Claire awoke to the familiar warmth of a soft, silken bed. The sheets held her in a loving embrace, gentle as her late mother’s, and warm as the afternoon sun. When she slowly, begrudgingly opened her eyes, she found a ten-meter ceiling awaiting her observation. The embroidered wooden planks shone with the sun’s yearning light, a faint yellow upon the otherwise pure white. The rays were dulled by the stained glass window that served as the eastern wall, but they remained bright enough to wake her, even as they were filtered by the canopy built around her bed. She lazed about at first, rolling around and basking in the comforting heat, but pushed her mind to clear as she determined that something was amiss. The maids in charge of her daily necessities should have long realized that she had awakened. On any other day, they would have barged in and dragged her out of bed, but for some odd reason, they were nowhere to be seen.

  Driven by her curiosity, Claire slinked across the room and stuck her head out the door. The hallway was empty, devoid of the maids and guards typically assigned to her in the mornings. In fact, the whole building was empty. When she raised her ears overhead and scanned the manor, she heard nothing but the howling wind as it ferried the clouds across the sky.

  Claire frowned. Wrinkling her brow, she wandered across her room and approached the window on a pair of unsteady feet. In the past, she would have taken a moment to appreciate the beguiling illustration painted into its panes, but she had long grown sick of the war goddess’ spidery portrait—sick enough to irreverently slide it aside.

  A familiar scene lay on the other side. It was already late spring. The snow had long melted, and the world had turned green, but the morning air was still chilly as it had been in the depths of winter. In the sky, it simply refused to warm.

  A wispy cloud blew through the room in the wake of the glass barrier’s removal. There was a faint, damp sensation as it enveloped her body. The moisture cooled her already frozen frame and sent a shiver up the length of her spine. It was so cold she wanted to sleep, but she forced her eyes open and turned them on the great outdoors.

  Half the estate was clearly visible from her window. She could see everything from the training grounds to the outdoor kitchen, the vegetable garden to the magical hedge maze, and the library to the artificers’ domain. All the parts were there. But the property was empty—just like the city beneath it. Somehow, one way or another, the Cadrian capital was completely devoid of life.

  The world changed as her heart was seized by an icy hand. The sun moved in reverse, dying the sky orange and then black as it sank beneath the horizon. The clouds followed suit and retreated, their fluffy bodies glowing ominously as they gathered beyond the sky. And the manor was rotted, its beautiful floors and walls collapsing into a mess of wayward rubble.

  It was her fault—she shut her eyes, not daring to gaze upon the dastardly scene.

  It was her fault—the faces she had betrayed rushed through her mind as she shied away from their likely deaths.

  It was her fault—she had purposefully cancelled the ritual mid-cast, even knowing that Builledracht would have been livid in the wake of his offering’s denial.

  Everything changed again as she hugged her shoulders. The manor was turned to dust, the garden faded to black, and her broken bedchamber was reformed, turned into a dimly lit room guarded by a set of off-white walls.

  The home’s scruffy owners were in their usual positions. One, a particularly muscular, middle-aged man, lay on a cushioned seat wide enough for three, while the other, a translucent spectre of ten or eleven years, floated behind the oversized chair. Though their appearances differed, the two were one and the same. The ghost was the brawny musclehead, as he had been in the time of his youth.

  The phantom turned around and waved when he noticed her gaze. He even spoke, mouthing a salutation as soundless as a mirror’s reflection. She had never been able to hear the spectre’s voice. In his realm, all was silent. Everything except the constant humming of the walls, the cacophony of his glowing artifact, and the faint snoring of his flesh. And yet, his words were able to reach her. Bits of pure-white text were painted on an otherwise black canvas hidden in the back of her mind.

  The sentences that appeared atop the board were much briefer than those traced by his lips. Sometimes, the resulting words and phrases were impossible to interpret, too brief to hint at the meaning he wished to convey. His initial address, however, was easy to grasp. He had led with his usual Hello.

  She met the greeting with a silent nod. It was the only response she could offer with her voice also stolen away.

  Snapping his fingers, the pale, blue child forced the scene to shift. She was shown his corporeal form, standing in the middle of the living room with a particularly curious outfit adorning his frame. The clothes themselves were dyed jet-black, and their fit was loose enough that it was difficult to make out his muscle. He wore two belts, one on his waist and another on his forehead. Though both were made primarily of cloth, the latter stood out, likely because it featured a metal plate too thin to serve as a line of defence.

  He grabbed a strange rectangular wand as soon as he changed his clothes and lightly squeezed its rubbery protrusions. The box hanging from his wall flashed to life. Sounds emerged from the bottom of the device as its upper portion, reflecting a location with buildings of an unfamiliar style.

  A small but muscular man was summoned within the glowing device. He began demonstrating movements with his body, which appeared to function just like the phantom’s, in spite of his miniature size. The scruffy-looking man attempted to imitate the procedures but. to his chagrin, he failed almost every time.

  The process repeated for what seemed to be an hour, ending only as the tiny human within the box demonstrated his final technique. He grabbed a doll, leapt into the air, turned upside down, and smashed the mannequin’s neck into the floor.

  The scruffy man immediately attempted to repeat the process with a nearby pillow as his victim, but he failed his flip and twisted his ankle.

  The ghost laughed awkwardly as he watched the mistake, and after waiting for himself to rise, snapped his fingers and shifted the scene. Claire was shown yet another instance where his body wore the dark outfit, albeit in a completely different setting. He was still facing a box, but the second magical device was much smaller than the first. It almost seemed like his wand had grown to compensate—the rectangle in his hands was much larger, featuring a bulky knob and several clacky, depressible cylinders made of an unrecognizable material.

  Practice.

  The word echoed through her mind after the spirit spoke a long chain of words. She vaguely felt as if she had heard the ringing sound that always accompanied the system’s notifications, but her mind was too hazy to determine its validity. And she couldn’t be bothered to check.

  Her attention was soon drawn to the glowing artifact that held the man’s rapt attention. Within the box, she saw a poor illustration of a woman repeating the action that had caused his injury, except with a very literal twist. Each time she turned upside down, she would spin both her body and her target to add to the force with which she broke her opponent’s neck.

  The longer she looked at the illustration, the more familiar it became. It was wearing a thin dress underneath a muddy brown cloak. She could see scales on the soles of its feet and across its cheeks, and its head featured a pair of almost comically large ears.

  But it only blurred when she tried to sharpen her focus. She found it impossible to note its details unless she watched it through her peripherals. And no matter how she tried, she couldn’t discern its familiar identity. Her mind was too clouded for there to be anything besides a vague sense of recognition.

  The same set of actions was repeated over and over. The same blurry scene. The same buzzing sounds. And the same magic spell.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The man spoke to her after an arbitrary number of hours. His mouth moved for several minutes, only for a single word to form.

  Learned?

  She didn’t know what he meant. All she did was return his gaze with her brows furrowed. The lack of a positive reaction seemed to register as a source of disappointment. He sighed to himself and slowly shook his head from side to side.

  Out of time.

  With another snap of the man’s fingers, the lucid dream ended like it always did. Everything vanished. The man, his projection, and the house all faded to black.

  She fell endlessly into a pit of nothingness. The descent had scared her when she was younger, but no longer. Closing her eyes, Claire spread her arms wide and basked in the sensation of plummeting through the night, even flipping herself over so she could feel the rush of the wind against her face.

  But then there was pain. Her nose ached as it was smashed into the flat of a root. Even worse was the headache that ensued. Her hands immediately shot to her ears. She gritted her teeth and made herself as small as she could. Desperately, she clenched her everything in an attempt to drown out the bells assailing her mind.

  Log Entry 599

  Detect Vector Magic has reached level 3.

  Log Entry 600

  You have heeded the whisper of Mirewood Meadow. The Lords of the Steppe and Slough await your challenge.

  The ringing soon subsided, but it took a few minutes for the halfbreed’s migraine to abate. Scanning the freshly flipped room in the meantime, she found that her captive had vanished. Where there once lay a fox was only a pile of ropes. A second quick examination confirmed that Sylvia’s disappearance was only one of many changes. The underground home was much larger than it had been when she first discovered it. The ceiling was higher, and there was enough room for her to jump around without bumping her head. Her uninvited roommate had even added an entire second chamber larger and more spacious than the first.

  When Claire activated Tracking, she found that the missing construction worker was just overhead. The vixen, who was no longer upside-down by the sounds of it, spent a few moments running around before entering the den with a fresh kill held between her lips. It was a rabbit, or at least something that somewhat resembled one. Its head and torso were bunny-like, but its limbs had been replaced by large, bald flippers.

  “Oh! You’re up!” She dropped the dead creature in the middle of the cave before greeting her captor with an all-too-happy wave. “Good morning!”

  Claire responded with a silent stare. “You untied yourself.”

  “Uhhh… not on purpose. The ropes were just kinda loose.” The fox averted her eyes. “Anyway, want some breakfast?” She nudged the aquatic, floppy-eared rabbit toward the other halfbreed, only for her forehead to be introduced to a prodding finger.

  “Stop trying to figure out what I am,” said Claire.

  “Can’t you give me just one hint? Please? I promise I’ll try my best not to bother you about it again! I don’t know if I can really help myself, but I’ll at least try!”

  The larger halfbreed breathed a sigh. “Fine. I’m not a rabbit.”

  “Are you a deer?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What abo—”

  “I’ve already given you two hints. Figure the rest out yourself.”

  “Awwww…” Sylvia lowered her face to the ground, placing it atop her paws. Her ears were folded downward and her tail was flat and deflated.

  “And I don’t want that,” said Claire, pointing at the rabbit. “You can keep it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It hasn’t been cooked.”

  “Can’t you just cook it?” asked the furball.

  “Can you?”

  “Uhhh… not really, but I’m a fox. I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to cook stuff!” The oversized rodent stuck out her tongue. “Anyway, are you sure you don’t want it? ‘Cause I’m just gonna gobble it up if you are.”

  “I’m sure,” said Claire.

  “Mmkay!” Lightly tossing the rabbit into the air, the vixen, who was barely any larger, opened her mouth wide and swallowed it in one bite. It made zero sense. Her mouth hadn’t grown, and her jaw never unhinged. The meal had simply fit somewhere that it couldn’t have possibly belonged.

  Though curious, Claire decided not to comment and grabbed her sewing kit instead.

  “Why aren’t you on the ceiling anymore?” The question was asked as she pulled a fresh cloak from her bag—a particularly ugly, yellow piece—and eyeballed the bits she would need to trim.

  “Huh?” Patting her belly, which was not at all any bigger, Sylvia looked up at the noble lady and tilted her head. “What are you talking about? You were the one on the ceiling yesterday.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Fine, let me rephrase. Why didn’t you get flipped?”

  “Oh wait! Are you asking about the whisper?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a whisper,” muttered Claire, “but yes. The magical headache that makes you flip.”

  “It gives you a headache? That’s weird.” The vixen tilted her head. “So I dunno why it’s bothering you since there’s nothing wrong with it, but anyone that’s used to living here can pretty much decide what side they wanna be on whenever the bell rings.” The fox proudly puffed up her chest. “And if you’re smart enough to figure vectors out, you can even switch whenever you want! Watch this!” Taking a deep breath and inflating her cheeks, she suddenly flipped on her back and fell to the floor. “See? Awesome, right?”

  Claire blinked. “How did you do that?”

  “You just kinda do,” said the upside-down fox. “I don’t really know how to explain it.”

  “I see.” Claire tried to imitate the fox’s behaviour. She inflated her cheeks with as much air as possible and recalled the flipping sensation, but nothing seemed to happen, even as she tried turning herself on her head.

  “It’s probably not gonna work if you’ve only ever flipped like once or twice.” Sylvia giggled as the other halfbreed once again drove her face into the soil.

  Claire ignored the comment as she heightened her focus. The marsh was a nightmare; the last thing she wanted was to spend more time and energy trudging through the mud with her clothes soaked all the way through. “How often does it ring?” she asked, as she finally gave up on flipping.

  “Mmmnnnn… once every twelve hours or so, I think,” said the fox. “Wait, is this what you wanted to ask about last night?”

  “No.” Claire carefully scanned the orange rat before continuing. “Where is Borrok Peak?”

  “Borrok Peak? Why would you go there?” The fox’s eyes lit up after a moment of contemplation. “Wait a second, that’s right! I almost forgot you were a torch! You’re supposed to be looking for the hexstones, right?”

  “Maybe,” said Claire. She did recall the unknown god mentioning something of the sort. “What of it?”

  “Well, there’s this other place that has a hexstone, and if you go there first, I can show you to Borrok Peak right after.”

  The half-reptile narrowed her eyes. “What’s the catch?”

  “Oops, I guess you saw right through me.” The fox stuck out her tongue. “Well uhmmm, so you know how I was talking about the steelwings being mean and stuff?”

  “Yes?”

  “Their boss is hanging out on top of the hexstone, which is kinda right beside my house.”

  “That’s too bad then,” said Claire, with a roll of the eyes. She had already had enough of the birds.

  “Oh, come on!” said Sylvia with a pout. “It’s not even a bad thing! You’ll get to use a hexstone, the steelwings will probably leave you alone once you kill their boss, and I’ll even show you where you need to go to do your quest!”

  The lady reached for her dagger. “How did you know it was a quest?”

  “Because all torches have quests, silly,” huffed the fox. “Now come on! Let’s go!” She started hopping away, but Claire grabbed her by the tail and yanked her back into the burrow.

  “Wait,” she said. “We can’t go yet.”

  “Why not?” asked the fox with a blink.

  “I need new clothes.” She pointed at the fabric in her lap. “It won’t take long.”

  She spent fifteen minutes putting together a shirt, a skirt, and a simple, hoodless cloak. They were all poorly stitched, but she didn’t mind. There was no point in coordinating her clothes if they existed only to be torn by monsters.

  Dressed and ready, Claire made her way out of the burrow and back into the artificial world. It was a bit of an awkward experience. She had to climb downwards to escape the tunnel, and there was nothing for her to stand on when she finally escaped.

  The halfbreed grabbed a shrub to keep herself from falling, but the poor hibiscus was unable to handle her weight. Its roots snapped, leaving her to plummet out of the ground and into the tree beneath her. She crashed headfirst into one of its wooden limbs, and then another, and another, stopping only as she hit the fourth. Her bag was not quite as unlucky; it landed at a branch point a little above her, just within reach of her hands.

  “Why would you go headfirst!?” Sylvia didn’t even try to hold back her laughter. The fox clutched her sides and rolled around in the underbrush as the vexing giggles escaped her lungs. “I can’t believe that actually happened!”

  Ignoring the cackling vixen, Claire raised her ears and checked for birds, calming only as she confirmed that there were no metal chickens nearby.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Up north,” said Sylvia as she finally caught her breath. “Follow me! I’ll lead the way.”