ERIK
The storm tore at him with icy claws, wind screaming through the trees like something alive and angry. Snow clung to his hair, his bare forearms, melting against skin that burned too hot despite the freezing temperature. But Erik barely felt the cold.
All he felt was the fire in his chest.
Rage. Suspicion. The bone-deep certainty that something was wrong.
He should’ve known sooner. Should’ve seen it the moment Lysandra appeared in the forest that early morning with that too-perfect smile. But she’d been clever—so gods-damned clever. Helping people. Curing ailments. Gaining their trust with every miracle she performed, weaving herself into the fabric of the village until extracting her would tear everything apart.
No more.
Erik’s hand tightened around the hatchet at his belt, knuckles white against the worn leather grip. There was only one way to fix this now. Only one way to protect them from whatever she truly was.
He trudged forward, boots crunching through fresh snow, his breath coming in steady clouds. The forest pressed close on either side, but Erik’s focus remained fixed on the faint glow ahead—firelight flickering between the trees.
Finally, he broke through into a clearing.
And stopped.
A bonfire burned in the center of the space, flames leaping high and casting dancing shadows across the snow. Around it sat a circle of villagers—eight of them—their faces turned toward the fire with expressions of peaceful rapture.
And there, at the heart of it all, sat Lysandra.
Her pale hair caught the firelight, her golden eyes reflecting the flames as she smiled at him with that same serene warmth that had captivated the entire settlement.
“Erik.” Her voice was honey-sweet, delighted. “Did you want to join our group session? Please, have a seat!”
Erik’s gaze swept the circle, taking in every detail with the sharp focus of a warrior assessing a battlefield.
The villagers sat perfectly still, their eyes wide and glassy. Watching Lysandra like she was something holy. Something divine.
And beneath the burning wood smell, something else that made his nostrils flare, and his stomach turn.
Erik took a step forward, his voice flat and cold. “I’d rather burn.”
Lysandra’s smile never wavered. “Don’t be hostile,” she chided gently, as if speaking to a difficult child. “It’s only for a bit. Besides, you look cold. You could use the warmth.”
Erik’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. “I’m far from cold,” he muttered.
His eyes locked onto hers, refusing to look away. “But I am curious.” He walked into the circle slowly, each step deliberate. “What kind of group session requires a bonfire at midnight?”
One of the villagers—Helga, he realized with a jolt. Old Helga, who lived near the eastern gate, who’d been complaining about back pain for months, spoke up with dreamy contentment. “Healing from within. It really does make my soul feel clean and free.”
Erik looked at her. Really looked.
Then at the fire.
The flames weren’t quite right. They flickered red and orange like any normal fire, but at the edges—just at the edges—they shimmered with an unnatural blue tinge that made his skin crawl.
He stepped closer to Lysandra, his voice dropping to something quiet and dangerous. “You’re not healing them.”
Cold as iron in winter. Final as a blade’s edge.
Lysandra’s golden eyes met his without flinching. “Suit yourself,” she said lightly, turning back to the circle. “Everyone, let’s continue. Deep breaths now—in through the nose, out through the mouth…”
The villagers obeyed in perfect unison, their chests rising and falling with.
Erik watched for another moment, every instinct screaming at him to grab his hatchet and end this now. But he needed information first. Needed to understand what she was doing before he could figure out how to stop it.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself onto a frost-covered stone at the edge of the circle.
He didn’t relax. Not for a single heartbeat.
His back stayed straight, hatchet resting across his knees within easy reach. His eyes remained sharp and watchful, tracking every movement, every flicker of shadow.
The group breathed together.
In… out… in… out…
But Erik didn’t follow. He kept his breathing shallow and irregular, refusing to fall into their rhythm.
Instead, he watched.
The rise and fall of their chests was too slow. Too measured. Their faces had gone slack, expressions peaceful to the point of emptiness. Like they were half-dreaming, caught somewhere between waking and sleep.
And then Lysandra spoke again, her voice curling through the air like smoke. “Breathe deeper… let go of your fear… let the warmth fill you…”
Erik felt it immediately—the pull in his chest, the heaviness behind his eyes. Something in her voice wanted to drag him down, make him soft and pliant like the others.
He clenched his jaw hard and bit down on the inside of his cheek.
Pain.
Sharp, real pain to keep him grounded.
And that’s when he saw it.
One by one, the villagers’ shadows began to stretch—not toward the fire where shadows should fall, but toward her.
Erik blinked hard, shaking his head slightly.
The shadows snapped back to normal, falling where they should.
Maybe he was just sleep-deprived. Maybe the firelight was playing tricks on his eyes.
Even when the fire’s edge flickered violet this time, for just a heartbeat before returning to normal orange-red.
Minutes crawled by, feeling like hours. Erik’s muscles ached from staying so tense, his jaw hurt from clenching, but he refused to let his guard down. The fire crackled. The villagers breathed. Lysandra’s voice wove through it all like a golden thread binding them tighter with every word.
Then the movement caught his eye.
Another elderly woman—Ragna, he recognized her now—stood and moved around the circle with shuffling steps, carrying a tray of steaming mugs. She handed one to each villager with trembling hands, her wrinkled face breaking into a gentle smile when she reached Erik.
“For you, dear,” she said softly, pressing the hot mug into his hands.
Erik stared down at it. The liquid was dark, almost black, with steam rising in thin wisps. It smelled… good, actually. Sweet and spicy, with hints of ginger and something floral he couldn’t place.
He didn’t drink it.
Just held it, feeling the heat seep into his cold palms, while the fire burned and Lysandra’s voice continued its hypnotic cadence.
“Drink, dear,” Ragna urged, that soft smile still on her face. “It will warm you from the inside.”
Erik looked at her.
Really looked.
Her hair was white and thin as spider silk, her face carved with deep lines from years of hard living. But her eyes were empty
She pushed the mug closer, insistent. “It’s my homemade recipe. My granddaughters tell me they love it all the time! My tea is unlike anything you’ve tasted before, young man. At least take a sip.”
In the village, refusing an elder’s offering was a sign of deep disrespect. Erik knew the customs. Knew the weight of tradition.
But he also knew something was very, very wrong.
He held Ragna’s empty gaze for a long moment, neither of them backing down.
Finally, he brought the mug to his lips.
He took a sip.
The sweet liquid hit his tongue. Beneath the sweetness lurked something else, something unfamiliar that made his instincts scream.
For just a heartbeat, the world softened at the edges. The sharp clarity he’d been clinging to blurred slightly, like looking through frosted glass.
Erik lowered the mug slowly, forcing his expression to remain neutral. “Your granddaughters,” he said, voice low and even, “must have strange taste.”
He set the mug down beside him on the snow-covered stone. Not in his hands, where he might unconsciously drink more.
Respect was owed to elders. But he had no intention of drinking another drop.
Ragna stared at him for another moment, that empty smile still fixed on her face, then shuffled away to return to her seat in the circle.
Erik waited until she’d settled, then spoke quietly. “The tea. What’s in it?”
But Ragna didn’t answer despite it being her tea.
Lysandra spoke, “Honeydew essence for that smooth sweetness. Ginger and mint leaf for just the right amount of tang. Yellowcrest for calming…” She paused, her smile widening. “Massiel leaf for disconnection. And willow thorn for absolute control.”
Then she turned and looked straight at him.
Erik’s entire body went rigid.
Honeydew—too sweet to mask other flavors.
Ginger and mint—too sharp, covering the taste of darker things.
Yellowcrest and massiel—pain suppressants, yes, but also… more. They dulled the senses.
And willow thorn.
Gods.
It was rare. Powerful. Dangerous beyond measure.
And you never mixed it with other herbs. Never.
Erik’s hand moved slowly toward his hatchet, fingers closing around the worn handle.
He stood slowly, unfolding to his full height, towering over the seated circle.
“Enslavement.”
And then—before she could respond, before anyone could move—he kicked over the pot of remaining tea.
Scalding liquid hissed as it hit the snow, steam rising in angry clouds.
The moment he did it, something shifted.
Erik stumbled backward, his boot catching on nothing. The world lurched sideways, distances stretching impossibly. He tried to move forward—toward Lysandra, toward the villagers who needed to be shaken awake—but his legs wouldn’t obey.
The fire blurred at the edges. The world stretched like taffy pulled thin. Like a dream slipping through desperate fingers. Erik tried to move, but his body had stopped listening. His legs felt rooted to the ground, heavy as stone.
The fire flickered and warped.
The snow drifted down in slow motion.
And through it all, the villagers sat motionless, staring into empty space with those glassy, empty eyes.
“Poor Erik,” Lysandra whispered, and her voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere at once—inside his head, behind him, beside him, through him. “You see it… but you can’t stop it.”
She took a step—
—and suddenly she was right in front of him, close enough that he could feel her breath ghost across his skin like winter wind.
“You’re tired,” she murmured, and her voice wrapped around him like chains. “So heavy with duty… with guilt… with grief.”
Her hand rose—not touching him, but something inside his chest twisted anyway, like invisible fingers squeezing his heart.
“Let go.”
Just two words.
But they sank deep—like thorns into his soul, piercing through every defense he’d built, every wall he’d erected to keep himself strong.
Behind them, the villagers remained motionless. Not sleeping. Not awake.
Barely alive.
Erik fought it; he fought it with everything he had.
Jaw clenched until his teeth ached. Muscles locked and trembling. Heart hammering like a war drum against his ribs.
But Lysandra’s presence.
It wasn’t just proximity. It was deeper than that. Ice in his blood. A whisper in the darkness of his mind, saying let go in an endless, hypnotic chant.
His vision blurred.
His knees buckled.
Not from weakness.
His own body turning against him, muscles going slack despite every screaming protest from his conscious mind.
The last thing Erik saw before the world went black—
Lysandra’s eyes.
They weren’t gold anymore.
They were violet.
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