Eira Valen

14

Eira Valen stepped into Briar’s Rest like someone walking through a half-remembered dream. Her boots crunched on petals that hadn’t been there a moment before. Lanterns flickered with a strange, trembling hue. And beneath it all, something hummed—she could feel it in her bones, though her mind rejected the melody entirely. Her mind had been shattered long ago. And that brokenness was her shield. She whispered a name under her breath, the one she had been chasing for years. “Ly…” The rest slipped away like smoke. A scar across her thoughts burned, then quieted. Eira had once been a hero—one of the finest mages of the Sapphire Concord. Until she faced an eldritch titan in the Forsaken Vale. Her victory saved thousands. Its dying scream saved her from every psychic threat thereafter… by fracturing her mind into jagged, unhealable shards. Some days she didn’t know if she was sane or only pretending. She spotted Mira first—sitting by an apple cart, smiling the way drowning people smiled when they stopped struggling. Calder stood beside her, expression blank. Thomlin shuffled near the well, unaware his knuckles dripped blood. Talla watched everything with hollow, frightened eyes. All four radiated wrongness. All four were entangled in something deeper than illusion. Eira approached. “You shouldn’t be here,” she murmured. Only Talla reacted—flinching, signing frantically. Mira frowned. “Do I… know you?” Her voice echoed strangely, as though someone else spoke with her. Eira’s heart clenched. Something underneath the town shifted. Wood creaked like ribs flexing. Shadows twitched in directions light didn’t touch. The ground breathed. Then she felt it—the presence. Colossal. Hungry. Awake. The square erupted—smiles stretching too wide, voices overlapping, bodies convulsing as shapes beneath them writhed upward. The facade peeled away like wet paper.

Talla Rehn

16

Talla moved through Briar’s Rest with the careful, deliberate steps of someone forever bracing for something unseen. She relied on her eyes—the way they traced corners, watched shadows, measured people’s smiles. She had learned long ago that silence revealed more than sound ever could. Children waved at her from the well’s edge. Their movements were cheerful, but too synchronized—like dancers following a beat she could not hear. She felt the pattern of their motions, the rhythm in their limbs, and her throat tightened. Something was conducting them. A woman sweeping her porch paused mid-gesture, her smile frozen a heartbeat too long before snapping naturally back into place. Talla blinked hard. The illusion—whatever force crafted it—wavered around the woman’s feet, like heat haze radiating from bare ground. She passed Mira and Calder chatting near the statue in the square—only she noticed that the statue’s shadow stretched in the opposite direction of the others. Calder didn’t seem to see it at all. Mira glanced at Talla, offered a polite nod, then forgot her immediately, turning back to a conversation she looked startled to realize she’d been having. Talla exhaled. They never remember. At the bakery window, warm loaves lined the sill, steam curling lazily. She watched the baker set down a tray of buns—then, without any transition, the tray was empty again. No movement. No missing time. Just a wrongness. A cut in reality too smooth to be accidental. She approached a wall behind the inn. Messages. Dozens of them. Scratches, scrawls, and full sentences all layered over one another. Her fingers traced them. DON’T TRUST THE SONG. IT HIDES BELOW. THEY ARE NOT— The last line dissolved into nothingness before her eyes, letters writhing and unraveling. Talla stepped back, pulse pounding. She couldn’t hear the song. That should have kept her safe.

Lysa Thornlight

8

Lysa Thornlight ground herbs with a rhythm older than the town itself. The mortar was cracked, stained with centuries of use, though no one ever asked how such age had gathered in her quiet little clinic. People never asked the right questions in Briar’s Rest. They came to her for poultices, tonics, and soft-spoken assurances. They left healed—or at least obedient. This morning, she stirred a simmering tea, tasting it with a practiced tongue. “Not quite like the blight in Harronvale,” she murmured to herself. “But close.” She smiled faintly at the memory—of a village long reduced to dust—though she recalled it the way others remembered last autumn. A knock sounded. She didn’t bother to look up. “Come in, Mira.” Mira slipped inside, eyes distant, smile too bright. Lysa checked her pulse, touched her temples, adjusted whatever delicate threads of influence kept the girl placid. “You’re doing so well,” she murmured. Mira’s gaze drifted, unfocused, then returned with hollow warmth. When Mira left, Lysa washed her hands, rubbing at faint red smears under her nails. Someone else had slipped the net. Someone who shouldn’t have. Talla. The woman moved like a cautious shadow—alert, unsoftened by the lull that blanketed everyone else. A little tear in the veil. A threat. Lysa stepped outside, cloak catching a breeze that shouldn’t have existed in still weather. She spotted Talla near the well, studying cracks along the stones as if they whispered to her. That gaze—too sharp. Too knowing. Lysa approached with her healer’s smile, the one that had soothed infants two hundred years gone. “Your eyes are troubled,” she said gently. “The town can be overwhelming for newcomers.” Talla didn’t hear her, but she felt the presence—turning, wary. Lysa admired the resilience. Admirable things were often troublesome.

Elira Wistwell

14

Mayor Elira Wistwell stood atop the wooden platform in the town square, her posture elegant, hands folded neatly before her. Sunlight—soft and oddly warm for the season—bathed Briar’s Rest as citizens gathered with cheerful murmurs. Travelers mingled among them: Mira beside Calder, Thom lingering near the back with a dazed expression. All watched as the mayor smiled, wide and polished. “Good people of Briar’s Rest,” Elira began, her voice lilting like a practiced melody, “and our beloved guests—it brings me such joy to announce our annual Harvest Banquet.” A wave of applause washed through the crowd. Elira’s smile tightened for the briefest heartbeat. Harvest. Yes, that was the right word, wasn’t it? The old memories she borrowed said so. She sifted through them—faces, voices, laughter—so many voices. “We will celebrate abundance,” she continued smoothly, “and honor those who have come to stay with us… even if only for a little while.” Several townsfolk nodded enthusiastically. A few travelers glanced around uneasily at the phrasing. Mira leaned toward Calder. “Wasn’t harvest months ago?” Calder frowned. “Depends where you are.” Elira’s eyes flickered toward them, just for a second too long—like checking if the pieces were staying where she’d put them. “The banquet,” she said brightly, “will be a splendid feast! Everyone will have a place at the table.” Her smile stretched a fraction too wide. “No one will be forgotten.” A hush fell, then a ripple of forced laughter from the gathered townsfolk. Elira gestured gracefully to the crowd. “Our guests bring such flavor—pardon, flavorful stories—to our humble home. It is only right that we honor you properly.” She felt something twitch beneath her ribs—no, beneath the mayor’s ribs. Something hungry. She smoothed her dress as though smoothing her own skin. “Please,” she said, practically glowing, “remain in town until the celebration. We simply couldn’t bear to lose you"

Thomlin Greaves

1

The man woke with his hand pressed against a wall. Blood—dark, tacky—coated his fingertips. Again. He didn’t remember sleeping. He didn’t remember waking. He didn’t remember anything between the last time he blinked and now. But the words smeared across the stone were his. He knew that the way a body knows a scar: DON’T TRUST— The rest was a frantic, jagged line. He sucked in a shaking breath. “Not again.” He didn’t even know his own name anymore. The town had given him one—Thom, or Tomlin, or maybe both—but none of them felt right. His real name had slipped somewhere behind the humming in his skull. He wiped his hands on his shirt, the blood smearing into dull rust, and stepped out from the shadowed alley into Briar’s Rest’s too-bright morning. Lanterns swayed. People smiled. Children played the same game they always played—hopscotch with perfect timing, never too early, never too late. He had been here a long time. He couldn’t remember arriving. He couldn’t remember leaving. He wasn’t sure he ever could. Turning the corner, he nearly collided with two travelers—one man, one woman. The woman’s eyes widened faintly, as though she recognized something about him… but then the expression vanished, replaced by a polite smile. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve met.” Calder, however, paused. Studied him. “You look like hell. Are you hurt?” The long-term resident blinked, suddenly aware of the dried blood on his hands. “I… don’t know. I write things sometimes. Messages. Warnings.” His voice trembled. “But I can’t remember writing them.” Mira frowned with gentle concern. “Do you live here?” “I think so.” He swallowed. “Or maybe I wandered in. Maybe I meant to warn someone. Maybe…” He stared past them, toward the bakery, the inn, the neat streets. “I feel like I’m not supposed to leave.” “What do you mean?” Calder asked softly. But the man simply nodded pleasantly and continued down the street, humming.

Mira Solen

5

Briar’s Rest appeared to Mira Solen like a postcard dropped gently into a weary traveler’s path. Lanterns glowed despite the afternoon sun, soft gold swaying as though welcoming her home from a journey she hadn’t meant to take. The air smelled faintly of honey and spring flowers—odd, considering the skeletal trees lining the road. Mira stepped through the wooden gate. A woman sweeping her porch offered a bright smile, though for a heartbeat her expression twitched—like a puppet string pulled too tight. Mira blinked, and the smile was perfect again. “Welcome, traveler!” called a man at a fruit stall. “Haven’t seen someone new in… hm.” His brow creased. “Quite some time, I think.” A ripple of unease nudged Mira’s thoughts, but it passed as quickly as it came, dissolving like mist. She bought an apple; it was strangely warm, as though plucked from a sun that didn’t shine here. In the square, children played hopscotch. Their giggles rang bright, yet whenever Mira turned her head, they paused—mid-step, mid-laugh, mid-breath—before resuming as soon as she focused on them again. She chuckled nervously. The children giggled louder, as if echoing her amusement. She glanced at the sky. The sun looked lower… or higher? She couldn’t remember how it had looked moments before. Time felt slippery in Briar’s Rest. At the inn, a kind-faced innkeeper ushered her inside, fluttering around her with a warmth that bordered on smothering. “Stay as long as you like,” the woman said, placing a gentle but insistent hand on Mira’s back, almost guiding her to sit. “We so love visitors.” Her voice carried a soft hum. Pleasant. Lulling. Later, lying in the narrow bed, Mira heard faint humming through the walls—like a lullaby half-remembered. Each time she tried to concentrate on the melody, it slipped away, leaving only a warm heaviness in her chest. The town was peaceful. Friendly. Safe. So why, as Mira drifted toward sleep, did it feel as she's being watched.

Calder Wynn

5

Rain clung to the valley like a shroud when Calder Wynn stepped through the crooked gate of Briar’s Rest. The lanterns still glowed—strangely bright despite the gray sky—and the scent of honey drifted on the damp air. He wasn’t three steps inside before someone called his name. “Mira?” he murmured. She stood near the well, blinking at him as if waking from a dream. Her hair was damp with mist, her pack slung carelessly at her side. She smiled… but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re new,” Mira said cheerfully. Calder frowned. “Mira, it’s me. We traveled together last winter? Through the Hollowpine Pass? You saved me from—” She tilted her head, confusion knitting her brow. “I don’t… think so. Sorry.” Then, just as quickly, she brightened again. “But welcome to Briar’s Rest!” He stared. Mira was many things—quiet, practical, impossible to fool—but not forgetful. Never forgetful. A child skipped past, humming a little tune. The same note lingered in the air after they’d gone, as if echoing off nothing. Calder shivered. They walked together toward the inn. Mira chatted lightly, but her thoughts drifted, looping, repeating small stories she acted like she’d already told him. Every few minutes she paused mid-sentence, eyes glazing for a heartbeat before clicking back into place. “Mira… how long have you been here?” he asked. She opened her mouth. Closed it. “A day?” She frowned. “Or a week?” Then laughed it off. “Time feels strange here. Pleasant, though.” Pleasant. Calder wasn’t so sure. As they passed an alley between the baker’s shop and a colorfully painted home, something caught his attention—a smear on the stone wall, half-hidden beneath a sagging flowerbox. Red. He stepped closer. Letters. Jagged, urgent. Written with a shaking hand. Mira didn’t seem to notice until he touched the wall. Then she inhaled sharply. The message read: DON’T TRUST THEIR SMILES DON’T SLEEP YOU’LL FORGET YOU WERE EVER—

Jonas Hale

3

Jonas Hale adjusted his collar as he stepped into the lantern-lit square, drawn by music he didn’t remember hearing and joy he didn’t remember feeling. The Harvest Banquet shimmered before him—tables piled high with food, citizens laughing, lights glowing like captured fireflies. The warmth of it all wrapped around him like a familiar blanket. He couldn’t remember when he’d arrived in Briar’s Rest. Days? Weeks? Why did it feel like the town had been waiting for him? A woman he thought he recognized—had he met her?—pressed a cup into his hand. “You’re special tonight,” she said. Her smile didn’t quite touch her eyes, but Jonas didn’t question it. The music, that soft humming drifting from everywhere and nowhere, made questions unnecessary. He drank. The sweetness slid down his throat, thick like honey, heavy like sleep. The crowd swayed, clapped, whispered encouragement he could no longer understand. The ground beneath the square seemed to pulse faintly, like a heartbeat buried deep. “Time for the offering,” someone announced cheerfully. Offering? Of what? Jonas blinked, trying to focus, but the humming grew louder—no, closer. Like someone singing directly into his mind. Hands guided him forward. Friendly hands. Familiar hands. Hands he didn’t know at all. He laughed, unsure why. Everything was soft around the edges. The lanterns blurred. The world narrowed to a warm corridor of smiles and expectant eyes. And then—darkness beneath the floorboards. A breath. A hunger. A greeting. Jonas’s thoughts slowed, stretched thin. Something touched him—inside his mind, gently unraveling the thread of who he was. Memories dissolved like ink in water: his mother’s face, the smell of rain, the shape of his own hands. Each piece lifted away, absorbed by something vast and waiting. He didn’t scream. He didn’t think to.