That night, Cassia dreamed of mirrors.
She stood in a room made of glass, her reflection staring back from every surface. But none of them looked like her. One was older. One was younger. One had no eyes. One was smiling too wide.
She turned away.
And saw Lucy.
Standing in the center of the room, barefoot, silent, her hands dripping ink.
Cassia ran to her.
But the floor cracked.
And Lucy fell through.
Cassia screamed.
And woke up gasping.
—
Morning came slow and gray.
The fire had gone out. The house was quiet. Corva was already awake, sitting by the window, watching the trees.
Cassia joined her. "Did you sleep?"
Corva shook her head. "Not really."
Keira stretched on the floor. "So. What now?"
Corva stood. "Now we go see the witch."
Cassia blinked. "There's a witch?"
Corva smiled. "Of course. Every road has one."
Keira groaned. "Great. Can't wait."
Cassia looked at the cracked mirror above the fireplace.
Her reflection blinked a second too late.
She turned away.
And followed Corva into the trees.
Cassia stood at the edge of the clearing, watching Corva pace in slow, limping circles. Keira sat on the porch steps of the abandoned house, chewing a piece of dried fruit like it had personally offended her.
"So," Keira said, voice flat. "We're going to see a witch."
Corva didn't stop pacing. "Yes."
"Cool. Love that for us."
Cassia turned. "Is she dangerous?"
Corva paused. "She's... complicated."
Keira snorted. "That's not comforting."
"She won't hurt you," Corva said. "Unless you lie. Or touch her mirror. Or ask the wrong question. Or bleed on her floor."
Keira raised both eyebrows. "So basically, she's a delight."
Cassia stepped forward. "Why are we going to her?"
Corva looked at her. "Because she sees things. Paths. Names. What's been taken. What still might be."
Cassia's throat tightened. "Lucy."
Corva nodded. "She might know where to start."
—
They didn't travel far.
The forest changed as they walked—trees growing thinner, taller, their bark pale as bone. The air smelled of salt and smoke. The path narrowed until it was barely more than a thread of moss between roots.
Then the cottage appeared.
It looked like it had grown from the earth itself—walls of ivy and bone, windows of stained glass that shimmered with moving images. A black cat watched them from the roof, eyes glowing gold.
Corva stopped at the gate. "Let me go first."
Keira leaned in. "Why? So you can warn her we're coming?"
Corva didn't answer. She just walked up the path and knocked once.
The door opened on its own.
—
Inside, the air was warm and thick with the scent of herbs and candle smoke. The walls were lined with shelves—jars of teeth, feathers, stones that pulsed faintly with light. A fire crackled in the hearth, though there was no wood.
At the center of the room sat a woman.
She was beautiful in a way that made Cassia's skin crawl—too perfect, too still. Her eyes were stormclouds. Her hair moved like ink in water. Her skin glowed like moonlight. She sat at a table covered in tarot cards, bones, and a mirror that reflected nothing.
"Welcome," she said. "I've been expecting you."
Cassia stepped forward. "Are you Moira?"
The witch smiled. "Names are power. But yes. That one will do."
Keira hovered near the door. "You live in a haunted dollhouse and speak in riddles. Of course your name is Moira."
Moira's smile widened. "And you must be the loud one."
Keira blinked. "Excuse me?"
Corva stepped between them. "We need your help."
Moira's eyes flicked to her. "You brought them here. You know what that means."
Corva's voice was quiet. "I know."
Moira gestured to the table. "Sit."
—
The reading began in silence.
Moira shuffled the cards with fingers that moved too smoothly. She laid them out one by one.
The Tower. Cracked and burning.
The Lovers. Torn in half.
The Mirror. Blank.
Moira frowned. "Your path is broken. The book is closed. The shortcut is gone."
Cassia's voice was barely a whisper. "Can we still find her?"
Moira looked up. "Yes. But the road will be long. And it will cost you."
Keira leaned forward. "What kind of cost?"
Moira turned the final card.
It was blank.
Then, slowly, ink bled across it.
A single word.
Name.
Corva swore under her breath. "Of course. It's always names."
Moira's gaze settled on Cassia. "You've already given part of yours. The Dreamscript remembers."
Cassia's hands trembled. "What does that mean?"
Moira's voice was soft. "It means you're already fading."
Cassia looked at the mirror on the table.
Her reflection blinked a second too late.
Keira stood abruptly. "No. No, we're not doing this. We're not playing some cryptic name game while she disappears."
Moira tilted her head. "Then you'd better move quickly."
Cassia's voice cracked. "Where do we go?"
Moira reached into the fire and pulled out a key made of glass.
She placed it on the table.
"To the place where names are kept. The Archive. But be warned—once you enter, you cannot leave unchanged."
Corva stepped forward. "That's suicide."
Moira looked at her. "So is staying here."
Cassia picked up the key.
It was cold.
And it hummed with something that felt like memory.
Keira looked at her. "You sure about this?"
Cassia nodded. "I don't care what it costs. I'm getting her back."
Moira smiled.
And the mirror behind her began to ripple.