Page 145 of Magical Moonbeam

The fog swallowed the road fast behind me. The streets of Shadowick had changed again. But I remembered enough.

Even with the twists.

Even with the lies in the corners of this place.

The cobblestones beneath my boots were wet and uneven. Some shifted beneath my weight, others held steady like oldfriends. I darted past the bakery with its cracked windows and the faint smell of burnt cinnamon still curling out like a ghost. The cracked shutters clattered against the brick like they were clapping in time with my heartbeat.

I passed the ink shop with its sign swinging wildly, the carved feather dipped in black, whispering in a language I didn’t know but felt deep in my bones. The buildings leaned in as I ran, like they wanted to watch me fall.

But I didn’t fall.

Not now.

Not with my daughter behind me and a monster ahead.

Or maybe, they wanted me to rise for them.

The fog thickened near the split in the road. One led to the old cemetery, and one curved up the hill to the mansion.

I didn’t hesitate.

The gate. The mansion. Gideon.

It was always meant to end there.

Every memory I had of this place, with the illusions, shimmers, the drills, the practice rounds back at the fake Shadowick we’d conjured from thin air, all blurred with the living nightmare of this version. Therealone.

My feet carried me up the incline, heart pounding, lungs burning. Somewhere behind me, the bells from the watchtower clanged twice. A warning. A ward holding. Or breaking. I didn’t look back.

The wrought iron gates appeared in the mist like teeth, with tall, sharp, jagged things clawing at the moonlight. Vinescrawled up their sides like veins, pulsing faintly with that sickly, silvery glow that always felt too cold to be natural.

And there he was.

Gideon.

Standing just beyond the arch. Still. Centered. As if he’d been waiting for me all along.

The mist didn’t touch him. The fog coiled around him but never crossed the space he occupied.

He was dressed in black, a cloak hanging loose over one shoulder; his shirt was high-collared and fastened with the kind of silver buttons that reflected moonlight like eyes.

He’d changed clothes.

His expression was unreadable. Not smug. Not angry.

Just… patient.

Like this was all part of the plan.

“Maeve,” he said, his voice low and calm. “You came.”

I skidded to a stop a few feet from the gates. I wasn’t afraid of entering.

Not anymore.

“You knew I would,” I said. My voice didn’t shake.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I always hoped.”