Whispering Grotto, WildLife Realm
Grins Pov
We gathered again a week later.
I told myself I wasn't coming back. I told myself I had better things to do—reaping, haunting, polishing a blade that only knows how to take.
And yet.
There I was. Sitting in the Whispering Grotto with a stack of parchment balanced on my knee like a coffin lid.
They'd all brought something.
Bartholomew the ogre unfolded a crumpled page the size of a blanket and cleared his throat with the weight of a funeral bell. His voice rumbled, soft and aching:
"I knit so no one sees my claws.
Thread bites softer than bone.
When you wear my mittens,
you're holding my hands."
The room went silent.
Vlad sniffed. Pip sobbed glitter. Even the ghost teapot steamed in sympathy.
I sat there, staring at words that felt like they'd been ripped out of my ribcage and disguised as knitting instructions.
"…Strong start," I muttered. "Trim the second line. Too heavy. Let the silence do the work."
Bartholomew smiled like I'd given him a gift.
Next was Vlad. Of course. He stood, cape too long, eyeliner too thick, parchment rolled like a love letter to his own misery. His voice dropped to a husky whisper:
"Moonlight kissed my pale cheek.
I asked her to stay.
She left with the sun.
I remained.
Forever… damp."
I stared. "…Why damp?"
"It's a metaphor," he said, wounded.
"It's a bath," I corrected.
Pip howled with laughter, wings scattering dust across my parchment.
When it was Pip's turn, she produced something sticky. Glitter and honey clung to the page. She read it at lightning speed, words tumbling like falling rocks:
"I trapped three ghosts in jars.
They screamed, so I decorated the lids with stickers.
I think they're happier now.
One of them sings to me at night.
I don't sleep.
I don't blink.
I think we're married."
Silence.
Then Vlad muttered, "Honestly? That's art."
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Format it. Break the lines. It'll hit harder. Right now it's just—you."
And then… the ghost.
He floated forward, paper thin as mist. His voice cracked like broken porcelain.
"I meant to scream loud
but the living only laughed.
Now I pour their tea."
The grotto held its breath.
Even Pip shut up.
I swallowed something jagged. "…That's perfect."
The ghost's glow brightened, like I'd set him on fire in a way that didn't hurt.
By the end of the night, the grotto floor was littered with parchment. Poems. Stories. Confessions.
Ugly. Beautiful. Too much. Too real.
I sat among them, cloak heavy on my shoulders, parchment heavy in my hands, and realized something I didn't want to say out loud.
I wasn't their reaper.
I was their editor.
And somehow, that felt worse.
Worse—and better.
Both.
At once.
________
Antics Dorm, Wildlife Realm
Pecola's Pov
Antic's shoulder brushed mine again when he lunged for Dolly. My breath caught. He missed, of course—she darted from her stool like a wasp with wings, porcelain face splitting into a wicked grin.
"Careful, sugar boy," she sang. "You're dripping desperation all over the velvet. I can smell it."
Antic groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "Why are you like this?"
"Because someone has to narrate what you're too cowardly to say." She twirled in the air, pointing at me. "She's blind, not oblivious."
I tilted my head at the word. Oblivious. My fingers twitched against the Moonlark feather's box.
"I'm not blind," I murmured.
That shut them both up for a beat too long.
Then Antic scrambled. "Right, right, obviously, just… less… sight-y? But in a, uh, cool mystical way? Not in a—"
"Stop," I said, and his babbling died.
The silence was warm. Full. And if Dolly hadn't been hovering, I might've asked him again why he kept calling me sweetheart.
Instead, Dolly clapped her tiny porcelain hands with a crack. "Alright, lovebirds, I've hit my limit. This room is starting to smell like longing and hormones. Disgusting."
Antic sputtered. "We were not—"
"You were. Trust me, I've been around." She zipped over to the nearest pile of scrolls, booted one aside with her porcelain heel, and gestured dramatically at the mess. "And while you two are busy eye-fucking without eyes, your precious map to Evergreena is still buried under seventeen layers of cursed erotica and bad taxidermy. Guess what? Not my problem."
Antic bristled. "It is your problem! You're—"
"Wrong." Dolly's smile was dagger-sharp. "I'm nesting. Which means I'm staying. You two, however…" She zipped over to the door, kicked it open with surprising force for a doll, and pointed into the night. "…are leaving."
I blinked. "…Leaving?"
"To find it yourselves." She leaned in close, whispering like a conspirator. "Consider it a date."
Antic's ears turned scarlet. "It's not—"
"Shoo!" Dolly shrieked, and a book flew at his head. He ducked.
Dolly slammed the dorm door in our faces so hard the hinges rattled.
"Go find your dumb map, jungle boy!" she barked from inside. "And take your tragic little love story with you! I'm nesting!"
"...Nesting?" Antic muttered, adjusting the strap on his satchel. His hair stuck up at odd angles, like the room itself had tried to strangle him on the way out. "I swear, one day we're gonna find a shrine to herself under that bed."
A scroll thunked against the door behind us. Then silence.
Antic smirked, glancing at me. "She throws stuff at people she likes. If she ever politely asked us to leave, I'd run."
I tilted my head. The corner of my lips betrayed me. A flicker. Almost a smile.
Antic caught it, eyes lighting like he'd won a war.
We didn't get far before the door cracked open again, just enough for Dolly's porcelain face to peek out, sharp and smug.
"And by the way," she added, her tone switching into that eerie sing-song she used whenever she wanted to make us uncomfortable, "Evergreena. That realm? Known to cure people. Madness, curses, broken pieces. Even you, sweet little No Eyes. They say the air there stitches up things you don't even know are torn."
The words clung to me like cobwebs.
Antic snorted. "You're just saying that so we drag our sorry asses into some healing forest and leave you to your hoard."
Dolly's cracked smile widened. "Maybe. Or maybe I know more than you. Either way—get out. Go. I can't think with your hormones dripping all over the carpet."
The door slammed again.
I stood there, still as stone, while Antic muttered curses under his breath. The word cure lodged itself inside me like a splinter.
I didn't remember asking for it. But my chest ached all the same.
The dorm door stayed shut behind us, Dolly's voice still clinging to my skull like a splintered echo. Cure.
Antic tugged at his scarf, muttering, "Yeah, well, screw her. I wasn't gonna sit around while she starts worshipping her reflection anyway." He jerked his head toward the path that sloped down, away from the dorm. "C'mon. You've been cooped up too long. Time for a field trip."
I didn't argue. My feet followed. My mind… lagged.
The village revealed itself gradually, like the Wildlife Realm didn't trust me to see it all at once. Wooden bridges stretched across streams that shimmered like scales. Market stalls leaned against one another like gossiping neighbors. Everywhere: noise, color, life.
Children with fox ears darted between legs, laughing like bells. A deer-headed merchant sold honey jars that pulsed with faint golden light. Women with scaled arms bargained over bolts of fabric dyed in shades I couldn't name.
I froze on the edge of it all.
It was too much. Too fast. A blur of living things my brain couldn't sort.
Antic noticed instantly. His grin softened into something smaller, quieter. "Hey. It's not a battlefield. Just… people. Living."
He guided me into the market, careful to angle his scarf high over his face, hiding most of his sharp smile. He didn't belong here, and we both knew it. But somehow, he looked like he fit better than I did.
I tilted my head, listening. The noises layered—clinking glass, shifting hooves, someone whistling off-key. I reached for a stall, misjudged the space, and bumped my hip into its edge hard enough to make the bottles rattle.
"Careful," Antic murmured, steadying me with a hand at my elbow.
The stall owner—a woman with scales glittering across her cheeks—frowned, then softened when she saw me. "Poor thing," she whispered, like I was something fragile.
I blinked at her. I didn't know what she meant.
Antic pulled me along quickly, muttering, "Ignore her. People here… they like to think pity is charity."
I stumbled again, this time brushing against his shoulder instead of wood.
I thought it was him.
But the weight, the way the body swayed—it wasn't Antic at all.
"Grin?" I whispered before I realized what I was saying.
The man I'd mistaken for him—a villager carrying lumber—snapped his head toward me in confusion.
Antic's laugh cracked sharp, covering the awkwardness. "You're off by a couple hundred pounds, Pecola."
My throat tightened. The world blurred again. I didn't trust what my mind gave me—faces, sounds, even names.
Antic slowed his steps, leaning close so no one else would hear. "You've got coordination problems," he murmured, almost like it was an observation about the weather. "And memory. Not just here. Always."
I stiffened.
He didn't mock. He didn't tease. He just watched me with eyes that burned too steady.
"You sure you're from the Perennial Forest?" he asked, voice low. "Because if you are… you don't remember it right."
The words lodged inside me like pebbles in my throat.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Antic's hand never left my elbow after that. Not gripping. Just there, hovering steady like he didn't trust me not to topple into the next set of barrels.
"Let's try this stall," he said, steering me toward a cluster of tables heavy with glass jars. Each one glowed from within—liquid sunlight, liquid smoke, liquid starlight. The merchant, a short man with moth wings, offered a bow.
Antic uncorked one jar and held it under my nose. "Smell that. It's honeymilk. Locals swear it cures sore throats, heartbreak, and existential dread."
I inhaled. The scent was sweet, thick, clinging. My tongue wanted to form a word but failed. "…It smells… sticky."
He laughed, the sound brushing my ear. "That's close enough."
We moved on. He tugged me toward a booth where children chased floating orbs of light that popped like bubbles when touched. They squealed, darting between legs and wings, laughter bouncing from stone walls.
I stopped, tilting my head. The laughter cut sharp into me. Not bad. Not good. Just… foreign. Like something I'd misplaced.
Antic crouched slightly, watching them with narrowed eyes. "You've never done that, huh?"
"Done what?"
"Played." He stood again, his smile fading a little. "Running. Falling. Chasing stuff you're not supposed to. You know… being stupid and happy."
I said nothing.
The silence stretched.
Then Antic clapped his hands once, sharp. "Alright, no sulking. Next stall."
He kept me moving, but I caught it—the way his gaze lingered on me, sharper than the grin he wore.
We passed a trio of villagers haggling over herbs. One of them laughed, deep and hearty, and for a moment I thought I knew the sound. My head snapped toward it—
"Grin?"
It wasn't him. Just a stranger with too many teeth.
Antic blinked, then tilted his head. "You keep mixing us up. Him and me."
My lips pressed together. I didn't mean to. The world just… lied to me sometimes.
Antic's grin thinned, almost rueful. "We'll find him later. Big guy probably wandered off to mope at a tree or join a knitting circle or something." He said it like a joke, but his eyes flicked toward the tree line all the same.
I tilted my head. "Do you think he's alright?"
Antic shrugged. "Grin always looks like the world's ending. Hard to tell if that means it actually is."
And then, as if cutting the thread before it could pull too tight, he grabbed a piece of fried dough from another stall and shoved it toward my mouth. "Here. Taste this. It's sugar and grease. Basically heaven."
I hesitated.
His eyes gleamed. "If you hate it, you can spit it at me. Free pass."
The dough pressed soft and hot against my lips. I chewed slowly. It melted, sweet and grainy, coating my tongue.
I blinked. "…It feels like clouds died in my mouth."
Antic choked, doubling over with laughter. "That's the best review I've ever heard!"
The villagers turned, some amused, some curious. Antic ducked his scarf higher, tugged me along by the wrist, and muttered, "Yeah, we should keep moving before someone recognizes me. Not supposed to be here, remember?"
He said it lightly, but the way he tightened his grip told me he meant it.
The Wildlife Realm's village glowed like something out of a dream I didn't remember having. Lanterns swayed overhead, painting the stalls in gold. Merchants shouted, their tables piled with glowing fruit, talismans, ribbons that fluttered without wind.
It was too much. Too many sounds, too many lights. My shoulders stiffened, and I felt my hands twitch toward the edges of my dress, as if hiding would make me smaller.
Antic noticed. Of course he did.
"Wait here," he said quickly, then darted toward a merchant swaddled in fox pelts. I didn't ask what he was doing—he always moved like a creature three steps ahead of me and three steps off the path everyone else used.
When he came back, he carried something soft. A shawl, dark and embroidered with silver thread that caught every flicker of lantern light.
Without asking, he swung it gently around my shoulders, tying it in the front with clumsy precision. His hands brushed my collarbone as he stepped back to admire his work.
"There," he murmured, voice softer than usual. "Now you won't draw so many eyes. Except…" His mouth twitched. "…for the whole no-eyes thing. But at least they'll notice the shawl first."
I tilted my head. "You think a strip of fabric hides me?"
"No," he admitted, smirking. He leaned in, close enough that I felt his breath warm against my cheek. "But it makes me feel better. And you look… like trouble."
Heat rippled under my skin. I tugged the shawl tighter, though not to hide.
That was when the music reached us. Fiddles. Drums. Boots pounding dirt in rhythm. The square ahead spun with movement—villagers clasping hands, spinning in laughing circles beneath the lanterns.
Antic's eyes lit like flint catching fire.
"Perfect," he whispered. "Now you actually look like you belong. Time to prove it."
"Prove?"
He caught my hand, his grip warm, certain. "Dance with me."
"I don't know dancing," I said flatly. A lie. I did. I remembered. But I wanted to see what he would do with the idea.
He grinned, sharp and charming, tugging me toward the circle of dancers. "Lucky for you, I'm an excellent teacher. Step one: don't fall."
His arm slid around my waist before I could argue. His other hand caught mine, positioning me with a precision I doubted he used on anything else in life.
"Step two," he murmured, voice dipping lower now, "just follow me."
The music swelled. He moved, pulling me with him—smooth, effortless, like water curving around stone. My feet faltered at first, but his grip tightened, guiding me. He spun us neatly past a pair of laughing villagers, close enough that I felt the sweep of his coat brush my thigh.
"You're not bad," he teased. "For someone who doesn't know what dancing is."
I tilted my head. "…How would you know if I was bad?"
He grinned wolfishly. "Because you'd be on the ground by now."
The beat kicked faster. Antic twirled me beneath a lantern, his palm grazing the small of my back when he pulled me in again. His touch wasn't clumsy—he knew exactly what he was doing. Every step, every shift was deliberate, as if he'd studied the art of making a girl forget where the music ended and he began.
I kept my voice steady. "Why do you keep doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"Calling me sweetheart. Acting like this."
His grin flickered, then tilted sly again. "Because it makes you ask why. And because it works."
I let the silence answer for me, letting him think I didn't know. In truth, I'd lied about not knowing how to dance. My body remembered the steps well enough—it was my mind that blurred, my past that twisted. Still, I found it strangely amusing to let him think I was helpless, just to see how far he'd push, how much he'd reveal.
And the answer was: far.
He spun me again, and this time when I fell forward into his chest, he didn't let go. His lips brushed close to my ear, his laugh husky with triumph.
"See?" he murmured. "Perfect student."
I didn't pull away. Not immediately. My chest was tight, my breath uneven, but I wasn't sure if it was from the music or from him.
The shawl slipped from my shoulder, sliding down my arm like a sigh.
Antic caught it. Draped it back over me with uncharacteristic gentleness.
The dance went on. But the music was no longer the loudest thing in my world.