CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: SHARED ROADS, SHADOWED PATHS

The fog had not lifted for days.

Tony, Clara, and Lib continued their trek eastward, winding through narrow forest paths and crumbling

Roman roads barely marked on any map. The mood had shifted. The encounter with the false figure—the thing that whispered into Tony's thoughts—hung over the group like the mist.

Lib tried to lighten the mood as best he could, though even he seemed shaken.

"I once followed a trail like this and ended up at a lake that hadn't existed the day before," he said, waving

his hand through the air as they trudged through marshy soil. "Swore it was cursed. Turned out, it was just

a flooded potato field. Locals still won't fish there."

Clara gave a weak laugh.

Tony said nothing.

By the afternoon of the second day, they crested a hill and spotted movement ahead—figures clustered

near several wagons and grazing animals. A caravan.

Lib squinted. "Fortune smiles, or she's up to something."

The caravaners were a small traveling family troupe—farmers, traders, a few children clinging to skirts.

They welcomed the travelers with cautious hospitality, allowing them to share a fire for the night. The mood

warmed, at least briefly. Bread and smoked fish were passed around. A fiddle sang a fractured tune.

Lib, ever the storyteller, traded tales with an older man who spoke of a ghost that stole the dreams of

sleeping children. Clara listened quietly, occasionally glancing at Tony, whose eyes were fixed on the

treeline.

Night settled in. The two groups shared warmth, firelight, and silence until only embers remained.

That was when Tony heard it again.

The melody. Soft. Haunting. A music box tune drifting on the still air, weaving between tents and trees.

He stiffened. Lib noticed. "Something wrong?" Before Tony could answer, the dogs began to bark.

The entire camp roused. Barking turned to snarls, then yelps—cut short. A scream.

Chaos.

One of the caravaners stumbled into the clearing, blood pouring from a gash across her face. "It's in the fog!" she cried.

Shadows writhed beyond the firelight.

"Everyone move!" Lib shouted. "Grab what you can—we have to go!"

The fog thickened unnaturally fast. Figures screamed. Shapes darted through the mist. Tony held Clara's

hand in a death grip, following Lib as they fled into the trees, abandoning most of their supplies.

They ran until the fog thinned and dawn crept across the horizon.

They stopped only when the sun finally pierced through the trees. Panting. Shaken. Clara leaned against a

fallen trunk, tears in her eyes.

"What was that?" she whispered.

Lib stared back the way they'd come, face pale, humor gone. "I don't know. But it knew we were there."

Tony looked at his satchel.

The box had not moved.

But it felt warmer.

That evening, after making a rough camp on higher ground, Tony sat apart from the others. Clara joined

him eventually, wrapping a blanket around them both.

"We have to keep going," she said gently.

He nodded. "The priory. The one your aunt mentioned. Maybe they'll know something."

Behind them, Lib sat quietly near the fire, sharpening his blade and watching the darkness.

"I've heard of something like this," he murmured aloud, not looking up. "Long ago. A tale about a clown and

a box, sealed in silence. They said the laughter could break minds."

Tony looked up sharply. "What did they call him?"

Lib shook his head slowly. "Didn't say. Just 'Jack.' They said Jack waits behind the veil, smiling. Waiting for someone to open the door."

Tony turned back to the trees.

And the box pulsed once, faint and warm, beneath his coat.