs, and I went down. Hard.
The impact knocked the air from my lungs as the snow slammed into my ribs. Pain burst up my side.
Mud streaked my hands, and stones etched into my palms.
“Damn these skirts,” I hissed, kicking at the fabric. “Who in all the gods’ names thought this was practical?”
The howls grew louder.
I scrambled to rise.
And then suddenly something slammed into me from the side.
It hit like a boulder, knocking me flat onto my back. A weight pressed against my chest, heavy and reeking of rot. Fingers not quite human, clawed at my arms.
A Mimic.
Its face shifted—too smooth, too close to mine, its mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile, disturbing and unnatural.
I screamed, wriggling my body in an attempt to free myself, I drove my elbow as hard as I could into where its ribs should’ve been. It snarled, flinching backward, and I used the moment to wrench myself free, shoving it off with everything I had.
I scrambled to my knees, gasping—
But then it was back, knocking into me with brutal force.
Faster this time, its claws gouging into my cloak, hauling me back down with brutal force.
And then it was back on top of me.
A scream tore from my throat as the Mimic lunged toward my face. Its mask split at the jaw as it shrieked, teeth glinting beneath porcelain. It pinned me, claws digging into my arms. Its breath was hot and sour.
I screamed again, kicking with every ounce of might I had. Without thinking, my dagger came up. I slashed, shallow, but enough to make it reel back—
And then Erindor was there. He struck with brutal force, his blade cleaving straight through the Mimic’s neck. Blood, black and slick, sprayed across the snow. The mask shattered as the body twitched, then stilled.
Erindor moved with a sudden, decisive urgency. One arm snaked around my waist, the other hooked beneath my legs, and I was heaved onto his shoulder in one fluid motion.
“Hold on,” he growled.
My arms locked around his waist, my knuckles white, as I desperately held onto him. My heart thundering against his back, a frantic drumbeat against his warmth.
We tore through the woods. Were the others ahead of or behind us? I couldn’t tell. Mimics shrieked all around us.
Then, the sound changed.
We slammed into a creek, the icy current lashing at our waists. Erindor didn’t falter; he drove forward, heedless, his boots churning the freezing water with powerful, loud splashes.
And then suddenly the shrieks disappeared.
I turned and lifted my head behind me. The Mimics stood on the other side, masks tilted. Watching.
But none crossed. I gave a small sigh of relief.
Erindor set me down slowly. A beat longer than necessary, his arms stayed on my waist. His chest heaved with breath. His dark eyes seemed to hold me captive.
“You alright?”
I nodded, tears stinging. “Yes.”
We scrambled to the edge of the creek, boots skidding in the mud, lungs dragging in ragged breaths.
Everyone was breathing hard, Jasira clutching a stitch in her side, Alaric doubled over, Gideon muttering a prayer between gasps. Even Tyren’s calm had cracked, his shoulders heaving as he stared into the distant trees behind us.
Bran stood at the edge of the water, hackles raised, teeth bared in a low, guttural growl that never stopped.
Across the creek, shadows shifted.
The Mimics emerged slowly, unnaturally still, their forms flickering at the edges like smoke trying to be solid. Some wore our faces. Some didn’t bother. One had eyes that opened too wide. Another’s mouth stretched too far, a grin carved into something that should not grin at all.
Alaric spat, grabbed a stone from the riverbed, and hurled it across the water.
“Cowards,” he snapped. “Come try me, you bastard patchwork sons of—”
The rock vanished into the mist behind The Mimics. They didn’t flinch.
They just watched.
He stepped back. His words hung in the air: “They don’t cross running water.”
Wildervale, I realized, had rules.
Old ones.
Deadly ones.
But I was still alive.
Because we ran.
Because he came back.
And carried me out.
…
After resting and catching our breath, we continued to walk. However, my legs still trembled from the adrenaline. My fall caused pain in my side, and the river water soaked and weighed down the hem of my skirts.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, breathless. “I shouldn’t have tripped, I wasn’t watching, I—these skirts are awful.”
Erindor halted, turning to look at me. His eyes scanned down the length of me, making my cheeks burn under his scrutiny. Suddenly, he dropped to one knee and unsheathed a small knife.
I blinked. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer right away. With a few swift motions, he cut the skirt below my ankles, straight and clean. The fabric fluttered to the snow, lighter, freer.
As he worked, my thoughts scrambled. I placed my hands lightly on his shoulders to steady myself, the heat of him rising through my palms. A heat of a different kind stirred low in my belly; sharp, unexpected, impossible to ignore.
He glanced up at me. “Hold still, Princess,” he murmured.
My head dipped in agreement, trying to keep my breathing even.
After he finished, he straightened himself, his gaze locking onto mine, unwavering and direct. The intensity stole my breath, leaving me frozen in stunned silence.
“Better?” he asked simply.
I nodded, too flustered to speak. My face flamed. My heart tried to climb into my throat.
Erindor glanced to my side. His eyes narrowed.
“Are you hurt? You’ve been holding your side as we walked.”
The words caught in my throat, held captive by the intensity of his gaze. "No—I mean—just bruised, I think," they came out in a rush, a scramble to regain composure.
He stepped closer, reaching a hand out me, brow furrowing. “I can take a look, if you want.”
“No!” I blurted, a little too loudly, and slapped his hand away. Then softer, mortified at my initial response, “I mean, no thank you. Exceedingly kind, but I’m fine. Yes. Thank you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”
“I’m also very modest,” I muttered, clutching my satchel tighter.
His mouth twitched, but not quite a smile. “As you wish, your modest highness.”
And then, mercifully, he walked ahead again, giving me space.
I exhaled slowly, my face burning so hot it could’ve melted the snow.
…
That night, I had a dream of a garden I had never seen.
The snow was gone, replaced by ash, but nothing burned. Flowers rose from scorched earth: golden blossoms curled like tongues of flame, glowing at their edges. A warm breeze stirred the air, fragrant with smoke and something sweet, like honeyed moss.
A figure moved between the trees, cloaked, faceless, watching. Not threatening. Not human.
“You lit the dark,” it whispered, “but the fire is not yours until you believe it is.”
I turned, and the flowers turned with me. Each pedal flickered. Each stem leaned toward my breath. The sky overhead shimmered with violet light, a veil of dancing flame like a second dawn.
In my hand, I held nothing.
Until suddenly a spark appeared.
Small. Steady. Alive!
Warmth bloomed through me, not fire but hands.
Erindor’s hands, calloused and careful, adjusted my cloak, brushing snow from my cheek.
Within the dream, the essence of him was felt more than seen, a steadfast presence that solidified through the ethereal haze.
That anchoring feeling was then embraced and ignited by the curling flames of the dreamscape.
Not dangerous.
Not fear.
But they wanted to be known. To be seen and not flinch.
The spark pulsed.
When I woke up, my palm was warm.