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    The spirit’s grip on Mildred loosened, and she slumped slightly before straightening up. The weight of the encounter seemed to settle heavily on her shoulders as she turned to face me, her expression solemn. My heart pounded against my chest, the frantic thump reverberating through my body, before dwindling back to its usual silence.


    “Fat lot of good that was,” I muttered.


    A little pitchy, and it barely rhymed. Prophecies aren’t what they used to be.


    Mildred gave me a flat stare before speaking again.


    “Think you can do better, either of you? Feel like giving it a shot? I’m sure the Muse would love...” She reached out toward me, fingers twitching theatrically.


    “I concede.” I pulled back, hands up in surrender.


    Her eyes lingered on me for a beat longer than necessary before she rolled them dramatically and shook her head with exaggerated disappointment.


    “It seems, Jack, you’re dealing with something the Muse cannot speak of plainly.”


    “If it’s that important, wouldn’t it make more sense to come right out and say it?”


    “Even the spirits are watched. Think of a riddle as a code, a way they can tell you what they aren’t supposed to, reserved for matters too significant, too powerful, to be stated outright, lest they be censured.”


    “Any idea what it means, aside from doom, doom, and more doom?”


    “That’s between you and the Muse,” she said with finality.


    It seems she’s implying an ancient demon is trying to breach this realm, Frank said.


    “But full demons can’t enter this realm,” I argued. “Not ones with higher intelligence. They go mad and die.”


    ‘All things change,’ Jack.


    “You need to be careful,” Mildred warned. “The stakes are higher than you realize.” Her words lingered like a storm cloud, dark and foreboding.


    There was a long beat before anyone spoke again.


    “You can stay here as long as you need,” she offered, her tone soft yet firm. “But I have a feeling you’ll want to leave soon. Perhaps not before enjoying a cup of coffee in the garden.”


    “Unfortunately, I can’t really taste the stuff since…”


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    She waved off my protest with a dismissive glance toward the door. “Yes, I think a cup of coffee will do you just fine. There’s a good boy.” Her voice brooked no debate. “I’ve business to attend to, Molly will see to you. Off you go.”


    Right on cue, Molly slipped out from a shadowed door, guiding me through a labyrinth of corridors that seemed to twist under their own weight, until we reached a glass door that opened onto a garden path. The path wound and weaved like a serpent, each turn revealing a new corner of the estate’s secretive splendor. It was as if Escher himself had a hand in designing this arboretum, a place where beauty and disorientation walked hand in hand.


    At last, we came to a secluded nook, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and an almost overpowering sense of life. Molly reappeared, as silently as before, a steaming cup in her hand. She placed it before me with a nod that said more than words could, and then she was gone—vanishing into the verdant tangle, leaving me alone in a garden that pulsed with more life than most cities. More life than I had in me, that was certain.


    The garden hummed with aether, a soft, insistent pulse that wrapped everything in a gentle glow, just enough to wipe away the grime left by the rifts. The plants here were resilient, shrugging off the soot like a stray dog shaking off rain. They stood tall and proud in a riot of color so vibrant it nearly stung the eyes—so much color in a world that had grown accustomed to shades of gray. The aether weaved through the leaves, an invisible melody that made the whole garden shimmer as if it were caught in the web of a half-remembered dream.


    But aether wasn’t from the Otherworld—no, it was something older, something that slipped through the cracks from a place we were better off not knowing. The whispers on the street corners told of Surges clawing their way up from the deep, and of aether drifting down from on high. Demons and angels, they murmured, relics of some ancient war that left its scars on the world. But I didn’t buy it.


    Magic theories were for the deluded, and the damned demonologists and casters who thought they could actually handle whatever lurked out there in the dark. Play with that kind of fire, and you were likely to end up burned—or worse, twisted into something unrecognizable or snuffed out like a candle in a storm front.


    Let the casters hoard their secrets, mess with their spells, and tinker with aether. Let them indulge in their reckless games of fire-starting, minotaur-tipping, spirit-summoning nonsense while the rest of us cleaned up their messes. If they weren’t so damned keen on meddling with forces they couldn’t control, we wouldn’t be stuck with half the crap we were dealing with now.


    Me? I was just a zombie, with a bad headache and a week that wouldn’t quit.


    Feeling a bit cranky, Jackipoo? Frank asked.


    Shut it, Frank.


    Molly reappeared a moment later, pressing a chipped mug of black coffee into my hands before I could protest. “I really don’t think I need a—“ I started, but Molly was already gone, lost to the tiny tropical jungle of a garden. I considered dumping it out, cutting my losses and heading on my way. But in Mildred’s house, you learned fast: when she gave a direct order, no matter how illogical, you didn’t argue.


    I eyed the cup begrudgingly, imagining the rich aroma I could no longer truly smell. Mildred was acting strange, but I knew better than to wonder aloud. Whatever strange cogs turned in her brilliant, chaotic mind was a mystery that even the gods would pay dearly to unravel.


    Lifting the cup to my lips, I tried to summon the taste of coffee—the faint bitterness, the dark edge. Even that small pleasure had all but vanished, leaving only an empty pantomime—much like so many things in my life these days. I took a sip, hoping for a spark of flavor to ground me. Maybe I was getting moody, after all. But could you blame me?


    I took another sip, then let out a deep breath. There was something here, something grounding in the ritual, the simple act of lifting a cup and tasting its familiar warmth. For a fleeting moment, it made everything seem a touch more normal, as if the chaos around me had pulled back, giving me just one breath of calm.


    And then, peace shattered as a sharp crack split the quiet, my hand jerking as the cup exploded, sending porcelain and scalding liquid in a violent spray.