Your eyes drift down from the portrait of the late Avalon Rivers. This edition of the Cardinal Chronicle feels especially sombre, and no one would blame you if you wanted to find a happier story after reading about the suspicious death of the beloved Cardinal Hill resident. You sigh, but the breath catches in your throat as your gaze lands on the chilling headline: “We know what you’re hiding.” The words alone are enough to make your skin crawl, but it's the distorted portrait of you that accompanies them - grotesque and unsettling - that truly sends a shiver through your spine. You blink, and the article vanishes, replaced by something entirely different. Another blink, and there’s no sign of it at all - no trace of your likeness, no mention of your name. It wasn’t real, you tell yourself, but the wave of paranoia that follows sticks with you, gnawing at your thoughts the rest of the day, as if someone - or something - were watching.
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Your fingers host a small, slightly crumpled page between them, the page what you assume to be a completely unassuming flier like so many that you've encountered before. You take a second before your eyes flicker down towards its contents, and you need an additional second before you're able to properly process what you're seeing. Your heart drops and your stomach twists itself in knots. The bright page contains an illustration that clearly depicts none other than yourself, posed as if you've never been prouder. The words 'now they know!' are written in large, fun, bubbly letters besides the drawing, and underneath it in smaller - yet still perfectly legible - writing contains a truth that you never wished to have written in any words, any where. Your greatest secret is detailed right there on the colourful flier. You look around. Who else has seen this? How many copies are there? Your hands shake, and you look back to the flier. The page has completely transformed. A clown bearing no resemblance to your own face stares back at you from the page, and rather than anything personal, the page only reads event details for an upcoming carnival and fun fair.
A sound—faint, but distinct—cut through the storm’s wail, like a whisper meant just for her...
The cold was relentless, pressing in from all sides no matter how tightly Addie wrapped herself in a cocoon of blankets. She hated winter; she had always hated winter. After years spent chasing the sun—from the warmth of Thailand’s sticky air to the dry heat of the Australian outback to the golden glow of a Brazilian afternoon—this kind of cold felt unbearable. It sank deep into her bones, made her limbs heavy, made her miss the places she couldn’t go back to. The snowstorm outside howled against the walls of her rented motel room; and the brunette tried to sink deeper into what little warmth she could find, letting exhaustion pull her under. She had spent enough nights in unfamiliar places to know the difference between the wind and something else... Or so she thought.
A sound—faint, but distinct—cut through the storm’s wail, like a whisper meant just for her.
Her breath hitched as she pushed the blankets aside, the cold biting at her skin the moment she left their meager warmth. Moving carefully, she swung her legs over the bed, bare feet meeting the icy floor with a sharp sting. The room was dim, lit only by the weak glow of the streetlamp filtering through the gap in the heavy curtains. She strained her ears, listening... waiting... But the noise didn’t come again. Still, that feeling lingered, that prickling awareness creeping up her spine, the undeniable sense that she was not alone.
"I don’t know what the fuck you are; but you’re messing with the wrong bitch." She snarled, fingers curling as she summoned a small pulse of energy into her palm, its faint glow cutting through the looming darkness.
Grey eyes flicked to the shadows in the corner by the entry, the edges of the bathroom door cutting through the dim light. The pulse of energy in her hand shimmered, steady; but Addie's heart hammered as she felt it, something out of place, something—or someone—waiting.
Her breath hitched as she stepped forward, the cold creeping along her skin. Each movement was cautious, every instinct urging her to stay put; but she ignored it, pushing the unease down with every step forth. Her gaze scanned the narrow space before her, the area where the room split off into the bathroom and the entryway.
And then—there he was.
At the far end of the narrow room, just beyond the corner where the bathroom door stood, he stood in the shadows, unmoving. Too still. Too quiet. She didn’t need to see his face to know it was him.
Marcos.
Addie blinked, heart thumping in her chest; but when her eyes opened again, he was gone. The corner where he had stood was empty, shadows stretching longer than they had before. She took a step back, breath tight in her throat, and blinked again. This time, a woman appeared—her face unfamiliar; but her laugh rang out, high and too loud, jarring in the stillness of the room. The brunette's heart skipped; and just as quickly as the unfamiliar woman had appeared, she was gone, vanishing into the dark like smoke. Addie's breath caught; and with another quick blink, she scanned the space one final time... Nothing. The room was empty. The pulse of energy she had summoned had long since dissipated, the warmth of it fading as if it had never been—just like the figures themselves.
...a subtle shift in the shadows halted her in her tracks—a silent harbinger of what was to come...
Astrid had spent the evening transforming Lilla Bakstugan into a beacon of refuge. The soft glow of flickering candles and the comforting aroma of warm coffee—brewed with the aid of Fyrndr, an old galdur from Mora—invited weary souls to find solace from the raging snowstorms. Every table and corner of the bakery was a small, humble haven against the bitter cold outside, a quiet testament to the Swede's enduring kindness and hidden power. The air was filled with hushed whispers and the gentle murmur of gratitude, mingling with the lingering scents of freshly baked kanelbullar from earlier that day. Tonight, as the wind howled relentlessly in a way reminiscent of a Dalecarlian winter's gale, Astrid's heart swelled with a quiet determination to care for those in need.
After ensuring that every soul in the bakery was embraced by warmth and hope, she quietly ascended the creaking staircase to her modest apartment above. The familiar comfort of her private space usually provided a welcome reprieve; yet tonight, an unsettling stillness awaited her. The air seemed to whisper of bygone memories, carrying a chill that contrasted sharply with the soft glow of candlelight below. As she reached for a stack of extra blankets to offer those seeking refuge below, a subtle shift in the shadows halted her in her tracks—a silent harbinger of what was to come.
In that silent, liminal moment, the shifting shadows coalesced into a spectral presence. There, emerging from the gloom, stood the unmistakable figure of her: the witch. She lingered just beyond the reach of the dim light, her form wavering like a mirage—neither fully there nor entirely absent. In her arms, nestled against the folds of darkness, was a child... Small, fragile, and untouched by time.
Soren.
Astrid’s breath caught in her throat as recognition struck with a force more brutal than the storm outside. Though the witch’s face remained obscured, the child’s did not; and that was enough to unravel the young woman.
A hollow, aching numbness spread through her limbs, rooting her in place even as every instinct screamed for her to move—to reach for him, to rip him from the arms of the woman who had stolen him away. But she couldn’t. Her body refused to obey, paralyzed beneath the crushing weight of disbelief and longing. His wide, unknowing eyes held no fear, no awareness of the torment that festered in the brunette's chest. He was exactly as he had been the last time she had held him—too small, too young, too innocent to understand the grief carved into her soul.
Then, just as suddenly as she had appeared, the witch was gone; and with her, went the child.
The shadows where they had stood remained undisturbed, as if the vision had never been. But Astrid knew better. The air still hummed with something unnatural, something cruel; and before she could even draw breath, the silence was shattered by a laugh—sharp, hollow, and cruel. The Swede's gaze snapped to the corner of the room, where another figure now stood. The woman bore the witch’s likeness; but something was... off... Her features blurred at the edges, shifting like mist, her grin too wide, too knowing... The sound of her laughter scraped against Astrid’s frayed nerves, slicing through the fragile remnants of hope that still clung to her.
Then, in the span of a blink, she too was gone, leaving behind only the suffocating weight of absence and the crushing ache of loss reborn.
The cold presses in, relentless, as you sit huddled beneath layers of blankets, trying to hold onto whatever warmth you can find in spite of the snowstorm outside. The day has been long, and your thoughts drift aimlessly, fatigue pulling you deeper into the haze of exhaustion. But then, a movement in the corner of the room snaps you back to reality. In the dim light, you catch the faintest silhouette, a silhouette that only takes mere seconds for you to recognize. The last person you ever wanted to see is right in front of you, a figure from your past whose presence was always felt but never welcomed. They stand there, just watching, their face hidden in the shadows, but you know that it's them, it's as if you can feel it in your bones. A chill runs deeper through you than the cold ever could. Before you can move, the figure vanishes with a blink, replaced by an unfamiliar woman, her laugh piercing the stillness of the room, too loud, too jarring, before she too disappears in the blink of an eye. You blink again, desperately scanning the room, but there’s nothing, no one. It felt too real to have been a trick of the mind, looked too real, and yet, nothing remains to prove that it wasn’t.
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It was a nice enough morning, in a nice enough-seeming day. Dolores stepped out of the little townhouse, already changed into her scrubs, hair combed and tied into her usual braid. Inside, her mother was preparing coffee and toasting bread; that was her part to do every morning breakfast, while Dolores had to take care of the newspaper and the eggs, in that order. It was a good routine, one that they had become used to over the years. It was nice knowing there was a sense of order to their lives, as simple as it could be.
There was nothing strange when she picked up the newspaper and a little pile of mail. There was nothing strange, either, when she tossed the bunch on the old worn wooden table, while her mother left the basket with toast beside it. Just as Dolores scrambled the eggs just the way she liked it, creamy and soft, Luisa picked up the newspaper and adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose. The wax seal of an envelope called her attention away from the front page. Dolores glanced over her shoulder at her mother, but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary just yet.
Luisa realized one of the letters was addressed to her. She frowned slightly, used her butter knife to open it, and unfolded the paper inside. Dolores was serving the eggs on the dishes when she heard her mother gasping.
"What happened?" she asked as she brought breakfast to the table and sat across her mother. "Any bad news?"
With her hand covering her mouth, Luisa looked up and stared at her daughter with wide open eyes. Dolores felt a chill running down her spine. Her mother was a steel-nerved woman, as one became after years of working at a hospital. Nothing fazed her. What could this little letter have written in it to get such a reaction out of her?
"Mamá—what is it?"
Luisa shook her head, now avoiding looking at her. Dolores knew then that, whatever it was, her mother would not share it with her. She leaned forward and tried to snatch the letter from her hand, but Luisa was quicker—she folded it into a tiny square and shoved it under her bra. Dolores huffed. Only then she noticed there was another letter on the table, still unopened, with her own name written on it.
Just as Luisa tried to grab it before Dolores could, the daughter proved to be as fast as her mother. Her chair was pushed back with a loud screech, Dolores stood up with the letter in hand, and ran to the living room.
"María Dolores!" Luisa cried, standing up as well. "Dame esa carta!"
The young nurse ripped it open. She pulled the letter out and let the envelope fall gently on the old carpet. Her eyes rushed to read the words, hurried to get the gist of it as her mother's steps came closer and closer.
"Dolores!"
The air was knocked out of her. It was impossible. Who could know about that? Who could have seen her? It had been so long ago. She was still a kid, back then. What else could she have done? There had been no other option, she couldn't help it. Dolored had had no choice.
Her mother appeared behind her, arm outstretched, hand like a claw, but Dolores moved aside, gripping the letter in her own hands, and rushed to the staircase. Her mother could not read it. Apart from the fact that it was simply private matters, her anger at her daughter keeping secrets from her would be immediately overshadowed by the consequences of what the letter revealed. She needed to keep it hidden, or even better, just destroy it...
Luisa grabbed a corner of the letter in a moment of distraction. Dolores let out a short shriek. Mother and daughter each pulled at the paper, gritting their teeth and stumbling to move away from the other. It didn't take long before the letter ripped right in the middle. Each were left with a piece in their hand. They stared at it, then at the other, in a mirror gesture. Before her mother could react, Dolores stomped towards her and clutched the one half Luisa held, went straight to the kitchen and, once the stove was turned on, she set both pieces of paper on fire. She stared at the letter turning black, shriveling, reduced to ashes. Luisa walked up to her, and Dolores shut her eyes, expecting a blow on the back of her head and a furious admonishment. She focused on the hissing of the stove and the soft crackling of the paper burning. When she opened her eyes again, however, her mother was burning her own letter, too.
Soon there was nothing left of them but ashes. Dolores and Luisa exchanged a short glare.
If one was so willing to keep secrets, the other would follow suit.
A simple word. A universal title. Yet, it felt foreign as it stared back at her, written in the familiar runes she hadn’t seen in years...
Astrid’s morning began like any other. The yeasty comfort of rising dough mingling with the faint traces of cinnamon and cardamom already filled the air, drifting from the kitchen of Lilla Bakstugan. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, morning coffee warming her hands as she shuffled toward the front door to flip the sign to ‘Öppet.’ But as her hand reached for the latch, something stopped her.
There, just inside the bakery, was an envelope...
It shouldn’t have been possible. The front door had no mail slot; and the snug seal beneath the threshold left no room for even a scrap of paper to slip through. Yet, there it was—impossible, yet undeniably real.
She froze, heart skipping a beat as the coffee mug slipped from her grasp, crashing to the floor with a loud, shattering splash. The liquid spilled in a wide arc, staining the wood as shards of glass scattered around her feet. She barely noticed as she bent down to pick up the envelope, fingers trembling. The paper felt thick, cold, as though it had been left outside in the frost for hours.
There was only one marking on the envelope: Her name—except it wasn’t her name, not in any way the locals of Cardinal Hill would recognize...
ᛗᛟᚦᛁᚱ
A simple word. A universal title. Yet, it felt foreign as it stared back at her, written in the familiar runes she hadn’t seen in years.
Her fingers tightened around the envelope, breath catching in her throat. Who else here would know this ancient language? The chill that crept up her spine felt almost familiar, a shadow of the nightmare she’d had the night before.
In her sleep, she'd seen a figure moving through the dark streets outside, faceless and cloaked in shadow, lingering near the bakery's entrance. She had told herself it was just a dream—exhaustion, anxiety, her mind simply playing tricks—but now, standing in the quiet of her shoppe with the envelope in hand, her pulse quickened.
She glanced out the window; but the street was eerily empty for this time of morning. The flickering streetlamps cast long shadows, illuminating the silent, deserted road. No figure in sight. The unsettling sense of being watched lingered, though, like a weight pressing heavy on her chest.
With trembling hands, she turned the envelope over and broke the plain wax seal. As it parted, a single folded sheet of parchment slipped free. There were no formalities, no greeting—only a message written in a flowing, almost otherworldly hand:
Pojken är där han hör hemma. Du var en dåre som trodde att du kunde behålla honom. Han var aldrig din…
Her vision blurred as the words sank in, each one driving a nail of icy dread into her chest. Her grip on the letter faltered; and the page slipped from her fingers, fluttering to the floor where it landed amongst the spilt coffee. She sank to her knees, legs no longer able to hold her steady, gaze remaining fixed on the letter—unblinking as if she could somehow deny the truth it held.
Who could have written this? Who could have possibly known? The deal she had made, the price she had paid—all buried deep beneath layers of guilt and silence... Now, it felt as if someone had unearthed those secrets and dragged them—raw and bloodied—to the surface.
Someone knew.
She didn’t know who—or what. But one thing was clear: She wasn’t safe anymore.
"Fuck, it's cold," Boris muttered to themself, teeth chattering. For once they were exhausted, and with a splitting headache to boot. If only they managed to make it to the bathroom cabinet to pick up some aspirin, and resist the urge to plop down on their nice warm bed... But they saw it unlikely.
There were usually others standing guard outside at the trailer park after it got dark, neighbors sharing a smoke or couples making out sloppily: the lack of either group, sheltered by the shadows among the nooks between each house, told them just how late it was. Boris groaned and pressed their hand against the side of their throbbing head. The little welcoming light just by the side of the door of their home seemed almost blinding, after walking the past few minutes in almost full darkness. Of course, they weren't afraid of the dark—never been. Still, they were glad not to have lost their way in the night.
The stupidly loud keys almost slipped from their trembling fingers. There was a scratching noise, they realized, just barely audible under the whistling and whipping of the freezing wind. A frantic scratching on plastic, a familiar enough sound. As soon as Boris opened the door—Ralph jumped out of the dark, whining and panting.
"Hey, hey—what's wrong?"
Ralph replied with a howl, and dashed away.
"Ralph!"
They ran after him; luckily, he didn't go far. He barked one, two, three times, towards the road. Boris held their breath, but Ralph didn't move any further. All of a sudden he was silent, still, vigilant, uncharacteristically so. Something was wrong.
Boris looked up at the woods, not far from where they were standing. The wind rustled the leaves and swept the treetops, in a slow, haunting dance. Ralph's low, quiet growling reached their reddened ears. They were sweating. They were being watched.
As slowly as they could, Boris lowered their eyes to stare straight ahead. About twenty feet or so ahead, on the road, under a glowing streetlight, was a dark figure, covered in layers of clothing, completely unrecognizable. Boris blinked. They kept shivering, but they weren't so sure it was just the cold anymore.
The figure was moving. It seemed to glide over the dead ground, moving just as Boris imagined a ghost would. 'Hello?', they almost dared to say, but their voice got stuck in the back of their throat, and didn't come out at all. Ralph had gone silent as well. There was nothing but the whistle of the wind, and the rush of hot blood through their head...
Many years ago, when Boris had had their first and, so far, only eerie encounter with witch magic, they had found themself unable to move, to speak, or to react in any way. It was as if lightning had struck them, electricity coursing all through their nervous system, exciting and petrifying them at the same time. Once the threat was gone and little Boris could breathe again, overcome with frustration, they swore to themself they would not freeze up like that ever again, in the chance of coming across another sinister discovery.
And here it was. And Boris could not do anything but tremble and stare.
Ralph whined. That managed to bring Boris back to reality. They slowly moved backwards a couple steps, but didn't go back to their trailer until the figure was out of sight, far enough to sink back into the shadows. Only then Boris hurried to get back inside—waited impatiently for Ralph to come in too—and shut and locked the door.
━━━━━━━━━━━━
𝟷𝟸/𝟶𝟺/𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟶 — 𝟽:𝟶𝟾𝙰𝙼
As their parents yawned themselves back into consciousness and started their daily routine, Boris tied their mother's blue fleece robe a bit tighter around themself, scratched behind the ears of a snoring Ralph, swung open the door and went to pick up the mail with a sigh and a groan. They were still ashamed of having been so cowardly. Cigarette dangling between their lips, they shuffled the junk mail and bills to pay, their mind racing with theories regarding last night's sighting, wondering if it might have been just a dream...
They found three letters, each of them addressed to a different member of the family. They turned each one around: no return address, no postage stamp, no nothing. Only thing was they were all sealed with wax. Boris frowned, and glanced over their shoulder. There was the short-lived temptation to open their parents' letters, but it passed as quickly as it came. Instead, Boris took a couple more steps away from the trailer, where no prying eyes could see what they were reading without them noticing first.
The white envelope was ripped open, the seal broken. Still somewhat groggy, Boris blew a cloud of smoke before their eyes could focus on the handwritten letter. They read it quickly—and then read it again. 'You are right'. Their teeth grit and grind. 'You have always known'. They gulped bitter spit. It was obvious whoever left these letters there would not have stayed behind, but in any case Boris still looked around, as if the culprit was somehow peeking from behind a trashcan or something. Was this a joke? Who would send this, who would know this? Some of their friends could have made an educated guess, but they hoped that none of them would be so much of an asshole to send them something like this.
Whoever it was, they knew them well. Whoever it was, they knew them better than Boris would like to be known.
"Shut the door, it's freezing out there!" their mother yelled, startling them.
Boris stuffed their letter inside the blue robe's pocket. Then they stared at the other two. Again, the temptation to commit federal crime. Their hand hovered over the flap of their father's envelope, but just as their fingers grazed the wax seal, they closed their hand in a fist and, instead, made a different choice. Boris ripped them up and threw the pieces to a nearby muddy puddle, and stomped on it with their father's old broken leather shoes they used as slippers. Their toes became cold and wet, but they barely noticed. What mattered was that soon the shreds of paper were reduced to mush.
"Boris—!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" they yelled, heading back to the trailer.
"Look at your feet, kid," their father said with a sigh. "You're trailing in mud—"
Boris shoved a hand into the robe's pocket, and the other one shut the door with a slam.
