Illusions

Freya lay motionless on the cold stone floor, her chest rising and falling at a slow, steady pace. Ophelia knelt beside her, shaking her sister's shoulders with increasing desperation.

"Wake up, Freya. Please, wake up!" Ophelia's voice cracked, her panic rising.

Across the dimly lit chamber, Alex stood with his sword leveled at the woman who called herself the Keeper. The flickering torchlight cast jagged shadows across her face, deepening the lines of bitterness around her mouth.

"What did you do to her?" Ophelia demanded, her voice sharp as steel.

The Keeper tilted her head, eyes glinting with amusement. "Only what you asked."

Ciaran stepped forward then, his expression calm but his hands clenched into fists. "And what exactly did we ask, Keeper?" His voice was softer than the others', almost coaxing.

The woman's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "You sought knowledge, did you not? A vision for the girl? Well, she has seen. Whether she will wake up again… that is another matter entirely."

A cold dread settled over the room. The Keeper's words dripped with a venomous satisfaction that sent a shiver down Tig's spine. She wrapped her arms around herself, suppressing the growing nausea in her gut. She had felt weak ever since they arrived, her magic ebbing like the tide. But now, with Freya unconscious and the truth unraveling before them, she forced herself to stand tall.

Ciaran's eyes darkened. "You are not the Keeper, are you?"

The woman's laughter was a dry rasp. "No, child. I am not."

A heartbeat of silence stretched before Alex lunged. His blade sliced through the air, but the witch was faster. She lifted her hands, and the torches sputtered out, plunging them into suffocating darkness.

"Run!" Ophelia shouted, her voice the only beacon in the consuming black.

Tig grabbed Ophelia's hand and pulled her toward the door. Ciaran shoved Alex forward, the group scrambling blindly. The stone floor beneath them seemed to shift, the air thickening as if the shadows themselves reached out to entangle them.

"Freya!" Ophelia screamed, trying to turn back.

"She cannot wake," the witch's voice slithered through the dark. "Not yet."

Ciaran grasped Ophelia's arm and yanked her away. "We have to go. Now."

The group stumbled through the narrow stone corridor, the sound of the witch's laughter echoing behind them. Tig's head pounded, her vision blurring at the edges. Magic pulled at her, leeching her strength.

When they burst into the open air, the night was unnaturally still. Not even the wind stirred. The village below was silent, unaware of the horror that had just unfolded in the Keeper's tower.

"She's still in there," Ophelia whispered, tears burning in her eyes.

"We will come back for her," Alex swore, gripping his sword. "We will."

But as they stood there, panting and trembling, the tower behind them seemed to shift, its outline growing hazy as if it were fading from existence.

Meanwhile...

Freya floated in silence.

She was weightless, unbound, drifting through a space neither warm nor cold, neither light nor dark. And then—

Music.

Soft and lilting, the notes wove through the emptiness like golden threads, drawing her forward. A light bloomed ahead, warm and inviting, and as she stepped into it, the world shifted around her.

A grand ballroom unfurled before her eyes. Ivory columns stretched towards a sky of gilded glass, chandeliers dripped with delicate crystal, and masked figures twirled in a graceful waltz. Everything was white and gold—perfect, elegant, serene.

Except for him.

The man stood apart, clad in midnight black, his mask concealing everything but the sharp curve of his mouth.

"You came," he murmured, offering his hand.

Freya's breath hitched as she spun in the King's arms, the golden light of the ballroom casting strange shadows across his sharp features. His touch was firm yet careful, guiding her through the steps of a waltz she did not recall learning. The music swelled around them, ethereal and intoxicating, yet distant, as though it played from another world entirely.

"Stay and dance with me", The King murmured unti her ear. "Stay..."

The words sent a shiver down Freya's spine, both enticing and wrong. A part of her yearned for the warmth of his presence, the certainty in his voice. His eyes, dark as the void between stars, locked onto hers, drawing her deeper into the illusion.

A flicker of unease sparked in her chest. The masks, the opulence, the golden chandeliers—none of it felt right. She tried to remember how she had arrived here, but the memory slipped through her fingers like grains of sand.

She stumbled, her steps faltering. "No…" The word was barely a whisper.

The King tilted his head. "No?" His lips quirked in amusement.

"I…" Her thoughts struggled against the thick fog that pressed in around her. The warmth of his hand at her waist, the heady scent of crushed roses and smoke—she should not be here. "I do not know who you are," she forced out, voice trembling. "Or how you fit into any of this."

His grip tightened ever so slightly, though his expression remained patient, indulgent. "You know me," he said smoothly. "You have always known me. You feel it, do you not?"

Freya hesitated. Something about him felt familiar, as if she had met him in a dream long ago. And yet, she could not place him.

He stepped closer, voicing a whisper against her ear. "How like her, you are. The gentle one. The quiet one."

A gloved hand brushed her cheek, featherlight yet possessive. "Stay with me. Stay by my side, and together, we shall rule."

Freya's heart pounded. The surrounding waltz slowed, the masked dancers moving in languid, dreamlike circles. The world pulsed, shifting like the ebb of a tide.

"I do not know you," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

His grip tightened ever so slightly. "But you will."

The words curled around her, silky and dangerous. Freya felt herself swaying, drawn into the gravity of his presence.

Then—

She saw them.

Ophelia. Tig. Pip. Alex. Ciaran.

Their faces flickered like candle flames, distant yet painfully familiar.

Freya blinked, a sudden certainty settling in her bones.

"Why do you want me to stay? I am a child," she whispered. "And I do not know who or what you are."

The man stilled.

Freya stepped back, her breath quickening. Something was wrong about the scene, it was to gulided too grown-up. "How long have I been here?"

A slow, indulgent smile spread across his lips."Not long my dear, a blink of an eye perhaps. The better question to ask is how long do you think you slept in the Fae circle?"

"One night," she answered, but doubt crept into her voice.

The man laughed—a deep, rich sound that sent a chill down her spine. "No, my dear. Time flows differently there."

He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.

"Four human years have passed."

Outside the fading tower, Ophelia clutched her head.

"Something is wrong," she gasped. "I can feel her—she's slipping away."

Ciaran's jaw tightened. "We need to go back."

Tig wavered on her feet, pressing a hand against a nearby tree for support. "We are too weak. If that place disappears, we might be trapped, too."

Alex's grip on his sword tightened. "Then we will find another way."

Ophelia turned toward the fading tower, determination hardening in her eyes. "Freya, hold on. We are coming. Stay strong I shall find you."

As Ophelia turned away from the fading tower she stiffened her spine. "I will find a way, I have to." she spoke softly to herself.