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The gem pulses in Zoeya’s hand, clear quartz suffused with a golden-purple glow that almost makes it look like the ametrine geodes she had seen populating the End. This one, weirdly, had been the hardest to calibrate; hypothetically, the gem connected to the one person Zoeya knows best should be the easiest to focus. Yet, she’d had infinitely more success securing connection to the flower knight and the bunny-druid than she had with Rythian’s soul signature. It’s because she’s a bone adept, she tells herself. She’s better at raising bone constructs than she is at spirit-calling or flesh magic. Never mind that her arm is encased in ectoplasmic musculature and that half her staff are spirits at this point – she definitely had a rougher go at attuning to Rythian’s soul because souls are the problem. She ignores the ache in her chest as she gazes at the crystal again. Easier to pretend she has no heart, that way.
The contraption before her is a mess of the Twilight’s own magic, the craft she’d picked up from Nano and Lomadia before the both of them went dark, and the ever-evolving technology from the world around. When she activates it, if her calculations are correct, it should open a portal directly to where Rythian and his new companions are. If she can speak to him for even a moment, they might be able to fix things. He’d left the Twilight before she’d been able to say anything.
The wards are strong enough, thankfully. The forest will survive a few hours without her. She can leave, and she can find him, and she can fix things. They can fix things. Gods, she misses him.
Socketing the last gem into place, Zoeya takes a deep, deep breath and flicks the switch to power the whole thing on. The redstone and copper wiring hum under her touch, the sculk leaning towards her hands, souls roiling just beneath her fingertips. The computer screen flashes with coordinates as it calculates, as the Twilight bends to her will and searches for someone outside of its bounds. The raven’s feather quill writes on its own, scrawling over the map parchment without hesitation. Zoeya doesn’t recognize the landscape it draws, but that is to be expected. Houses, so it seems. A village. Good. Rythian’s always fared better in communities. She takes another breath, watching the machinery work. It will be fine. It will be good. Briefly, the screen flashes with one set of coordinates, and then another. The first set goes by far too quickly to see – a glitch, she dismisses. The coordinates the machine locks onto have Rythian’s signature and those of the flower knight and bunny-druid. She’ll be there in no time. It will be fine.
As the quill lays itself down, Zoeya snatches up the map and stuffs it into her cloak. Before her, the machine does as it is meant to, and tears a hole in the space of her workshop. The other side shows a darkened interior with a door on the other end. Probably for the best that she not appear in the middle of a town square, she supposes. With one last glance around her workshop, she takes a deep breath and steps through the portal.
The first thing that strikes her about reentering the Brightlands is how alive it feels. Even before she takes in her surroundings, Zoeya can smell the life of this place, the greenery, the vitality. It is nothing like the End, dead and void, and nothing like the sweet, fungal rot of the once-teeming Twilight. When they find a way to break the curse, the Twilight will feel like this again. She needs the Twilight to feel like this again. She allows herself ten seconds to breathe it in. That’s all she needs. That’s all she can afford. She closes her eyes and breathes in the life the Brightlands has always possessed and prays – though, to whom, she’s uncertain – that the Twilight will breathe like this again soon.
When she opens her eyes, Zoeya finds herself in a small caravan wagon, portal still open behind her. There isn’t much to speak of inside: a bed, a drawn-back privacy curtain, a table covered in an enchanter’s cloth and with a crystal ball sitting on top. There are candles, strings of crystal beads, bundles of herbs, and other occult ephemera around, though Zoeya can’t immediately identify the significance of them all together. The incense plate on the windowsill is clean, unused, but the air still smells faintly of patchouli. When she picks up the deck of cards beside the crystal ball, she feels no hum of energy from them. Unimbued, then. Shuffling through regardless, she pulls one at random. From between her slightly translucent fingers, the Star looks back at her, reversed. Internally, she sighs. Yeah, yeah, she knows.
Before she can shuffle again, the caravan door swings open and the ghostly figure of a man strolls through. Zoeya jumps back, flesh hand flying to the censer at her waist, a mote of fire flaring to life in her skeletal one. The spirit closes the door behind him and turns to her with a mischievous smile.
“It appears a traveler has come to town! Spooky, is it not?” he says, as though he is narrating the scene before him. His translucent form wavers in the space before her, blue eyes and greying hair, adventurer’s coat tattered at the edges. Xephos, her deep memory supplies. She had no idea he’d died. “Bone collector,” Xephos says. If Zoeya’s heart still properly beat, she’s sure her blood would have frozen in her veins. How did he know that? How did– she’d only been here for a minute, she’s not seen him in years, how did he know? “There are no dead for you to speak with. However, you join at a most auspicious time: for tonight, on this most blessed of Hallowed Eves, a demon walks among the people of this town, and you know precisely who it is!”
Demons? Here? What the hell is happening that Xephos is dead and speaking of demons? Last she’d heard, Xephos was adventuring when he wasn’t being dragged into Honeydew’s enterprising schemes. He didn’t do magic, much less the kind that summoned demons. With a flick of her wrist, Zoeya lights her censer, letting the smoke pool in the chamber before swinging.
“Tonight,” the specter of Xephos continues, “you learn that… Zylus is your demon!” He looks at her, smile widening. The twinkle in his eye is that of the Xephos she knew. But– Zylus was here? Had she wound up in Newpool? “Any questions?”
“What about Daltos?” she blurts, not able to stop herself. Gods, she’d thought the Twilight’s courtly etiquette training had broken her of that habit. Xephos frowns, cocking his head. “He’s got to be here too, right?”
“Daltos?” Xephos suddenly pulls a clipboard from the ether, checking the papers on it a few times. Enough smoke has spilled from her censer by now that it should be driving him back, and, yet, he continues to stand there, distracted by his notes. When she tries to activate the ghost ward on her bracer, nothing happens, and the sickly green glow fades before the so-called spirit can notice. Flipping through his notes again, Xephos shakes his head. “N– what? No. Daltos isn’t– he’s not on this script, why would–” For seemingly the first time, he looks at her, straightening up. “You’re not Zoey.”
“And you’re not a ghost,” Zoeya says. A ghost wouldn’t have to open a door. She sees it now, squinting at his form. He’s a projection. Nanobots. The clipboard has a YogLabs sticker on the back. Fuck. “Where am I? Where’s Rythian?”
“Well, you’re a Zoey, but you’re not the right Zoey.” What does that mean? Xephos turns to someone unseen, gesturing at his clipboard. “How the hell did she–? We were supposed to–” He pauses, listening, and nods, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, yes, you’re right. We’ll let it play out. Set up the next test for a control group, this is not a variable we accounted for.” The clipboard vanishes, and Xephos claps his hands, smiling at Zoeya. “Anyway! You’re the Bone Collector this go around. You’re evil and you’re helping Zylus. Good luck!”
With that, the projection turns and hurries out of the caravan, shutting the door behind him. Listening through the wood as he leaves, she catches him saying, “How in all of Minecraftia did– Wait, where has the real– Shit, get Gozencrantz from records, that might be the real…” until he’s too far away to hear.
It’s weird, the relief she’d felt at just being called Zoey. She hasn’t been Zoey in a very long time. She doesn’t think she’s been called anything other than My Lady Zoeya or Your Majesty in years. Her empty shoulder socket aches, and the ectoplasm does little to soothe it.
Distantly, a bell rings. The sky outside her window is suddenly light. She hadn’t noticed the sun rising. What the hell is going on? She hears doors opening. Voices. People. The village is waking up. She should join them. Maybe they’ll be able to tell her what’s happening. Desperate for answers, desperate to find Rythian, Zoeya exits the caravan and shuts the door behind her.
A grey, misty morning greets her as she steps outside. It reminds her of the ever-encroaching haunted forests of the Twilight, with their fire-orange leaves and roving clusters of long-dead druids. Another remnant of the Death Curse taking root, despite Zoeya’s best efforts. She pulls her cloak a little closer around herself, glad for once that she had swapped her shorts and sheer, torn tights for a pair of durable leggings. Seasons were static in the Twilight, locked to particular regions; she often didn’t need warmer clothes unless she was interfacing with the Frost Queen or skulking around the massive castle on the mountain. As lovely as her own castle is, it isn’t right for her experiments; the sterility and solitude of the one on the mountain is perfect for her needs, and the force fields in the basement have been wonderful for containing rites that get ugly. It reminds her of Lalna’s lab, in a way. If Lalna’s lab were twice the size, impersonal, filled with traps, and shockingly, strikingly empty.
From her right, a figure comes swirling out of the fog, making Zoeya nearly jump out of her skin.
“Brisk morning, innit?” Lalna greets, waving. He’s wearing an orange jumper under his usual lab coat, with a jack-o-lantern’s face knitted into the front. He stops, looking Zoeya up and down and whistling lowly. “I see you’re ready for the holiday. I almost feel under-dressed.” Zoeya can only blink at him, uncomprehending. Last she’d seen Lalna was in Cornerstone, flux veins creeping up his arms and splashed across his face. This Lalna had none of that, not even any scarring. He peers at her in return, squinting slightly. “How’d you get your eyes to do that? And the arm! Looks wicked, but– are they actually glowing?”
“Just a–” Zoeya clears her throat, breaking his gaze. “Just a bit of magic, is all.”
“Oh, speaking of magic…” Lalna starts, continuing down the path towards town. Zoeya follows him, hearing voices from further on. “I swear I saw a ghost last night. Xephos. The mayor. I think someone killed ‘im. Visited me while I was sleeping.”
The mayor? That can’t be right. Lalna and Xephos worked together, they never lived in a village together. Where was Honeydew? Where was their factory?
“...Did he say anything?”
“He said…” Lalna has to think for a moment. “It was weird. He picked up one of my pocket watches and said his killers were on the quarter-hours. Wound it up too tight ‘til one of the gears popped out.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “No idea what that bloody means. Bastard’s messing up my work even from beyond the grave. Did he visit you? What did he say?”
“Not… much.”
When they reach the town square, they find everyone else approaching as well, all gathering towards the stage in the center. With dawning horror, Zoeya realizes she recognizes every single one of them: Nilesy, walking from the path to her left and wearing a cat-ear headband, trips over a stone and is helped up by Zylus; Ravs leans on a post across the stage, already in conversation with the flower knight; and there, wearing a pointy witch hat, is the bunny-druid, fussing over the popped collar on an unimpressed-looking Rythian’s cloak. Zoeya’s breath catches in her chest.
He’s exactly how she remembers him: tall and spindly, with weathered brown skin and a pale streak in his brown hair that greys at the temples. His eyes are a clear turquoise, his coat a pristine white, the bandages around his forearms and hands the color of freshly-woven muslin. He looks fondly annoyed under the bunny-druid’s attention, and when he meets her eyes across the stage, she can see him smile in exasperation under his mask. It’s a look that says, you see what I’m dealing with? Zoeya knows it well, has seen it on him millions of times, has been the cause of it millions of times. He’s exactly the Rythian she remembers, and that is the worst thing he could possibly be.
Zoeya feels what’s left of her heart shatter. This is not the Rythian that she spotted traipsing through the Twilight. This is not the Rythian she saw befriend an injured raven. This is the Rythian she’d spent her days with, her nights with, the one she saw when she woke up in hospital. The one who dropped everything to help her, the one who put aside all of his own hangups to see her happy. It’s as though the scenery fades out behind her; all that exists is this vision of the past, happy and healthy, no knowledge of what was to come. She almost has to laugh. She’d never thought there’d come a day when she saw Rythian as naive.
The townspeople are talking. There’s clamor as Xephos admits that, yes, he is dead, and isn’t that so very tragic. She doesn’t know how they don’t see it, the wavers in his form, the way he interacts with the physical world. They ask who could have killed him, they ask what they are to do about it, they ask where to go next. By the time Zoeya snaps back into herself, the square is empty of all but her and Rythian, who approaches her slowly.
“Zoey? Are you feeling alright?”
She might cry. She might actually. The Rythian she once knew, the Rythian she sent away, stands in front of her, and he isn’t the one she came here for. There isn’t a hint of gold about him, not in his eyes, not in his hair, and his mask is firmly in place over his mouth and nose.
“Y-Yeah. I’m– fine.” She swallows back the fresh wave of grief that threatens to overtake her. “Can we talk? Somewhere, erm– private?”
“Of course,” he says, warm concern in every inch of his being.
The graveyard, then. Seems like the most appropriate place.
As they enter, it feels as though all other sound shuts off. The ambience grows still, the only noise coming from their own footsteps and the breeze rustling through dead leaves. She feels a little more at home, here. A little more ready to face everything. And if she isn’t she can just summon some bone constructs to cover her escape, and won’t that make for some interesting Hallow’s Eve gossip. Zoeya traces her flesh hand over the top of a gravestone, looking to Rythian. He follows a step or two behind, still watching her.
“I didn’t think you’d be this torn up about Xephos,” he says. Zoeya wants to laugh. If only. Gods, she wishes.
“I’m not,” she laughs, more watery than she’d like. “I just– was worried about you. And–” He isn’t the real Rythian. She’ll take saying it to a fake than letting the words go unsaid. “And I missed you.”
“Oh, Zoey. Come here.” Before she can do anything, Rythian tugs her into a hug, resting his chin on her shoulder. She hugs him back fiercely, lets herself be held, lets herself live in the fantasy if only for a second. “We saw each other last night. You missed me that much?”
He is warm against her, sturdy, solid. His heart beats and his chest rises and falls with breath. It makes it all the more clear to her that he is a fake. This copy lacks the perpetual ash on his fingertips from fire magic. He doesn’t smell like amber and sand and just a little ozone. If she cries now, her paint will run and stain his white coat. She can’t have that.
“More than you’d think,” she manages.
Of course this can’t be the real Rythian. This one is wearing a scarf under his gifted cloak. The real one is sitting just beside it, wrapped around Zoeya’s own shoulders.
She needs to go. She needs to get home. She needs to make sure the forest doesn’t die without her at its helm, and that the real Rythian doesn’t arrive while she’s out.
“The ghost told me that Zylus killed him,” she says when she pulls away. Rythian frowns, cocking a brow. “If– If you don’t believe me, speak to him yourself. I’m sorry. I need to leave.”
“Zoey, what do you–”
It’s agony, pulling away from him. Zoeya allows herself one compromise, one last bit of fantasy. She beckons him close. When he leans down, she kisses his cheek like a fairy tale promise: through the mask, and just the once. A parting gift.
“I’m sorry,” she says, already backing away before he can ask her anything else. There is a smudge of white paint on the fabric. “I need to go. I’m sorry.”
She faces him until she’s out of arms reach. Once he can no longer grab her, she runs. He calls after her, calls her name. She can only run. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s left him. Funny, that. How history repeats.
She races towards the caravan, throwing the door open with a flick of her wrist and a spell on her lips. She slams it shut behind her, finding the portal still there, still open. On the other side is the desolate, empty castle on the top of the mountain. Gods, she hates it. Without a second thought, she runs through and closes the portal.
The people of the Twilight Forest have always known Princess Zoeya Proasheck, ruler of the Twilight Throne and first necromancer of House Amanita, as a strong-willed leader who never cracks under stress. Even in the worst of times, she is steadfast, her grin suggesting a plan for any problem. She can never let them see her like this.
In this basement, deep below the earth and far, far away from anyone who might hear, Zoey, as her friends once called her, falls to her knees and screams until her lungs give out.