The Crimson Snow (A Realm of Chaos and Void #1)

Chapter 3

The Crystal Fox

What is a broken mirror but a puzzle of its past?

Each shard, a whisper of shadow,

Like tiny diamonds that foretell the future—

Scattered fragments reflecting

Visions of what might have been or what must be.

Retrieved from Otherworld Codex: The Hidden Portals

by Malvrek W., Ch. 100, p. 1870.

Seraphine Ashcroft

After walking a few minutes through the market, Seraphine veered into a hidden alley. Here, amidst the dirt and debris, stood a large mirror. It wasn’t shattered but appeared disassembled, a relic she had discovered years ago. Nothing in the Otherworld was ever as it seemed, and this mirror was more than a reflective surface—it was another gateway to her secret sanctuary, her preferred lair and hunting ground.

Thorny black roses, about fifty in total, ensnared the glass, weaving a dark embrace. “Hello, mirror,”

Seraphine purred, her voice echoing slightly, stirring the dormant roses.

Reacting to her voice, the fragmented pieces trembled and shifted, as if shards of ice skittering across a frozen lake, seeking to reform. The roses unfurled their petals, revealing sharp-toothed maws. “Bloody creature,”

one hissed, followed by the others chanting in chorus.

“Crimson drops to bind the gate,

Mirror shards reflect your fate.

Offer what the shadows seek,

Whisper secrets, soft and meek.

Blood to roses, thorns embrace,

Eyes that mirror back your face.

Sacrifice to cross the line,

Twined paths of wolf and vine.”

This chant, a haunting refrain she’d learned to decipher over time, echoed each visit. Drawing nearer to a particular rose, it quivered in anticipation. Teasingly, Seraphine retreated just as it seemed she might allow it to bite her, chuckling at their snarled frustration.

Time was of the essence, and her fondness for these games had to be curtailed. She ceased her antics and offered a finger to one of the ravenous roses. It snapped at her, its bite sharp and precise, drawing blood.

As Seraphine withdrew her bloodied finger, the roses grinned wickedly, their thorns withdrawing from the mirror’s edges. “Welcome again,”

they whispered collectively, their voices a harsh murmur as the mirror stilled, its pieces aligning perfectly.

Touching her clear reflection, Seraphine stepped through the mirror, passing into her hidden haven.

Seraphine entered the most magnificent place she had ever encountered in the Shadowmarket. Encased into a castle of mirrors and multicolored roses, the library stretched across more than fifteen sprawling floors, each overflowing with books. This made her ponder the magical prowess required to encase such an expansive domain into a mere mirror. Yet, this vast knowledge repository captivated her.

Here, ancient tomes from all realms adorned the walls: narratives of human exploits, chronicles of Otherworld creatures, and venerations of the mighty Ancient gods, particularly Brannon, the creator of humans, and Nemera. A section was dedicated to the Underworld, including some accounts of Aurum’s deeds.

However, this section was part of the forbidden archives, locked away and shrouded in secrecy. Despite the relevance to her crimson eyes and their connection to Aurum and the Underworld, Seraphine never sought access. That realm, often excluded from casual discourse due to a political rift between the Otherworld and the Underworld, was a topic she preferred to avoid.

Sometimes, she wondered if her avoidance was driven by fear of discovering unsettling truths about the human whispers surrounding her. Shaking off these unnerving thoughts, she marveled at the library—a paradise nestled in a labyrinth dedicated not to deception but to the pursuit of knowledge.

Knowing the library’s etiquette well, Seraphine approached a desk at the center of the room, flanked by unlit candles. At its heart lay a small silver plate accompanied by a note.

Welcome to the Mystweave Library

Dear trespasser of mirrors and doors, before you stands the hallowed vestibule of arcane bore. To pass these thresholds, surrender a fragment of your essence and behold the illumination that awaits.

Withhold and be engulfed by shadows where roses sink thorns into silence.

PS: Heed this whisper, no relic shall part from this place without its echo left in place. What is borrowed must be returned.

Seraphine carefully placed a slice of finely stolen cheese on the silver plate, a token of gratitude for the library’s guardian. In moments, a single candle flickered to life, followed swiftly by the others, illuminating a path with their glow. The light danced across the room, reflecting off mirrors and creating a kaleidoscopic effect with the vibrant roses, filling the area with shimmering colors, like a crystal palace. From a distance, she caught a glimpse of movement. She thought it was the elusive Bogle, this enchanted library’s guardian. While she occasionally spotted his hands darting among the shelves, he remained mostly concealed.

Today, Seraphine was intent on bringing a few books back home. Dorah had hinted at some intriguing tales tucked away on the second floor, perfect for delving into during her spare moments. Climbing the stairs, she turned left, then right, and left again, navigating to the secluded hallway leading to the library’s tales section.

As she approached, Seraphine paused, struck by the corridor lined with paintings. She had explored this gallery before, spending hours trying to unravel the cryptic stories they depicted. Despite inquiring throughout the market and pressing Dorah—who had dismissively called her mad—no one seemed familiar with the tales.

However, something different caught her eye this time. “There it is,”

she murmured, her gaze intently scanning the sequence of artworks. Each painting captured scenes of a chase: a wolf and a fox locked in an eternal pursuit. One showed the wolf, bloodied and fierce. The subsequent images were murkier, with faces of both humans and Otherworld folk blurred or scratched out, as though someone wished to hide their identities.

Yet, one partially obscured figure stood out. It was a man, or something resembling one, with a regal semblance in the Otherworld, his features marred but with a distinctive symbol visible on his neck: a red ink mark, eerily similar to the one she had noted beneath the cat sith’s ear.

She resolved to press Dorah for more information on her next visit.

As Seraphine traversed the hallway, she arrived at the tales section of the library, a place nothing short of magical. Each book was an enormous tome, adorned with the most exquisite drawings and covers, some seemingly crafted from the hair of mystical creatures. Amidst these, a small black book caught her eye. It vibrated slightly on the shelf, as if eager to be opened—a common occurrence in this enchanted realm, yet always a sign that the book was particularly keen for a reader’s attention. Compelled, she picked it up, feeling its energy pulse as she placed it in her bag, hoping it would remain even once back in the human world. The book’s title shifted and shimmered, much like the mirror she knew so well, with letters dancing across the cover.

Seraphine carefully placed a pearl from the stolen necklace in the now vacant spot on the shelf—a placeholder and a pledge to return the book. Without leaving something of equal or greater value, the library’s vigilant guardian would never permit her to exit with one of their prized volumes. She recalled when colorful roses had ensnared her, scratching her arm and forcibly reclaiming the book because she hadn’t made a proper exchange.

Another time, Seraphine had left a piece of bread, which had decayed by the time she returned the book. The library, or perhaps the librarian’s displeasure, had manifested dramatically, hurling books at her in a furious whirlwind, leaving her with a bruise that lingered for three weeks.

These experiences had ingrained in her that the value of knowledge in this realm demanded a timeless and substantial tribute. A pearl should suffice for this transaction.

As Seraphine stepped back through the mirror, the thorny roses swiftly re-entwined, veiling the gateway once more. The mirror fragmented, scattering into a disjointed reflection of herself. The ever-changing whispers of the roses marked each exit.

“In the hushed veils of the night,

Bloody creature, shade of crimson light,

Do you truly grasp what you are?

A spectral being from a realm afar?

Have you glimpsed beneath your guise,

Or do you dwell still, bound by lies?

Did you know? Do you know? Wish to know?”

This time, the whisper seemed personal, prompting Seraphine to respond. “What ought I to know?”

The roses trembled, murmuring among themselves.

“She does not know.”

“How would she know?”

“You do not know.”

Then, in unison, they spoke again.

“You remain blind, so unaware,

Where mist and blood blend thin as air.

Just a fox from realms beneath, in stealth, you creep.

Beware the tongues you trust, the secrets they keep,

For worlds may tremble where the little jumper leaps.”

“Fine, I will go. Just stop,”

Seraphine retorted, in no mood for riddles as she made her way back to the streets, heading toward the veil entrance to the human world.

Hastening her steps, she approached the part of the forest housing the sentinel’s arched branches. Thankfully, her departure from the Otherworld wasn’t bound by the time stringent rules that governed her entrance.

Just as she neared the path to safety, a wooden hand, gnarled and knotted like ancient tree roots, clasped her ankle, pulling her to the ashen ground. “What in the—”

she started but cut herself off as she realized the nature of her assailant.

A banshee of the woods, a grotesque fusion of mourning and arboreal spirit, with bark-like skin and hollow eyes full of despair, stared at Seraphine. Trees screamed behind her, leaves swirling down as though sensing an ominous presence.

Regaining her footing, Seraphine confronted the banshee. “What do you want?”

she demanded, her voice steady despite her inner turmoil.

“Crimson fox, beware,”

the creature whispered, her voice echoing like wind through dead leaves, her breath harsh and uneven with fear. “Avoid the one who stains the snow red, who hunts with eyes of frost.”

Frustrated, the girl retorted, “You speak in riddles. I have no time for games.”

“Then listen well, for the winter that gathers in his gaze is a harbinger of your doom,”

the banshee persisted. “Should it find you, crimson will paint the earth, and the veil that separates life from death, folk from human, will tear asunder.”

With the forest now filled with the mournful howls of ghostly trees and the rustling whispers of hidden creatures echoing the banshee’s words, Seraphine knew it was time to leave. Such nonsense. Moving away from the creature, she quickly stepped under the arched branches that led to the human realm.

Grim Wanderer

Enshrouded in his winter cloak, woven from snow and starlight, he lingered in the shadows as the girl with crimson eyes returned to the human world.

A smile curled his lips, as sharp as the bitterness engulfing his heart. The Grim Wanderer—a moniker he had adopted a few years ago—had taken on the task of molding her into a force that would untangle and correct what was destroyed before.

Fully aware that once the girl discovered the truth behind what he had done and made of her all these years, she would likely destroy him. You better do it, Crimson Eyes. Otherwise, I may destroy this realm and myself once more.

What tragic irony, the Grim Wanderer thought, raised to suppress all human emotions, as rigid as trees, as boundless as air, and as ancient as the hidden depths beneath the frost. Yet, here he stood, ready to be undone by her—the schemer and puppeteer of the only force that could vanquish him.

Her stumbling upon the Otherworld was nothing short of utter madness, spurred by his actions, when he had placed a crimson-eyed bunny, a hidden pooka, in her path. The Grim Wanderer hadn’t foreseen that the creature would lead her to the veil nor that she would be permitted to cross it.

Yet, as daring and resilient as the girl with crimson eyes proved to be, she returned time and again, a wicked smile on her face he knew so well. At that thought, he realized it was already dawn. He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket, watching as the magic ink shifted the number from five to four.

Four days.

He observed her disheveled hazelnut hair and torn dress, her face unhooded here in the forest. The Grim Wanderer marveled at how the crimson-eyed girl gracefully navigated the surrounding perils, her movements light and almost ethereal, as if dancing with the trees and snow. He was amused by the irony of it all. He was more than familiar with the Otherworld but barred from returning, at least for now. However, he wouldn’t be coming alone next time.

The Grim Wanderer smiled at that thought.

Silently, he descended from his perch, his movements as stealthy as the night’s shadows. This ritual had spanned decades, even centuries. He watched over her from the penumbra, ensuring she was always where she needed to be—or perhaps in the right place at the wrong time.

He swore to keep his distance this time, yet he yearned to be closer, captivated by her eyes, which he had seen in countless lives. Regardless of their color, they were always a kaleidoscope of starlight and dreams, now with a hint of glittering bloody roses.

Before the Grim Wanderer could continue his usual vigil on her, a cat sith appeared.

“By Nemera’s wings! I thought you were lost,”

he exclaimed as Shadoweater approached.

Bound to him by a blood pact after being ensnared by magical traps, the creature served as his familiar. It displayed its sharp fangs before dropping a bottle into the snow and dissipating into thin air, reemerging as an inked silhouette on his arm.

He secured the bottle under his cloak and quickened his steps to follow the girl’s path.

“Are you certain about this?”

the sentinel tree’s deep, ancient voice boomed.

“Why? Have you grown fond of her?”

the Grim Wanderer retorted sharply, his tone as cold as frost. “Spare me the conversation. Trees like you should remain silent, not play protectors.”

The tree sighed. “You remain as blind and naive as ever, Grim Wanderer… or whatever you call yourself now. You’re walking right into the wolf’s jaws.”

Undeterred, he strode toward the city, the sentinel’s warning dismissed. Deep down, he knew he was the wolf, orchestrating a resurgence for an old and clever fox, a game she might despise. Still, the girl needed to master it to finally win, regardless if it cost him everything.

Although she is everything to me…