THE HOUSE OF SMOKE AND SALT.
The road was nameless.
Old and winding, covered in vines like even nature wanted it forgotten. Zina and Laila walked it anyway—Ebere trailing behind, her fingers gripping a lantern that flickered without fire.
They had followed the mirror shard's pull.
Not with a compass.
With memory.
Each step buzzed beneath their skin, like they were walking inside a story they hadn't been told yet.
At the edge of a swamp, they saw it.
Not a house.
A temple.
Black stone and red windows.
Tall as a cathedral. Shaped like a throne turned upside down. Crosses hung upside down above each doorframe—mockery or ritual, they didn't know.
Zina's breath misted, though the air was warm.
"Are you ready?" Laila asked.
"No," Zina replied. "But we go anyway."
They crossed the threshold.
And just like the last time—
The house took them.
🕯️ Inside the House of Smoke and Salt
The moment her feet touched the floor, the world changed.
The air was thicker than memory. The walls moved slightly—breathing. A constant hiss of wind circled the room, though nothing stirred.
Zina looked down.
Her sigil was glowing again.
But different.
The third ring was broken.
And in its place, a new mark:
> An eye.
Watching everything.
"This one's smarter," Laila whispered.
Zina nodded. "Older, too."
They turned.
The hallway had changed.
Three doors now.
Each marked:
One with a veil.
One with a bride's ring.
One with ashes.
The mirror shard in Ebere's hand pulsed when she stepped toward the last door.
Zina grabbed her wrist. "You don't go alone."
"I wasn't planning to," Ebere said softly. "I'm not her."
They chose the middle door.
The one with the ring.
Inside was a room made entirely of salt.
Crushed beneath their steps. Hanging from the ceiling in ropes. Carved into shapes of women kneeling—mouths open, eyes gone.
Zina flinched as her sigil burned.
"They're not real," Laila whispered.
"No. They're what the house wants us to become."
At the center: an altar.
And tied to it—
Nkiru.
Her wrists were bound with ribbon.
Black veins traced her arms like she'd been kissed by shadow too long. But her chest rose. She was breathing.
Barely.
Zina didn't speak.
She stepped forward and cut the ribbons.
The moment she did—
The salt screamed.
Figures rose from the ground. Brides made of dust and memory. They lunged.
Laila threw a cloth over the nearest mirror. Ebere grabbed a vial of oil and splashed it at the doorway.
Zina held Nkiru and shouted:
> "We are not your stories!"
The scream halted.
The salt crumbled.
The figures collapsed.
Silence.
Then…
A heartbeat.
Steady. Real.
Nkiru opened her eyes.
And whispered,
> "I dreamed of you."
🕯️ Hours Later – Back at the Edge
They didn't look back as the house groaned and shattered behind them.
No flames this time.
It collapsed in on itself like a body tired of lying.
Zina carried Nkiru on her back.
Laila held Ebere's hand.
None of them said the word victory.
But they thought it.
Back at the Thirteenth Room, they bathed Nkiru in milk and rainwater.
Lit candles for every salt statue that didn't get saved.
And buried the mirror shard behind the building.
Zina didn't cry.
But she held Nkiru's hand all night.
"You came," Nkiru said.
"I was always going to."
"But why me?"
Zina thought of the veil. The vows. The first house. The grave of the poet bride.
Then she said, "Because if I save you, I save the girl I used to be."
Nkiru wept.
And the black rose bloomed a little wider.