XLII
The fire crackles to life under Lorian's careful hands, its orange light spilling across the glittering meadow. Being a handy woodsman, he carried a flint and striker always tucked into a paracord bracelet. The neatly wrapped braid was nearly four meters long when unraveled, very handy when camping or hunting. He's gathered brush and fallen branches from the edge of the lake, stacking them neatly before striking a spark. The warmth spreads quickly, chasing away the chill that clings to our skin and clothes.
We peel off the soaked layers, leaving only coats and the partially dry things we have underneath. Sitting in partially damp underwear was uncomfortable, but we couldn't go naked. It would be inappropriate, being nearly strangers to each other. The air is cool but gentle, scented with pollen and damp earth. Lorian keeps his gaze politely averted, focused on the fire as he ties together a makeshift rack from sticks and braided grasses. He hangs our clothes carefully, each piece steaming faintly in the heat.
The fairies watch from the flowers, curious but quiet now, their wings flickering like candlelight. The pollen drifts lazily through the air, catching the fire's glow and turning it into gold dust.
I sit close enough to feel the warmth on my legs, the denim purse beside me, heavy with spirit coins. Lorian settles across from me, his coat open to the heat, his expression calm but thoughtful.
"This world feels alive," I say softly.
He nods, feeding another branch into the flames. "It is. Everything here breathes magic. The air, the water, even the fire."
I looked at the fire as it crackled in multicolored sparks. The dry plants and wood must have different chemical compositions to make fire change colors like that. I was used to just plain red-orange fires. This was a nice change.
The light dances between us, painting the night in shades of amber and blue. My hands finally warm up, the cold tips heating to a nice pink hue. The fairies hum faintly, the flowers pulse, and for the first time since crossing the portal, the mirror‑land feels almost like home.
I take a deep breath and tuck my jacket around my ears. Shutting my eyes for a minute.
The flash blinds me for a heartbeat, illuminating the dark. White light slicing through the pollen haze, scattering the fairies like sparks. The little sprites quickly hide away, the night a little dimmer without their wings to light it. When my vision clears, they're there.
A line of men in silver armor appears, spears raised, faces hidden behind mirrored helms that reflect the firelight and the glow of the flowers.
Their arrival feels like thunder without sound, magic compressed into a single instant. The air hums with it, sharp and metallic.
They bark something in a liquid language, harsh and rhythmic, like water striking stone. The words ripple through the air, incomprehensible but heavy with command.
Lorian's hand goes instinctively to his side, though he doesn't reach for a weapon. His voice is calm, low, translating for me.
"Halt. Invaders. Do not move."
I freeze, heart pounding. The fire crackles behind us, our drying clothes swaying on the rack. The fairies have vanished into the flowers, their glow dimming as if the entire meadow is holding its breath.
Lorian straightens slowly, his coat dripping, his silver hair catching the firelight. "They're mirror‑guard," he murmurs. "Sentinels of the threshold, warriors of the fae lands. They protect the borders between worlds."
The leader steps forward, spear tip gleaming inches from Lorian's chest. His armor is etched with runes that shimmer faintly, and his voice carries the weight of authority.
Lorian meets his gaze without flinching. "We came through the lake portal," he says evenly. "We mean no harm."
He shakes his head, then haltingly in a simplified version of the guard's language, something unused and half forgotten. "Portal, Lake, Fell. Friends." His hands raised up in surrender, coat still over his arms.
The guards exchange quick, sharp words in their flowing tongue. The air thickens with tension, and I can feel the spirit coins in my purse vibrating faintly, reacting to the magic around us.
The leader's eyes narrow behind his mirrored helm.
"Portal," he repeats, the name distorted but recognizable.
Lorian glances at me, his expression unreadable. "They know the word," he whispers. "That might save us. Things like this have happened before."
The spears remain raised, the fire flickers, and the mirror‑land itself seems to wait for what happens next. The leader once again spoke slowly, facing Lorian. He had figured out that Lorian could translate.
"Strangers, take things, follow us."
I gather my clothes, my large bag hanging in front. They were obviously in a hurry so I dressed as fast as I could move, turned away so they wouldn't see anything of the front of my body. The clothes were still slightly damp, but workable. At least they were polite enough not to capture me mostly naked. Lorain snuffed the fire, mixing the ash and wood to kill any loose spark. The leader of the guards pulled us up to walk forward through the plains, farther away from the woods. We walked in between them to a clearing, a large circle of stone embedded in clear ground.
The world yanks at my very being, not my body, but something deeper, something threaded through bone and breath.
The guard's liquid syllables spill into the air like poured mercury, and the moment the last one leaves his tongue, I feel it:
A pull on my soul. A shudder of light behind my eyelids. A brush of warm air that doesn't belong to the lakeshore swirls around us. And then the ground disappears. Teleportation doesn't feel like being torn apart. It's like being unwritten for a heartbeat and then rewritten somewhere else. The meadow, the fire, and the rack for drying clothes were gone in a blink.
The world snaps back around us with a soft thump of displaced air. I stumble, knees buckling, and Lorian catches my elbow before I hit the ground. The warmth here is immediate, humid, fragrant, almost tropical compared to the cool lakeshore. My lungs seize for a moment, then release.
We're standing in the center of a stone circle; each slab carved with spirals and runes that pulse faintly underfoot. The ground around it is cleared, packed earth and moss, ringed by towering trees whose leaves shimmer like metal.
The four guards stand around us in perfect square formation, spears angled inward. Their mirrored helms reflect the circle, the trees, and distorted, multiplied. Lorian steadies me, his voice low.
"He groaned, gasping a little, that teleportation felt like your soul is being tugged sideways."
I swallow hard, trying to keep my balance. "That was intense."
He gives a small, sympathetic nod. "They used a teleportation spell. It's old magic. The soldiers don't look any worse for wear though."
The guards speak again, sharp syllables that ripple through the air like thrown stones. They were probably used to teleporting. The leader steps forward, spear lowered but still ready.
Lorian listens, his expression tightening.
"They're taking us to judgment," he murmurs. "They want to know why we opened a portal to the and why you came through it."
The air hums as we make our way through a green valley, tall willowy trees with impossibly colored leaves swaying around us.
And somewhere beyond the trees, I hear distant bells. Soft, eerie, and unmistakably magical.
The guards march us forward, their mirrored helms reflecting the glow of the meadow as we leave the stone circle behind. The air grows warmer with every step, thick with the scent of moss and sweet sap. The trees close in overhead, their branches woven together like cathedral arches.
The trunks widen, naturally hollowed in places, and from those hollows spill glowing orbs. They light the way in soft blues, warm gold, pale greens, each one floating in the air as if hung or nestled like lantern fruit. More orbs hang from branches on braided vines, swaying gently and casting shifting patterns of light across the ground. The pollen sprites peek from the leaves, watching silently as we're escorted deeper.
The guards' armor gleams with every orb we pass, turning them into walking shards of moonlight.
We step into a woodland glade, a village nestled in nature, and in the center a fountain. It's breathtaking. Homes grown from living trees spiral upward, their bark shaped into balconies and windows. Rope bridges connect the upper levels, glowing with tiny lanterns. The ground is cleared and smooth, covered in moss that feels springy underfoot. The air hums with quiet magic from the globe lights.
At the center of the village is a square, and in its heart stands a fountain carved from pale limestone. Water flows down its sides in thin, perfect sheets, tracing intricate patterns etched into the stone. Carved spirals, runes, and mirrored symbols that shimmer as the water passes over them. The fountain glows faintly, decoratively lit from within by some unseen source. The guards stop us at the edge of the square. People gather.
Lorian stands tall beside me, though I can feel the tension in his hand where it brushes mine. His eyes flick across the village, taking in every detail with a mix of recognition and caution. The guards form a square around us again, spears angled but not threatening. The guards have become something more ceremonial now, threat nearly gone. One of them speaks, the liquid language flowing like water over stone.
Lorian listens, then translates quietly.
"They say the council is coming." The glowing orbs sway overhead.
The fountain hums as the water tinkles over stone. The villagers hide, fearing strangers as the members wait for higher authority.
And somewhere beyond the trees, footsteps approach slowly, deliberately, and heavy with authority.