The demon had gone to collect extra firewood as their campfire smolders wanly.  

Evergreen Grove was inspiringly immense. Seraphina was informed that it may require yet another long day of travel before they reach their destination providing that they did not run afoul of any such distractions along the way. In the meantime, they had set up a fairly modest campground utilizing the supplies they obtained from those kindly elderly folk and promptly situated themselves in a small clearing that abutted a pristine creek. The soothing ambiance of flowing water and the dying crackle of the fire calmed her muddled thoughts as she oscillated between studying a countrywide map they had accrued before leaving town and flipping uselessly through expressionless pages as if the Grimoire was disinterested in speaking to her at this moment in time. 

Seraphina traced their current position: a vast thatch of blue woods to Bluefield, enthroned among the cerulean hills northward. Travel northeast along the rocky crags that outlined the shoreline of the Red Dragon Sea and they would eventually find themselves in the glamorous metropolis, Saintridge— and according to what little pearls of information she managed to pry from her escort’s lips— it was also the current primary seat of power within witch society, superseding its ruined predecessor of Silverwood, which had been cordoned off on a solitary isle settled near the topmost margin like a veritable crown that sat at the crux of the kingdom. Saintridge was overseen by the Conservatoire of Magic, a prolific institution and a doubtless treasure trove of secrets, so when it came down to disentangling the gnarled threads that sutured together this baffling mystery of theirs, it seemed like a good place to start, to say the least. Albeit given that she was more or less an outlaw whom the gods themselves would seek to punish, she highly doubted that they would simply allow her to waltz through their front door unscathed.  

“... I have to learn how to harness my powers,” Seraphina decided as she retied the map and returned it to their cargo, then shuffled back into her original position on her knees as she pulled the thick tome into her lap, reinterviewing blank page-fronts. “... Although that man swears that he will protect me until our contract expires, I still haven’t managed to fully figure out his true motives... he said himself that he doubts our meeting was a simple coincidence, so if he was intentionally drawn out... if it meant to bind us together... then he probably has deeper ties to this incident than he wants to admit, naturally. Silverwood... Yatrye,” she ran her fingers along its nondescript countenance.  

“... Those names appeared in my dreams as well... but it’s still fuzzy around the edges. But now that what I experienced beforehand wasn’t a figment of my imagination... but the memories compiled in the Gallery of Recollection... is it possible that this wasn’t the first time that I was able to cross the veil? Hm,” Seraphina closed the grimoire. “... But going back to my earlier point... until I learn how to properly coexist with this world and circumnavigate their suspicions, then... I doubt I’ll be getting any closer to the truth any time fast. But if I’m going to impersonate a witch... where do I start, exactly?”  

Before Seraphina had a chance to reconsider her options at length, she was interrupted by a spontaneous intruder, a sudden flicker. Her chin rose to accommodate for the unforeseen company as she hastily scooped the book up into her arms like an overprotective guardian. At first, she could only perceive it as a fidgety, glistening sphere of light, bouncing, bombinating, and circling her like a preying vulture. Albeit by her fourth frantic blink, the formless ghost fire had begun to evolve, sculpting a proper shape for itself in the form of a cheerful-looking sprite with glistening moth-like wings, sharpened ears, antennae, a halo of phosphorescent, jade hair, and large, bug-like eyes.  

“... A fairy,” she recognized them from her old dreams. The prince had often warned her when they visited the gardens since it was frequently visited upon by mischievous fae, impish creatures who were overly fond of partaking in mild mischief, though they were seldom mean-spirited per se. But he nonetheless told Seraphina to stay on her guard as there were always such cases of a joke going too far— and these small-minded creatures were not exactly equipped with the intellectual foresight to be entrusted to draw the line before potential bloodshed would occur.  

Therefore, she had mindfully crawled to her feet to carry out a halfhearted retreat, creating a comfortable breadth of distance when more entered the fray in flickering coteries of luminescent color. They chimed an incomprehensible melody in an archaic language that was mostly unintelligible to her, gamboling, twirling, waltzing— however, she was able to make out a bit of the chorus, drawled out in low, almost hypnotic undertones like sirens nestled on promontories, beguiling heedless seamen.  

On the starless eve of Walpurgisnacht / lo, the Lord of the Flies. 

Parlous Devil King ‘neath the dread moon / sing this zealous tune.  

Gluttonous fools / spool the silver thread / bind thy eyes to sin.  

Begin again, begin again, begin again.  

They were buzzing, hordes of ever-hungry flies, foregathered around the long-rotted cadaver, wings twitching and eyes vacuous and round. And the book was that addictive though destructive flame; Seraphina hissed irritatingly as she wiggled around, clumsily dodging their advancements. Snickering meanly, freeing her hair from its hood, tugging on it like a bratty toddler, twisting it into knots. “Leave me the hell alone,” she spat, swatting indignantly. The fairies retreated, gossipy and tittering among themselves at the expense of her annoyance, and she glowered and reached up to smooth out her rumpled bangs. Albeit at that point, she had realized that their little friends had begun rifling through their belongings, and—  

“Hey!” They popped open her bag, caught red-handed in the act but the shame was not enough to deter them, of course. Giggling impishly, they swiftly purloined not only their rations but also her smartphone, wallet, and even the latest edition of the Dark Ode, which she had every intention of finishing in spite of her circumstances when she properly found the time. At which point the little devils regrouped and attempted to abscond from the campground in varicolored flickers of illumination like a faulty lamppost, flying into the depths of the underbrush.  

Seraphina quickly neatened her cloak and was about to give chase, but she paused on the perimeters of their proverbial safe zone and reconsidered her rashness, wondering if she ought to wait for her chaperone but ultimately decided against it lest she lost sight of their target. A bridge she will cross when she arrives at it.  

With the scarce guidance the bedimmed moonlight offered where it was stifled by dense treetops, Seraphina had to depend mostly on her instincts to navigate the overgrowth, eyes squinted through the murk as she hunted moonspots of lustrous color, comparable to the falling, white stars that had led her to this world in the first place. Eventually, the treeline withdrew to reveal a hidden grotto of sorts, underlined by the picturesque outlook of a vast pond; the shoreline dolloped by a ring of fluffy cattails; the marshland abloom with softly hued wildflowers. In the midst of the waterscape sat a dense promontory that featured a gigantic, mesmerizing willow tree, incandescent boughs emitting a mystical violet sheen and flecked by what appeared to be stardust caught in its silver branches, albeit in actuality, they were— fairies. An unprecedented number, homing families of glittering sparks of light romping, whirring, and commingling with one another. She looked around for any telltale signs of the thieves from before, but from this distance, they were virtually indistinguishable from one another.  

Then, the song started again.  

Play with us, little witch.  

Dine to your heart’s content, little witch.  

Be’eth blessed by the Lord of Flies.   

Her legs began to move against her consent.  

Seraphina loudly gasped, desperately trying to retake control; however, it was useless; she stepped, sashayed, and twisted in tandem with the agitated tempo. The fairies cackled crudely in notes of scratchy, high-pitched laughter, and threw proverbial tomatoes. Limbs contorted, achieving impossible rhythms and gyrations; her spine arched and her neck strained; and she was but a puppet on strings, forced to dance for the twisted amusement of a censorious audience. She held fast to the book, nonetheless, panicking as it writhed violently in her arms, nearly dislodging when she abruptly swerved to the right, then dragged back like there was an invisible harness around her throat. Hot magic curled her toes, electrifying her down to the tips of her fingers. It felt wrong. It felt intrusive. There were wriggling maggots between the grooves of her ribs.  

The thread was cut. Seraphina reeled, scarcely catching herself when she regained sensation. Her joints ached and her knees wobbled precariously. The tree had dimmed, and its chastisement hushed. The dark waters susurrated, bespeckled by shuddersome moonbeams. Once she overcame her initial bewilderment, she tentatively stepped back to interview her unintentional handiwork. A seamless corona formed by a concession of fungi— a fairy ring. But its purpose? She knew of the existence of crueler fae who got a kick out of hoodwinking innocent people into gallivanting well into the night before they inevitably succumbed to exhaustion, but that did not seem to be the intention this time around. She had, by all accounts, been delivered uncharacteristic clemency in that regard.  

Seraphina hovered mistrustfully on the boundaries of the ring as she leaned over to peer within. And recoiled when its maw spontaneously opened to divulge the abysmal depths: a portal without a foreseeable end, like the other side of a shrouded, expansive chasm. Clutching the book tightly, she made a swift and punctual decision and began to turn back the way she came, no more interested in discovering the undoubtable secrets lying beyond than conversing with a rock; however, before she had a chance to devise that tactical retreat—  

The microscopic and unexpectedly strong fairy who had been lying in the underbrush leaped out to give her that final push she needed, so to speak; and Seraphina shrieked, flailing helplessly as she teetered on the edge of the precipice, staring into the jagged rockfaces and plunged into the roily sea. She shut her eyes tightly and braced herself for the unavoidable end, hugging the grimoire like an anchor, as if its compact weight would keep her afloat when she has all but forgotten how to crawl her way back to the surface and fight the relentless waves— only to be harpooned on the lancelike stones.

But instead of gelid seawater choking her lungs, Seraphina crashed into solid, tangible earth.