The library smelled of ancient parchment and dust, an aroma that seemed to weigh down on Nyx's lungs as he turned page after page under the faint glow of the crystal lanterns. He had searched Jamie's private shelves for days, running his hands over spines that held forbidden secrets, but the more he read, the more unsatisfied he became. Answers were scattered like broken fragments, never complete. That dissatisfaction led him further—to archives buried under marble towers, to crypts where monks of blood had hidden scrolls that no vampire cared to touch, to the forgotten corners of the mirror world where words whispered of creatures older than vampires themselves. Nyx's hunger grew obsessive. His fear of exposure in this world had twisted into determination, and if witches were his only path back, then he would unearth everything about them. Nights turned into mornings, mornings into sleepless nights, and his pale hands trembled as they traced diagrams of runes and rituals. He had begun to understand the shape of their power, the cruel elegance of their craft, and most terrifyingly, their history.
The birth of the first witch was written in blood and betrayal. Nyx read of a woman whose name had been erased from records, though her actions had carved scars into the world forever. She had been born mortal, her beauty drawing countless men, her heart fickle, her desires many. Her husband, a man of cruelty, had punished her affairs with fire and iron, chaining her to the house as though she were no more than livestock. One night, her rage surpassed her pain, and with her bare hands she murdered him, but death was not enough. Satisfaction eluded her, for she longed to make him suffer as she had suffered. Nyx's eyes widened as the scroll described her descent into madness. She turned to forgotten scriptures, mixed ashes of the dead with her own blood, whispered to shadows that answered back, and in time she learned to bind spirits to her will. Her husband's ghost became her first slave, trapped and tortured until its screams echoed into the night. That first cruelty became an endless hunger, and soon she was dragging other spirits into her chains, feeding on their agony, using their strength to become something no mortal should have ever been.
Nyx's breath slowed as he traced the next words, which spoke of her greatest ambition—not to die alone with her secret, but to spread her curse like wildfire. She sought seven girls, young and unbroken, each chosen for her beauty and her hidden rage. Through her rituals she remade them in her image, corrupting their souls with spirit-binding and blood rites. These girls became the seven witches, each twisted into a different form, each carrying a piece of her wrath into eternity. They were not sisters by blood, but by curse, and the bond they shared was unbreakable. Nyx read their names slowly, as if reciting an incantation: the Mud Witch, who pulled power from the soil and filth; the Oil Witch, whose flames burned eternal; the Knot Witch, who bound fates tighter than iron chains; the Poison Witch, whose breath alone could sicken armies; the Blake Witch, a shadow who lived between worlds; the Rain Witch, who drowned kingdoms in sorrow; and above them all, the Crimson Witch, the most feared, whose blood was said to boil hotter than fire itself. His fingers trembled as he realized that these seven names were not legends but living truths, their descendants still ruling unseen corners of this cursed mirror world.
The writings revealed their ritual with a cold clarity that made Nyx's stomach twist. A witch's power was born from betrayal, from the destruction of the men who dared to love them. To ensure their lineage, each witch would take a man as husband, deceive him with beauty and passion, and then, at the peak of his trust, spill his blood in a ritual. The unborn child would be bathed in the father's blood, feeding off it before it even opened its eyes, growing faster, stronger, and darker than any human child ever could. That child would be a witch, born not of nature but of cruelty, its first breath a curse. And so the cycle repeated for centuries, seven clans feeding their lineages with the corpses of men, never once clashing with one another. Instead, they were allies, each clan helping the other to grow, their hatred of men binding them in unity. Nyx read these words with a chill creeping into his bones. The cruelty was beyond comprehension, yet it was written with the certainty of history, not myth.
But their cruelty was not reserved only for their husbands. The witches grew ambitious, their thirst for dominion insatiable. They began to enslave others, converting creatures of all kinds into lesser witches—slaves who served the clans in silence. Vampires, goblins, even beasts of the wild had been bound into their service, their free will broken under chains of blood magic. Their empire swelled until even the vampires, proud and ancient, began to fear them. Nyx found that the witches had been cast out not by war but by exile, banished to the distant Layola Island, a place marked on maps only as a shadow. They were said to have been stranded there for centuries, thriving despite their banishment, still luring wanderers and tricking the desperate who sought them. No laws reached them there, and no creature dared trespass. The witches of Layola were predators with no leash, and to approach them was to gamble with one's life. Still, Nyx's mind burned with only one thought: somewhere among them was a Mud Witch, the only kind who could make the portal he needed.
The text warned of their cruelty to men, an echo of the pain that had birthed them. Witches hated men as much as they hated chains, their rituals built on their contempt. They toyed with them, deceived them, and destroyed them, and any man foolish enough to deal with one was said to be consumed—body, mind, and soul. Their backstories were not singular, Nyx realized. Though the first witch had begun the curse, each clan had carved its own history into the bones of time. There were stories of women drowned, burned, betrayed, each finding vengeance through the craft, each passing their hatred down through blood. Every book Nyx read gave a different tale, a different wound that birthed another cruelty, but the thread remained the same—pain, betrayal, vengeance, blood. That was the essence of witchcraft. And yet, as he read, Nyx did not recoil. Instead, he leaned in closer, his thoughts sharpening. If these creatures could manipulate death itself, then surely he could manipulate them.
Among the seven, only the Mud Witch possessed the secret of portals. She was said to shape the soil, bend the bones of the earth, and carve paths between worlds where no natural path existed. But finding her was no simple task, for witches never revealed their kind unless they wished to. They lived hidden, layered in deceit, their appearances shifting like smoke, their words always laced with traps. The texts repeated this warning again and again—identifying a witch was impossible until she revealed herself. Nyx's heart sank at this truth, yet at the same time it hardened. He would have to risk everything to find her.
The more Nyx read, the clearer his path became, even though every word carried the weight of danger. He imagined Layola Island as the books described it, shrouded in mist, haunted by laughter that never ended, its forests alive with illusions, its seas red with old blood. Witches had no laws, no bonds but those to each other, and they were infamous for cheating anyone who dared bargain with them. Yet, for all their cruelty, they were also the only ones who could give him what he needed. Nyx closed one of the heavy tomes and leaned back, his body shaking from exhaustion, his eyes burning from the hours of reading. He whispered to himself that this was the only way. If he wanted to survive here, if he wanted to return to the human world, then he would have to trick a witch. He would have to step into their lair, play their game, and hope his human cunning could outwit their centuries of cruelty.
And so, as the candlelight flickered against his tired face, Nyx felt the stirrings of something he had not felt in a long time—a plan. Dangerous, reckless, and almost certain to fail, but a plan nonetheless. He knew where he needed to go: Layola. He knew whom he needed to find: a Mud Witch. What he did not know was how to keep his life once he stood before one. But as he shut the book and rose, his shadow stretching across the ancient stone floor, Nyx whispered a silent vow. He would find her. He would make her open the portal. And he would not return empty-handed, even if it meant gambling everything he had left.
The night before his departure, Nyx stood before Jamie's old oak desk, the moonlight pouring in through the stained-glass window, painting the drawers in hues of crimson and violet. His fingers trembled as he slid them over the polished surface, seeking the artifacts Jamie had once shown him in secrecy. There was a silver amulet etched with runes of concealment, a vial of ash said to repel spirit charms, and a black-stitched pouch containing a single feather of a dream raven—an object that could guide him when illusions sought to twist his path. Nyx hesitated only once before taking them. The weight of each relic felt like a pact; with every artifact he pocketed, the mirror world seemed to tighten around him, aware of his intent. He whispered an apology to Jamie under his breath, though he doubted Jamie would forgive the theft if he knew. Then he wrapped himself in his dark cloak, the hood shadowing his face, and stepped silently into the forest night. The trees loomed like silent witnesses, their silver leaves rustling with secrets, their trunks glowing faintly with the strange bioluminescence of the mirror world. Each step away from the mansion was a step closer to danger, yet Nyx's resolve hardened with every crunch of moss beneath his boots.
He traveled for hours through the shadowed woods, the artifacts warm against his chest, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and hidden rivers. By day, the forest looked alive with a dangerous beauty—emerald leaves flashing like mirrors in the sun, vines glistening with dew that shimmered like molten silver—but by night, it transformed into a labyrinth of whispers. Branches creaked though no wind stirred, and faint lights flickered in the distance, vanishing when he turned his head. Nyx set small wards before resting, drawing protective circles with the ash and pressing the amulet to his chest as he closed his eyes. Yet sleep came like a reluctant friend. Each time he drifted off, he felt it—a gaze, cold and unblinking, watching from beyond the trees. His dreams filled with flashes of glowing eyes, soft growls, and the sensation of claws scraping against stone. When he awoke, the forest was always silent, but the air smelled faintly of wet fur, and the moss beneath him was disturbed by paw prints too large to belong to any mortal beast.
On the third night, the presence no longer hid. Nyx was crouched beside a fallen log, sipping water from a crystal flask, when a sudden rustle broke the stillness. He turned sharply, the hair on his neck rising. Between the twisted trunks, a pair of eyes glowed like molten amber, unblinking, fixed on him with predatory calm. Another pair emerged to the left, then another to the right, until the forest around him glittered with dozens of feral lights. His breath caught as the faint moonlight revealed their forms—werewolves, tall and muscular, their fur silvered with moonlight, their jaws lined with teeth meant to tear through bone. Nyx tightened his grip on the amulet, but instinct screamed louder than reason. He ran. The forest became a blur of shadow and light, his boots striking roots and stones as the howls rose behind him like a chorus of death. Branches whipped against his face, drawing blood, but he did not slow. He ducked beneath low arches of vines, leapt over streams that glowed faintly with phosphorescence, and forced his aching body forward even as the pounding of paws closed in from every side.
The ground betrayed him at the edge of a cliff. Nyx skidded to a halt just as the earth disappeared beneath his feet, the roaring of a hidden river echoing from the abyss below. Behind him, the wolves emerged from the darkness, their eyes burning brighter, their growls vibrating through the cold night air. There was no path forward, no way back. For a heartbeat, time froze—the wind lifted his cloak, the moon carved silver lines across the jagged rocks, and the scent of wet fur thickened like smoke. Then instinct chose for him. He leapt. The world tilted, and the night became a rushing blur of stars and black water. Nyx fell through darkness, the sound of the river growing louder until it drowned every other thought. He expected the crushing impact of water, the cold bite of death, but instead he felt something else entirely—warmth, a strange pulling force, a whirl of light that wrapped around his body like a living current.
When Nyx opened his eyes, the world had changed. He was floating on a pool of water so still it reflected the sky like polished glass, yet there was no sky above him, only a swirling dome of violet mist and floating lanterns that burned with an otherworldly blue. Slowly, he dragged himself to the shore, the sand beneath his palms soft and black, warm as though it had absorbed centuries of hidden fires. The air tasted of salt and iron. Before him stretched Layola Island, exactly as the ancient texts had described it—an island that looked alive with secrets, its trees twisted into shapes that seemed almost human, its cliffs glowing faintly with veins of crimson ore. Strange flowers bloomed along the shore, their petals exhaling a faint, intoxicating scent that blurred the edges of thought. The silence was profound, broken only by the slow lap of violet water against the sand, as if the island itself was waiting for him to speak first. Nyx stood shakily, his cloak dripping, his mind reeling with the realization that the river had been no river at all, but a portal. The witches had drawn him here.
He took a cautious step forward, the black sand sinking slightly beneath his boots, and scanned the island for movement. The trees swayed though there was no breeze, and deep within their shadows, faint lights flickered like eyes opening and closing. Somewhere on this cursed island, a Mud Witch existed—the only one capable of crafting the portal he needed to return to the human world. But identifying her would be nearly impossible. The books had warned him: a witch could appear as anything—child, crone, maiden, even beast—and only by her own will would she reveal her true nature. Nyx tightened his grip on the pouch of artifacts. The amulet pulsed faintly, a reminder that he was not entirely defenseless. Yet even as he reassured himself, a whisper of laughter echoed across the mist, light and mocking, as if the island itself found his bravado amusing.
Far away, back in the human world, a very different kind of tension brewed. Jamie sat in the small sunlit café where he had invited Joey, Bob, and Stacy, his calm smile hiding the storm beneath. Over the past days he had played his part well, earning their trust with quiet kindness—helping Stacy carry groceries, listening to Bob's endless jokes, guiding Joey through his restless doubts. They laughed more around him than they ever had around the real Nyx, but the fragile balance cracked when Joey slammed a set of DNA results onto the table. The paper trembled in his hands as he said the words they had all feared: Jamie was not Nyx. The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Bob snatched the report, his eyes narrowing, then tore the paper clean in half. "Whether he's Nyx or not," Bob said firmly, "I must say—he's better than Nyx ever was." His voice carried a strange mixture of defiance and affection, the kind that made arguments die before they began.
Bob turned to Stacy, his sharp gaze softening. "Do you agree?" he asked, his tone a gentle challenge. Stacy hesitated, her fingers tightening around her cup as memories flickered through her mind—Nyx's distant stares, his careless words, his endless disappearances. Jamie, by contrast, had been present, warm, and quietly protective. Finally, she nodded, her voice a whisper but her conviction clear. "He's better," she said. "Nyx never cared for us like this. Jamie… he does." Joey exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead. "Maybe he's better," he admitted, "but we can't ignore the truth. He's an imposter. Who knows what his real intentions are? What if he's hiding something? What if he's keeping the real Nyx prisoner—or worse?" Stacy flinched at the thought, but Bob leaned back, a glint of calculation in his eyes. "Then we find out. There's a way."
Bob lowered his voice, leaning in so only they could hear. "There's a drug," he whispered, "the True Drug. Give it to someone and they'll answer every question honestly—and afterward, they forget everything they said." Stacy's eyes widened. "That's dangerous. It could hurt him." Joey's jaw tightened, his suspicion outweighing his caution. "And what if he's kidnapped Nyx? What if he's killed him? We need answers, Stacy." Her hesitation melted beneath the weight of his reasoning. Slowly, she nodded, her eyes dark with reluctant agreement. "If it's the only way," she said softly, "then we have to do it." Bob gave a satisfied nod, the plan sealing itself in their silence. They did not notice Jamie approaching from behind, his expression unreadable as he stepped into the circle of their whispered conspiracy.
Jamie's voice broke the tension like a sudden breeze. "You all look far too serious," he said with a disarming smile. "Come with me. I have something better than drugs—a little fun." Before they could object, he led them through the crowded streets to a small, lantern-lit theater where a faded sign read The Pure Heart Show. Inside, a magician in a velvet coat greeted them warmly and explained the game. Each participant would hold a golden apple to their heart, close their eyes, and return it to the magician. If the apple turned black, it meant their heart was impure; if it remained red, their heart was pure. Simple. Harmless. Stacy exchanged wary glances with Bob and Joey but followed Jamie to the stage. The magician's eyes sparkled mischievously as he placed the apples in their hands. "Close your eyes," he said, "and let your heart speak."
They obeyed. The theater fell silent except for the soft chiming of distant bells. When they opened their eyes, three apples shone a healthy crimson—but Jamie's apple had turned a deep, ominous black. Stacy gasped. Joey stiffened. Bob's mouth opened but no words came. Jamie looked down at the dark fruit, then smiled faintly, as if the result amused him rather than condemned him. "It's fine," he said lightly, placing the blackened apple back on the tray. "I don't mind. Excuse me for a moment—I need the washroom." He left before they could speak, his calm exit unsettling in its grace. The three friends huddled together, whispering furiously. "It proves it," Joey hissed. "He's not pure. He's hiding something." Stacy bit her lip. "But… he's never done anything cruel. Could the test be wrong?" Before they could decide, the magician returned with a gentle chuckle.
"You misunderstand," the magician said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Your friend's heart is purer than you think. An old woman's apple turned black first. He saw it and switched apples to protect her from shame. A selfless act. A pure heart indeed." Silence fell over the group as the truth settled in. Joey's suspicion faltered. Stacy's eyes softened. Bob exhaled a long breath and shook his head with a rueful smile. "Even if he's not Nyx," Joey said finally, "he's a better person than Nyx ever was." Stacy added quietly, "He healed my brother Ralph when no one else could. He's an angel in disguise." Bob leaned back, his grin widening. "Then it's decided. From this day on, he is Nyx—for us, he is." Joey hesitated, then nodded slowly, a reluctant smile breaking through his doubt. "Fine," he said. "He's Nyx. Whatever the truth is, he's earned it." Stacy looked toward the exit where Jamie had vanished and whispered, "As for the real Nyx… he's smart. Nothing can harm him."