Esme presses her palm flat against the central rune, closing her eyes. Shadow energy, black as void, spills from her fingertips, trying to coax the dragon magic back to life. I watch curiously, wondering if maybe, just maybe, that might work. She’s practically half-dragon now.
Nothing happens. The runes remain stubbornly dim.
“Are you feeling anything?” I murmur, crouching beside her.
“It’s not responding,” she replies, pushing harder. Sweat beads on her brow.
I exhale. “Okay, well, at least I’ve a backup plan.” I close my eyes and attempt to summon my team—but before I even complete the process, the air shimmers. Two figures, translucent and flickering like faulty projections, materialize before us.
“Ezekiel,” Esme breathes.
Angus stands beside him, his spectral beard wavering. They look weak, their forms barely holding together… but at least they’re here. Even with the darkblood-magic wards removed, I’m not hosting a great connection down here, apparently.
“The Salt Flats gate is sealed,” Ezekiel announces, his voice echoing inside our minds. “The king is powering down every known dragon-magic-powered access point. To be expected, while Draethys prepares for war. You cannot break it from here.”
My pulse quickens, and I can’t help wondering if Chad—thatbastard—managed to get out through here before it was closed… maybe using his hidden demon skills. We’ve heard no rumors of any darkblood being captured, so it’s a possibility. He definitely wouldn’t have hung around unless caught.
“So how do we get out?” I demand.
“There is another way,” Angus projects, his form flickering violently. “Old magic. A Mirror Jump. But you’ll have to be fast. Draethys works to reinstate the darkblood magic wards too.”
A Mirror Jump? The term surfaces from some dusty corner of my memory, a footnote in a grimoire I read years ago. Probably listed under ‘Desperate and Unreliable Methods of Travel.’
“It is risky,” Ezekiel confirms, as if reading my thoughts. “But it is your only path.” The spirits seem insistent, their energy focused on conveying this one point: Getting the Salt Flats route open is a non-starter. This is it.
Ezekiel continues, “Do you remember the words?Through silvered glass and shadowed depths, where twin worlds touch and breath is kept.”The words sound ancient and resonant in his voice, as though they’re layered with the echoes of every witch who spoke them. “Let reflection be the way, the self become the key?—”
“Wait, where will it take us?” Esme asks, but before she can finish, their forms dissolve into shimmering particles. The connection breaks. They’re gone.
“Fantastic,” she mutters.
“Hope that doesn’t mean our magic has gone already.” I flex my fingers to test the feeling, and don’t sense anything different… yet.
Esme is already scanning the cave walls. Her eyes land on a large, smooth sheet of black obsidian embedded in the rock, its surface polished to a decent reflection. “Okay. We need to try this. Now.”
“I don’t know if I remember the rest of the words,” I say, my stomach twisting into knots. “Nor the specifics of the Mirror Jump. It’s ancient. Unstable. Don’t think we can control the destination…”
“We’ve no choice,” Esme says, clipped, already walking toward the obsidian. She holds out her hand. “Do your best, and we do it together.”
I take her hand. Her skin is cold, but her grip is firm. We stand before the obsidian, our reflections staring back—two pale,grim-faced witches a long way from home. Out of options and out of time, I begin a shaky incantation. Ezekiel’s starter words are just enough to trigger my memory of the rest… or what I hope is the rest.
I only get confirmation when the surface of the obsidian ripples, losing its solidity. It shifts from a reflection to a shimmering, inky black portal, swirling like oil on water. It looks like the last thing from inviting. It looks like it wants to swallow us whole.
“On three,” Esme says. “One… two…”
We don’t wait for three. We leap.
For a terrifying, disorienting second, I’m nowhere. Just cold, silent, crushing blackness. Then we’re spat out onto something hard, wet, and profoundly foul-smelling.
I land on my hands and knees with a splash, a wave of nausea rolling over me. The air is thick with the stench of human waste and chemical decay. A single, bare bulb flickers overhead, illuminating a circular brick tunnel. Water drips from rusted pipes, echoing in the oppressive dark.
There’s no magic here. None. Just grime, concrete, and the distant rumble of what sounds like… traffic.
Esme pushes herself up, wiping a smear of something unidentifiable from her cheek. “What in the hells…?”
We’re standing ankle-deep in murky, sluggish water. The curved walls are slick with slime. We’re in a sewer. And judging by the complete absence of any magical hum, it’s the sewer of an entirely human city. A normie city.
“Well,” I say, my voice echoing in the tunnel. “This is a significant downgrade.”
