The Queen's voice trembled—not with fear, but fury.
She stood in the high chamber of mirrors, where the last of her ancestral scrying frames towered above her in a lattice of gold, smoke, and obsidian runes.
Around her, court magicians whispered prayers to clarity, precision, and obedience. Spells danced in the air like threads trying to knot around something that refused to be caught.
Lucian's image refused to form.
The mirror's silvered surface trembled violently. A crack shivered down its edge.
"Again," Queen Marguerite commanded.
The court magicians flinched but obeyed, weaving the incantation again. The air in the room grew thick with incense and tension. The glass pulsed—and then shattered entirely, splintering the floor with gleaming knives.
The Queen didn't blink.
"He is slipping too far into the wild," she growled. "At this rate, he'll become a full apostate."
From the corner of the chamber, a figure clapped slowly.
The Spymaster leaned lazily against a pillar, gloved hands folded behind his back. His smile was small, mocking, deliberate.
"Summoning a dog that won't come when it's called reflects poorly on its master, my Queen."
Her gaze snapped to him like a blade. "Then maybe the answer is to summon another dog. One that won't stray so far from my side this time—no matter what."
The Spymaster grinned. "Ah. One more in the cage. Except this one is starving for your attention. I trust the Shadow Court has been helpful?"
Queen Marguerite turned her back to the broken mirror and faced the dark velvet drapes behind the throne. "Yes. While your morals are questionable, you have helped me every step of the way, according to our contract."
He bowed with theatrical grace. "Of course. I have strung your kingdom together when you were too sad to do anything about it. And my reach—like my shadows—are long."
She did not smile.
Instead, she raised her hand and snapped her fingers.
The drapes fell away.
Behind them stood a young man in ceremonial mortician black. His robes shimmered faintly with threads of red and silver. His eyes were focused—hollow and sharp, like glass frozen mid-shatter. He also had long ink-black hair, but his was tied up in a neat ponytail.
"Elian," the Queen said. "You have trained alongside Lucian Bowcott. You have learned the rites. The logic. The law. You were not given freedom. You were given order."
The man bowed. "Yes, my Queen."
"You are to go now. You will return the mortician's title to its rightful shape."
He straightened and gripped his cane. When he held out his hand, a Grimoire appeared from the shadows behind him.
It was bound in black leather and laced with silver wire. But the aura that dripped from its pages was wrong—red and dark, like blood smeared with ash.
Not grief.
Not mourning.
Betrayal. Revenge.
Elian's voice was cold as stone. "I understand. I will retrieve what you have lost. And purge what you should never have sent."
The Queen did not flinch. "No discussion about your feelings. Ever. Emotion led Lucian astray. You will not make the same mistake."
The Spymaster chuckled softly. "Oh, he won't. You taught this one differently. A mirror of Lucian, but with none of the softness. Just precision."
Elian turned and walked through the open doors, the Grimoire following in his wake like a chained hound.
I have trained in your shadow. And now I will claim your place in the sun.
+
Lucian was having breakfast in Houndsberry Hollow when his own Grimoire stirred. A tremor rippled through its pages, and it fluttered restlessly before opening.
Alice, sitting beside him on the cabin porch, looked up from her embroidery.
"What is it?" she asked.
Lucian didn't answer right away.
He stared at the ink that had just bled into the Grimoire's margin. A single name.
Elian, Mortician-Class.
Grimoire:Shadow-Code. Active.
Underneath it, another line was forming.
Proximity:Tracking.
He blinked once and closed the book.
"We're not alone," he murmured.
Alice's needle stopped moving. "Is it the Spymaster again?"
"No," he said slowly. "This one isn't hiding."
He could feel it, already—a pressure in the air like a blade being drawn from velvet.
Not grief.
Not malice.
Something worse.
Control.
+
Far away, in the calm hush of Houndsberry Hollow, Merry stepped through the forest with her satchel strapped tight to her side and a basket of berries resting against her hip.
She bent near a patch of bramble and plucked a fat cluster of nightberries—perfect for her jam and cheese sandwiches. But as her hand closed around the fruit, her Grimoire snapped open with a crack of warning.
A crimson thread scrawled across the page:
Lucian Bowcott — Tracked.
Unauthorized Mortician-class proximity detected.
Merry stiffened.
The air was wrong.
She dropped to her knees and pressed one palm into the loam. Threads of green and silver unraveled from her fingers—tracking glyphs, fast and low, sinking into root systems like silent runners.
She barely had time to etch a sticky trap glyph in the mud before she felt it: a crushing presence moving toward them through the trees. Not a beast. Not a spirit. But a will sharpened into something predatory. A mortician's magic, but laced with vengeance.
It was closing in.
She stood quickly, heart pounding, already preparing a ritual of concealment—when a hand caught her wrist.
"Merry," Lucian said. "I need your help."
Merry wasted no time. She pulled him deeper into the grove, behind a veil of singing leaves. "What did you do?" she hissed. "Something dangerous is sniffing its way here."
Lucian's expression was grave. "The Queen summoned another mortician. I felt the Grimoire update. He's tracking me now."
She flinched. "You're sure?"
He nodded. "I won't risk Houndsberry. Brother Cadrel's still recovering. We need to leave before this place becomes another battlefield."
Merry's jaw clenched. "I've been patching up wormholes for weeks—trying to keep the Hollow intact. But if they've marked you, we won't hold them off forever."
Lucian stared at her. "Then where can we go?"
Merry flipped open her Grimoire. Pages rustled like a storm wind until one settled under her fingertip. She tapped a glyph drawn in salt and frost.
"Far to the north," she said. "There's a fortress no one dares enter. Chateau Magnifique. Long abandoned. The rumors say it's haunted. That the dead there never stopped moving."
Lucian's breath hitched. "Wouldn't that make it worse?"
"No," Merry said, meeting his eyes. "It means no one will follow us there. Not without a cost."
He nodded slowly.
"Then we go north."
+
"North?" Alice asked, as she helped Lucian pack his things.
"It's so the Hollow stays safe. Merry's been such a good host to us--I don't want to ruin her only haven."
Nearby, Brother Cadrel was packing some food for the trip. "In my time, Chateau Magnifique's king was a renowned ice-cream maker. It was why he chose to build his home in the snowy north--so his frozen delights could last as long as possible."
Merry smiled sadly at Brother Cadrel. "I was always envious of the adventurers who came back from the Chateau. They all said braving the monster-infested north was worth it. Hopefully someone there will let us know what happened."
The older man looked drained, but he was lucid. After Lucian's things were packed, she turned to Brother Cadrel and carefully packed his things in one of Merry's spare suitcases.
It was nearly sunset when Merry unearthed four thick coats spun from cotton. "I'm hoping these will fit. The Queen sent them to me when I was still part of her court. Said it was enchanted to keep me warm. I removed the tracking spells on it and it's been here ever since."
Lucian gazed at each coat. Like their uniforms, it was dyed black and had fur trim. It looked cozy and extravagant, as most things from the palace were. "Thank you, Merry."
She grinned. "It's the least I could do for a colleague."