#daezil

Touch the wish. Just reach out and touch it. They had done much worse to get here; it should be so easy–

         And the yet they couldn’t move just as surely as the woman beside them wasn’t making any moves either, eyeing them as much as Quinn couldn’t help eyeing her.

         Another witch. The steady hum of magic belied her, even if it was much nicer and somehow more familiar than the sound of the witch from the first round. An unasked question hung in the silence between them: Who’s going to go for it first? If I take a step, what would you do to stop me? They had only had a couple of moments to restring in the mindscape before they had ended up in this mundane touristy hell. The new G-string wasn’t even fully tuned and wasn’t likely to hold a consistent note anyway for a couple of play throughs. It was only a couple of steps across the room to the counter anyway–not nearly enough time for a good spell, even if their opponent looked even worse than they felt.

         Seconds ticked away. Eventually, the witch heaved a heavy sigh.

         “Look,” she said, and her voice was more kind than they would have expected from someone who made it this far into a demon tournament, “I’m tired. You certainly look like you’re tired. Let’s cut the crap and go for it at the same time so we can get this over with, okay?”

         Simple. On principle, they considered going along with an opponent on anything a shit idea, but…

         But their headache had never fully gone away from when they had smashed it against the mirror last round, and they were pretty sure that the room wasn’t supposed to be tilting…If the witch didn’t want to fight, that was fine with them. 

         They nodded, pretending that the motion didn’t make them want to throw up.

         Simple.

The witch made a count of three. They both lunged, but not towards the time wish.

         In the same moment that Quinn Foley swung the lute in an attempt to knock the witch sideways off of her feet, the witch brought up her cane and shoved the butt in front of their ankles to trip them. Quinn tumbled forwards, and the lute swung wildly and ended up clocking her between the shoulder blades. They both landed on the floor with a hard oof. The witch did some impressive swearing.

         …Okay, they realized, trying to push themself to their feet while the room spun around them, apparently neither of us is planning on playing fair.

Vertigo aside, Quinn still made it to their feet a little faster, only to almost trip again when they ducked to grab their lute and the cane (humming a pleasant and loud middle C) whacked their left ankle again. They bit their lip to bite back a yelp. Calm! Keep calm; it’s only a couple more steps.

They had staggered across forward again and were almost to the counter when they heard a soft whisper of words and hrrr of magic behind them before getting hit like a ton of bricks with some kind of stunning spell that knocked them (once again) off of their feet. The little momentum they had going this time carried them forward to bang their shoulder into the counter as they went down. So close! The time wish wobbled in place, rolling towards the opposite edge of the counter. The witch limped doggedly after it, barely a step away. 

         Their fingers pressed into the lute’s strings. Their feet scrambled to get them back standing. Start playing! Grab the wish! Do something!

The witch stumbled into the counter, grabbing the edge to keep herself steady as Quinn finally wobbled to their feet, head spinning. The wish tilted on the far end of the counter, swayed, and for a moment perched on the very edge, equally persuaded towards steadying or falling. In this moment the Quinn Foley and the witch, out of the primal instinct that is to catch a falling thing, forgot magic and forgot reason and leaned forward, arms outstretched to grab the time wish before it could roll out of reach.

         It became immediately apparent that this was the wrong move on Quinn’s part. The witch was taller than Quinn by several inches, giving her just enough added reach to stretch her hand forward that extra little bit. In that moment, time seemed to freeze, their vision shrinking down to the blinding sight of her fingers brushing the time wish, skin just barely meeting its smooth round surface but meeting it nonetheless. And in that instant they felt it–the unspeakable terror of someone suddenly without excuses, without meaning, without a way forward. It left a curious, empty feeling in spaces once too full. It felt numb, they thought. It felt like death.  

         It was a sound that brought them back to life.

         The sound was not a victory sound–no blaring trumpets or shouts of exaltation. Nor was it a song by any musical sense of the word.

         The sound was a pop. A pop as a second time wish appeared right next to the one that had just rolled off of the counter under the witch’s touch.

         The sound didn’t stop there, though the frozen way that Quinn and the witch stayed sprawled across the counter, staring in confusion and abject horror felt a lot like its own kind of silence. The little plips of time wishes popping into existence continued until there were five, twenty, seventy, too many of the glowing spheres to count, rolling across the floor only to bump into others as they appeared out of thin air. Plip, plip, plip. In time with the pounding in their head and the rushing of lungs that dared to breathe again.

         “Oh you have got to be kidding me,” the witch said under her breath. In the proximity of their still immobile states, Quinn heard it clearly, along with the sweet humming middle C that mingled with the magic clinging to both her and the cane. I know that sound. They realized, deep down underneath the relief and horror building inside them. They knew it like the brush of wind through summer leaves and the dancing of pixies in the woods behind the sanctuary, where once long ago they had heard its whispers and named it music.

         Faery magic, something stirred in Quinn Foley’s chest, and thankfully this time it was something kinder than guilt. How the hell did she learn fae magic?

This they pondered, racing heart and pounding head, as the number of time wishes grew and grew and grew until they filled the floor, brushing against their ankles, rising up to their waist, rising to fill the entire room and surround both contestants until they were drowning in the very object of their own desires.

         Just as Quinn began to wonder, rather detachedly at this point, when the multiplying would have to stop, the walls of the gift shop began to swell, groaning and stretching under pressure from the mass of its contents. Quinn wheezed as the spheres pressed against them, pushing up around their chest, their stomach, their face, and they clutched the lute desperately, as if it were an anchor.

And then, with a clamor and a creaking snap, the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of the room burst, falling away to reveal a limitless void of darkness and madness, lit up by hundreds upon hundreds of newly born time wishes that spread across the space like stars in the night sky.

         Simple, Quinn Foley thought, but by no means easy.

The fear of falling only lasted an instant as the floor disappeared and gave way to a vast nothingness. Strangely enough, Quinn did not fall away with the frame of the room they had stood in but instead found themself floating in mid-air, weightless.

         “No gravity,” the witch said next to them, seemingly to herself as she gazed around at the array of time wishes, “but obviously there’s still air–we’re breathing…”

         Air or no air, Quinn was quickly beginning to realize the problem with the ‘gravity free’ thing as they waved their arms around in an attempt to propel themself further away from their opponent and only managed to spin their body slightly to the right. ‘Touch the time wish,’ the demon said. They could only assume that the rule still stood, assholeish plot twist or no. How the hell are we supposed to do that if we can’t effing move? A sharp turn of their head to watch as a golden sphere floated by just out of reach sent their vision blurring slightly, and they concede that maybe it was time to admit that they might have a concussion. Gods, please tell me this can’t get any worse.

It got worse.

         That humming middle C of fae-touched magic spiked, building into a steady purr, like the sound of an engine. Quinn snapped their head around again (Ouch, ouch, ouch–no more sharp movements!)just in time to see the witch mount her cane as if it was a magic broom stick and go zooming forward, swerving wildly towards the nearest wish.

         …Oh, that’s just not fair. Quinn Foley was really starting to hate witches. They really, really were.

         A thing like panic began to pound through their veins–in their heart, in their head. Do something! I’ve made it this far, just…

         Instinctually they clutched the lute close, watching their opponent zoom further into the field of wishes. Music magic could do many a useful thing, but as of yet it could not make them fly and it could not give them wings to serve the purpose. At a loss and at the end of their mental rope, they did the only thing they could think of and grabbed the lute by the neck with both hands. They made some clumsy rowing motions as if the instrument were an oar. It felt like they moved a couple centimeters, but the action mostly just sent rotating in place, which was doing monstrous things to their head.

         The only noticeable change around them now that their opponent had sped off towards almost certain victory was that their eyes slowly began to adjust to the darkness. The stabs of violent colors bleeding from rifts that cut through the mostly empty dimension offered little illumination. The golden orbs of countless fake time wishes did a little bit of a better job, meaning that as their vision settled they could now see shapes moving in the darkness, some gently floating and spinning like items cast aside in a stormy sea. Others…others moved more slowly, large and shapeless forms creeping deliberately at the edges of their vision.

         They tried again with the lute, aware of unblinking eyes staring from the dimensional cracks, watching, watching, watching as they struggled. Flailing bought them a couple more centimeters. It lost them their breath and what little calm had managed to survive thus far. In the distance there was a soft whump from the direction the witch had gone. They wondered what had caused it–they didn’t want to know what had caused it. They didn’t know what they wanted. They swung the lute again. Swung and swung, putting all their strength behind it but getting nowhere closer to the goal in front of them. Damn Alcor and his stupid buttwings too! How was this even supposed to be possible?

         It was probably by pure coincidence that a wish happened to float just near enough that if they stretched their fingers they could reach it. The demon’s instructions (touch the wish, touch the wish) were so urgently playing in the forefront of their mind that it didn’t occur to them until too late that touching a fake wish might have its own consequences.

         Their fingers brushed the sphere, warm to the touch and vibrating with something other than magic. Instantly and much to their shock, it popped under their hand, releasing an outward burst of energy that sent Quinn spiraling backwards into the nothingness around them, cartwheeling through space. With nothing to stop their motion it took ridiculously long before they finally slowed to a halt, and even longer before their vision stopped wobbling and their head stopped throbbing. Had standing been at all necessary they probably would have been down for the count. As it was, they were so nauseas from all the spinning (and possibly from concussion as well) that they bent over and retched…only to find that instead of any sort of gross stomach contents they coughed up a stream of rainbows instead.

         What the actual hell…They managed to think once they’d recovered enough for thought. Maybe the fake wish had given them some sort of disgustingly cute disease. In the distance they heard the humming of the witch’s magic again, flying in uneven patterns away from them. They wondered idly why it was that every time there was a witch around bright colors were somehow involved.

         Since there weren’t any fixed landmarks in the field of time wishes, Quinn had no way of knowing how far they had been thrown and still no way of moving effectively. The wishes were fewer and farther between here, so maybe they were near the edge of the field, if there were any sort of edge at all. There seemed to be more miscellaneous objects floating around in the void here. A blue baseball cap was lighting a couple of meters out of reach. A little closer, a couple of pages fluttered without any wind, covered in elaborate drawings and text that they couldn’t make out. Over to their left it looked like there might have been an eight ball cane drifting around, this one without a witch attached, and off in the distance it looked like–

         Something hard and metal bonked their head and Quinn bit off a curse. Clutching the lute in one hand, they instinctively reached up and snatched the offending item out of the air with the other before it could get away. Their fingers closed around a cool metal handle that fit easily in their grip, and when their eyes focused on the item their dead, tired expression turned to one of utter disbelief.

         This is a…grappling hook gun? How the hell would something like that have gotten here?

         As Quinn Foley stared at the item in their hands, the hopeless feeling dragging their limbs seemed to drag a little less, as a clear, calm, inspiration struck them. A smirk curled their lips. Their hand cocked the new instrument experimentally.

         I’ve got a grappling hook.

They had a chance.

         A grappling hook wouldn’t propel them, but it could certainly pull them, if it had something to latch on to. And the field in front of them was full of things. Lute firmly grasped in one hand and grappling hook gun in the other, Quinn aimed at the nearest time wish, counted their lucky stars, and shot, holding on for dear life.

         The kick from shooting off the gun jolted them backwards a couple of centimeters, but otherwise they didn’t move. The hook missed the wish on the first shot. They retracted it and tried again. Another miss, but closer this time. The third shot barely caught, but it caught nonetheless, and suddenly Quinn was being moved again, this time by their own volition.

         The time wishes weren’t fixed in their locations, as had been apparent by the way they seemed to float aimlessly through space. Because of this, there was nothing to anchor Quinn as the grappling hook pulled them towards the wish, and as it was they were not so much pulled towards the wish as both the wish and Quinn were pulled towards each other, yanked through space by the grappling hook until they met in the middle. The wish smacked into Quinn’s chest before they could even dare to hope it might be the right one. It wasn’t, obviously, because the moment contact was made, the thing burst, just like the first. Once again Quinn was sent spiraling.

         I think I want to die. It took longer for their head to stop reeling this time when they finally came to a halt. When they could focus again, they faintly heard the purring sounds of the witch’s flying cane off in the distance somewhere, so it looked like they’d been pushed closer to their opponent. Great.  At least they didn’t start puking rainbows again.   Something definitely felt off, though, and it took them a moment to realize that half of their field of vision was dark and there was a small pressure over their right eye. Concerned, they tucked the grappling hook between their feet and reached up with their free hand to feel at the cloth covering part of their face–an eyepatch. When the cloth was removed from their face without any problems, they breathed a sigh of relief…only to suck it back in again when they opened their eye only to find their vision still gone.

         Blind. The word pounded in their head. Their head pounded of its own accord. Blind, blind, I’m half-blind. It was hard to breath. Like someone had sucked the air from their lungs.

         Calm, calm. They told themself. You can still do this. You don’t need both eyes to win. Breathing came a little easier. Their head did not stop spinning.

         They were so caught up in their deliberately not panicking that they didn’t immediately notice how close they were to one of the rifts, with its staring eyes and shifting colors. They also didn’t notice the shadowy shapes moving among the free-floating objects, just on the edge of their now narrowed vision. They didn’t notice any of this until a cold feeling dragged their limbs, and the heavy, inescapable feeling of being watched stabbed through them like one of Zee’s knives.

         Is there something in here with us? It was not a good thought. In fact it was a very dangerous thought given how far they were already slipping from composure. The eyes from the void were staring at them. Staring, staring, staring. Unblinking and accusing like so many other eyes they’d seen before. The eyes were getting closer, closer, closer–they could feel themself moving towards the tear in space and time as if being pulled.

         Shit, shit, shit! Shakily they raised the gun in their right hand and tried to take aim at a wish. Their hand was trembling too much. They shot and missed. They reeled in again, and felt themself sinking closer towards those awful, awful eyes. They aimed again. Missed again, this time by an even wider margin because their vision was swimming. Their head was throbbing. Their eyes were stinging. Do something, do something, do something…!

Music floated to their ears. Curiously it wasn’t their own.

         The witch flew in from the right–their blind side, that’s why they didn’t see them before they heard them. Before they could properly flinch away, a hand grabbed them by the their jacket collar, and they were being dragged away from staring eyes, from bleeding color and despair by firm hands and a jerking cane.

         “Hold on!” the witch said as they lurched away. “I don’t have the best hang on this flying thing yet!”

         She…helped me? At this point the thought was just one of many baffling thoughts floating in their shaken mind.

         “Why?” One of the thoughts managed to escape their lips somehow, even though they hadn’t meant to make a sound.

         The cane slowed to a near stop, swerving to avoid plowing in to another sphere, and the witch tossed them a curious look over her shoulder.

         “Well, why not?” she said.

         Because I might be out of the picture otherwise. They thought. Because it would be so much easier if you’d just left me. Quinn didn’t say any of that, though. From the grimly determined look on the woman’s face, she knew these things as well as they did, which made it all the more curious that she had helped anyway. When they didn’t respond after a while, she sighed, shaking her head as if to shake away a troublesome thought. “You got a name?”

         Oh, why the hell not. They had told that Zee kid anyway. Maybe this person would actually remember it. “Quinn.”

         “Amelie,” the witch said. Then: “Well, Quinn, I hope there’re no hard feelings, but I’m going to drop you now.”

         Quinn barley had half a second to take that in before the hand holding them up let go.

         Shit. Their teeth dug into their lip angrily as they watched to only reliable form of transportation in the entire damn space zoom away, faery magic dancing in their ears like laughter. Never trust a witch!

         They watched through one eye as Amelie swerved to avoid most of the time wishes in her path. At first they thought that curious as well. Sure the time wishes were apparently a crapshoot, but they still had to somehow touch the real one if they wanted out of this crazy place. In order to touch the real time wish they were going to have to sort through the fake wishes as well, so avoiding them seemed counterintuitive.

         On the other hand, Quinn pondered as they watched the golden spheres rotate in the air (were they really doing that or was that just their vision still settling down?) while they themself were significantly hindered in their ability to touch time wishes, Amelie could easily touch any within reach. Amelie could afford to be selective and careful with her choosing. Quinn…Quinn was finding themself rather limited to the nearest spheres within grappling range, consequences be damned.

         Whenever we get out of here, I want to have words with the Dreambender. Probably a bad idea, given unlimited demonic power and all, but right now it was so much safer to be angry than to fall into panic again. Anger was productive. Anger bore schemes. And they could use a damn good scheme right now.

         What do I have to work with? They had a lute, a grappling hook, and their backpack. Nothing in the backpack would be very helpful so far as they could see, especially not with their hands already full. The hook they could move with, if clumsily. The lute was usually the most valuable item in their arsenal, but as it currently stood…

         Tucking the grappling hook between their feet again, they plucked at the new G-string. The string made a flat, muted sound, vibrating too loosely. They sighed, resting their forehead on the neck of the instrument. New strings take time to hold a tune. The new string simply wasn’t broken-in enough to hold a steady note yet. So, either I play without a G-string again or I don’t play at all.  Which meant Cacophony might once again be their only good option playing-wise–a thought that wasn’t exactly filling them with warm, fuzzy feelings. Singing was another option, though it wouldn’t have as powerful an effect as playing. The other thing they had to consider was…

         The problem is that the targeted person has to be able to hear the song for it to take effect, Quinn realized. At least for the songs that affect the mind, anyway. And the problem with having a flying opponent in an endlessly open space was that she had every ability to fly out of hearing range and they had no practical way to pursue her without breaking the song.

         So, no practical lute use, and nothing to keep Amelie within listening range and under the effects of most of their spells. That…really, really sucked. But that did leave one song left. One possibility that might be able to shake up their opponent. In fact it had already worked on one witch this night.

         They grabbed up the grappling hook again. For a moment they contemplated putting the lute back in its case, safe and easy to carry. Their fingers tightened around the instrument reflexively. It’s my only weapon. Well, the only one they had practice with, anyway–they didn’t count the grappling hook. It deflected Zee’s lightning; it might help against any spells from Amelie as well. And if their thoughts were turned to the fear they felt at the very thought of facing down an opponent with too-empty hands, well, no one need know that.

         They hooked a time wish on the second try this time. When they touched it, though instead of anything changing on their person the fake time wish changed from a sphere into an angry looking gnome that almost bit their hand off. They panicked and whacked the creature with the grappling hook gun, sending it flailing wildly into a cluster of brightly colored sweaters. The next shot they thought they had in one, but the wish floated to the side at the last moment, making them miss.

         It’s not my imagination, Quinn realized after two more such occurrences that resulted in bad pop songs playing out of nowhere and a large question mark appearing on their shirt, the time wishes are moving deliberately. Oh, it was slow, for the most part, but the deeper into the cluster of time wishes they made it the more they noticed. The time wishes were floating in fixed patterns. Some drifted up, some down, some to the sides and all around, but all of them were moving inwards, as if rotating around something. It should be illogical since there was no force of gravity present to drive the motion. But, well logic didn’t seem to be a common trend in these challenges.

         The time wishes look like little stars. So, what if they act like stars as well?

Their head was still pounding, but they noticed it a little less as another smile tugged at their lips. This was Alcor’s game, after all, and while Quinn might not be well versed in demonology as other forms of lore, even they knew that the guy had star motifs coming out his ass.

         When they could see Amelie as more than just a dot flitting around in the distance, they let themself stop and float in place. They couldn’t play their lute, true, but lute playing was not the only way to make music. And even with a tired throat, Conflagration was not a hard song to sing.

         Without an instrument to play they couldn’t create a harmony to focus the magic with. That was fine, because for once Quinn was in an open space–the perfect setting for a rain of fire. Right as Amelie grew to be about the size of an acorn in their field of vision, Quinn parted their lips–breathed in and out and in again. In the half second before that first sound left their lips, that familiar weight settled in their chest, heavy and accusing.

         She did save you. The particularly annoying place in their mind reminded them.

         They breathed in, breathed out again. Being nice was her choice. They gripped the lute neck and gun handle hard. Zee had been nice too. Look where that had gotten him.

         …Is it really worth it? All of this?

The nice thing about singing spells was that there were no fingers involved to freeze on strings, not hands to fumble and falter. One last time: a breath out, a breath in.

         There were no words this time–there was no need since they weren’t trying to focus the magic. It was just a simple, eight note tune, a little shaky at first, as voices were wont to be under direction of a shaken tongue. Only the first two notes wavered, though. The third came out strong and clear, a mezzo-soprano that sang louder without words and somehow rang with more purpose. Under the singing they heard it: the buzzing of a building magic, creeping into the air and shaking with anticipation of becoming.

         Five measures in, the first flame blazed to life.

         With no lyrics to designate one point to set alight, the magic that sat like a crouching cat burst to life, sparking and catching and condensing into balls of fire. Had gravity been a factor, the fireballs would have fallen towards the ground, causing a deadly rain that would catch and spread. As it was, there was no gravity in this place, nowhere for the flames to fall, so instead they flitted happily wherever they pleased, mingling with the star-like spheres around them.

         They heard Amelie’s stream of curses filling up the air even before they heard her magic this time. They ignored it. They sang on, letting more and more fire blossom to life. And if some of it bloomed a little too closely for comfort, well, they had their jacket, and the lute should be able to hold up against a little fire, even if the flames were born from magic.

         With their right field of vision out of use, once again they almost didn’t see Amelie come careening to a stop only meters away, clothes and hair singed, and a pissed off tilt to her eyebrows. She dismounted her cane, floating just within what most magicians would consider proper casting range. Shit on a stick. Their next note cracked dryly, making the flames leap and stutter, but they kept on, looking the witch in the eye as the melody fell from their tongue.

         “Are you insane?” Amelie shouted, cupping her hands over her mouth, presumably to be heard over the singing.

         No, I don’t think that one’s been added to the list yet, Quinn mused. A ball of fire sparked right next to Amelie’s foot. (Completely a coincidence. Amelie didn’t look amused.)

         “This place is dangerous enough without adding fire to the mix!” she shouted. That was true enough, they knew from experience–their sightless eye still a glaring hole in their vision and that gnome was still drifting around somewhere, glaring at them. Amelie obviously had seen her fair share of fake wish effects too: there was glitter falling off of her in a shower of sparkles, and they were too far away to tell for sure, but it looked like there were more fingers on her hands than there had been earlier.

         It didn’t matter, they told themself. As long as the flames were burning, their opponent was close to immobilized. Maybe they couldn’t sing forever, but Amelie couldn’t avoid the spreading fires forever either. If only they could just incapacitate her until they could think of a plan. If only they could just get rid of that damn cane. If, if, if…

         Apparently realizing that Quinn wasn’t going to be stopping to join in the discussion, Amelie raised her cane, moving it in a sweeping motion, through the air. That was odd; Quinn hadn’t seen anyone cast with such a wide motion before–

         Fire gathered around the tip of the cane like moths chasing a light, condensing all of the nearby flames into one massive blaze in front of the metal tip–was that a hammer at the end? Quinn kept singing, partly on instinct but mostly because they weren’t quite sure what they were seeing exactly. Over their own song they heard the buzzing of fire magic (louder, louder, so much louder than it was just a moment ago, how was that?) mingling with the steady middle C of Amelie’s magic.

         Amelie knocked back the end of her cane, as if shooting off a bullet. The fireball flew from the end, straight towards where Quinn was floating. The song dropped from Quinn’s lips in shock. Their hand pulled up the lute in front of them–instantaneous, instinctual after facing down multiple magics with nothing other than the instrument’s wooden frame for a shield. They heard the sound of too loud, too powerful magic in their ears–heard the vibrations of their fire spell ringing with the sounds of someone else’s song.

         They felt the impact like a griffin bowling them over. They heard the snap of strings and the crackling of wood as the amplified version of their own spell overpowered carefully placed enchantments. It echoed in their ears, more haunting than even Cacophony’s madness.

         No, no, no, they thought, flailing in the air to get a purchase on where they were, to make everything stop moving for a second, they just wanted everything to stop. The grappling hook dropped out of their hand, and they barely had the presence of mind to grab it between their legs so that it wouldn’t drift away as they cradled familiar wood in both hands, flipping it over to inspect the damage and telling themself that it wasn’t so bad–their lute had withstood lightning, it could withstand this too.

         They knew it was a lie even before they stared down at the charred wood in their hands. Most of the body was a splintered mess, just from the impact of the blow. The strings had all snapped and were hanging from the tuning keys; the sudden release of tension had sent them lashing across their hand, leaving blood dripping off their fingertips. They barely noticed. As they held the instrument close to their chest–five years of experimentation, practice, and love worn into every surface–the remaining wood split and crumbled, leaving all but the neck to break free and drift into space. Between the loss of vision in one eye and the wetness setting the other half of their vision swimming, they barley saw.

         It’s not real. They told themself. It echoed in time with the throbbing of their head. Not real, not real, not real. They had never felt so eager to wake from a dream before. Never so torn between wanting two things at once. This is all in the mindscape. Breathe, just breathe.

         The fire had all died down by the time they looked up again. In the air there hung a heavy silence. It was not the comfortable sort of silence that might have come after the ending of a song. It was not even a stunned silence that might be expected after a blow to one’s heart.

         No, the silence left in the wake of this destruction was a loud silence, one that screamed of a harsh reality and choked Quinn Foley’s lungs with every breath. It was a silence as audible as the humming of magic still floating in front of them, as audible as the lack of lute strings to play.

         This was not the silence that lies at the end of a storm, but one that builds in its wake.

         Amelie stared at Quinn, and Quinn stared at Amelie. Then, moving quicker than they might have thought possibly with limbs that felt frozen and a mind that was replaying the same two seconds over and over and over, Quinn snatched up the grappling hook again. They shot before they aimed properly, and the hooks missed both the witch and her cane. It gave Amelie enough time to hop back on her cane to speed off again, this time with no flames impeding her progress. And in the hollow place where there once was guilt and there once was doubt Quinn Foley knew that if that were to happen–that if they didn’t do something right now to force themself forwards again, then they were going to lose, and that all of this was going to have been for absolutely nothing.

         They readied to fire again, but they didn’t have to, as it turned out. They would never be sure exactly why Amelie decided to fly towards them rather than away. The best they could guess was that she had reasoned that they would be more reluctant to shoot at her if she shortened the distance between them, increasingly the likelihood of self-injury. As it was, Quinn didn’t have a chance to reload and shoot before Amelie came soaring directly overhead. On reflex born out of climbing trees and catching clumsy fledglings who thought they could fly, Quinn’s right hand dropped the useless neck of their lute and shot up to grab the back of the cane before it could shoot away.

         There was a glaring problem with this course of action. This was the unavoidable fact that they were now holding on for dear life while shooting through the dark field of fake time wishes, jerking at every turn as Amelie tried to dislodge them.

         “Get off, get off!” She shouted into the air whipping around them both as Quinn struggled to not let go. A time wish zoomed by below, and they pulled up their feet to avoid hitting it. “I can barely fly this thing as it is!”

         “No!” Quinn shouted back stubbornly. They sounded like a petulant child but they couldn’t quite bring themself to care just now. They were still blinking past tears, and wetness was lingering on their cheeks. They didn’t even bother telling themself it was from the air whipping their face. “Make me!”

         “We don’t have to fight this round,” there was something a little pleading in Amelie’s voice.

         “So don’t, then,” they said, letting the snarkiness that fell from their tongue cover the pain that wanted to come seeping out instead. “Fine with me!”

         Amelie sounded like she was about to say something, but another time wish floated into their path at the last moment and she swerved sharply to avoid it. Quinn gritted their teeth and gripped the cane harder, head throbbing and spinning almost enough to distract them from how horrible everything else was currently. Once their vision came properly into focus again, they watched the golden spheres floating around them, moving noticeably quicker than most they had seen. They were deeper into the wish field than they had been before, and it seemed like everything–the wishes, the random objects, everything floating around seemed to be floating just a little bit faster. And just like on the outer edges everything seemed to be moved around something. Orbiting around a central point. Like stars in a galaxy.

         “Turn left!” They shouted without thinking, right as the cane was already turning to do just that.  “Towards the–“

         “The center,” Amelie nodded. “Yeah, I noticed too.”

         The problem, though, was getting there.

         The closer to the center of the wish field they flew, the more time wishes there were hanging around, which made it much harder to dodge. It didn’t help that, just like everything else in this damn tournament, the space they traveled through didn’t make much sense. In the outer parts of the field, even with only the grappling hook Quinn could zoom past multiple spheres and travel a significant distance in only a handful of seconds as long as they had the right propulsion. Here, in over a minute it felt like they barely moved forward at all.

         Between getting whipped around like a flag in the wind and not thinking about the hole in their chest, they didn’t have much time to ponder too deeply. Just find a way to get to the real time wish. Find a way to get the witch away from her cane. Calm, calm–I can still do this! Their shaking hands were not so sure.

         They had finally started gaining a bit of ground (space? void?) and Amelie seemed to be focusing less on shaking them and more on navigating when a time wish floated into their path and Quinn didn’t pull their foot up fast enough to avoid kicking it.

         Shit, they barely had time to think before there was the familiar whump of a fake wish bursting. Except this time the thing didn’t just burst–it exploded.

         In the shocked moment of ‘what the hell’ that followed Quinn was barely aware of a couple of things: their hand being yanked from its hold on the cane, Amelie’s arm flailing out and hitting them in the face, and their back hitting something distinctly solid that stopped them from careening wildly into the unknown. When their vision finally stopped tilting for what felt like the hundredth time, it came to their attention that they were trapped in what appeared to be a giant bubble. Worse yet, they were trapped inside a giant bubble with a witch.

         Quinn stared through the clear, pink, and seemingly plastic material surrounding them. They looked at Amelie. Amelie looked at them. They leaned their head back against the plastic and groaned.

         “Great,” Amelie said, rapping her cane against the plastic. Her cane let out a low trill with every tap. “Fantastic. Is this…is this a giant hamster ball?”

         Quinn glanced up and spotted a circular hatch in the plastic, exactly like the type you would see on a hamster ball. They decided it wasn’t worth much questioning.

         “You’re taller,” Quinn pointed out. Ignoring Amelie wasn’t going to get them out of here. Whipping out the grappling hook and shooting her with it wasn’t going to solve anything either, even if they really wanted to. “Think you can reach it?”

         It took a bit of maneuvering, but Amelie was able to poke at the hatch with her cane. The cane made a few more low sounds at the contact with the plastic barrier, but it didn’t budge. She muttered some choice words under her breath as gradually her experimental taps turned into harder shoves until she was practically beating the door with the hammer end of the cane. Quinn flailed back a bit, wishing that there was more space between them and the blunt object being swung.

         “So,” Amelie said after a moment, a bit out of breath, “any other brilliant ideas? What can you do, exactly?”

         Oh, and if that wasn’t a calculated question under all that irritation, Quinn was a unicorn princess. “Well, you know, I might have been able to do something. If only someone hadn’t broken my lute.” And, no, there wasn’t wetness pricking at their eyes again. They didn’t have time for that. Breathe, just breathe.

         Amelie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Can’t you just…I don’t know, do that fire magic thing from earlier? That might weaken it.”

         “Oh sure,” Quinn said. They laid the sarcasm on extra thick. It made it easier to talk around the knot in their throat. “I’ll just do that. Of course there’s no guarantee that the fire won’t pop up inside the stupid hamster ball–then we’d be trapped in our own nice little oven.”

         Amelie made a frustrated sound. “Okay, fine…this is…fine. There’s still air in here obviously, so propulsion should still be possible,” she was looking thoughtfully down at her cane. “This might work actually. If we can still move, well, it looks like this ball is pretty sturdy. While we’re inside we can’t touch anything outside, obviously, but by the same turn–”

         “Nothing can touch us, either,” Quinn realized. “Including the fake time wishes.” Oh, maybe they could make this work. They were still going to have to figure out how to get out of the glorified bubble eventually in order to touch the real wish, but for the now, this could work.

         “I’m going to try flying again, see if I can steer us,” Amelie said. It kind of sounded like she was talking to herself. She mounted her cane again, and sure enough the magical object shot forward under her guidance, pressing against the inside of the ball and pushing it through the mass of time wishes once more.

          Amelie let out a delighted little laugh. “I’ll never get tired of that!” There was a smile on her lips, like she was witnessing a miracle.

         Admittedly, it felt a little bit like a miracle. As the ball shot forward, the stray time wishes flying by bumped harmlessly against their new plastic shield, leaving them completely unaffected. Quinn watched the fond smile on Amelie’s lips grow. They listened the steady flow of magic from her cane, echoing the stronger hum that emanated from her own being, easy as breathing. A stab of jealousy hit them, falling numbly through the hole in their chest. This was the magic that their professors spoke of. Well, okay, maybe not exactly, because Quinn was pretty sure that mimicking fae magic wasn’t well received in most academic circles, but the ability itself was natural. Born out of honest talent that could be shaped to fit a mold. Sure, Amelie’s magic was a little bit strange (which, in fact, made it all the more wonderful), but this was, at the core of its being, what magic ability was supposed to be: faithful, stable, consistent. Not the wild, feral thing that Quinn plucked out of the air, barley tamed, barely focused.

         Magical talent. And an object that was so sturdy, so connected to the user that it could focus that talent with barely a word. It was everything they’d ever wanted and never could have.

         Quinn Foley wanted to hate Amelie. For her magic ability. For breaking the lute, even if it was their own spell that had acted at the weapon. For simply being. And yet in that moment they couldn’t help but be a little bit in awe of her. 

         I have to win. They thought. Not ‘I want to win’. Not ‘I can win’. Not anymore.

In that emptiness, once filled with guilt, uncertainty, and now the echoes of pain, there poured a fire that had been missing for quite some time, and Quinn felt something like excitement. Something like eagerness. Something very similar to that feeling that had moved their hand to sign a demon’s contract in the first place.

         I have to win that time wish!

Outside their bubble of quiet, golden spheres danced around, flying faster and faster by as they moved towards their goal. Quinn broke the quiet with a question, one that had been bubbling up inside them for a while now.

         “How did you learn fae magic?”

         Amelie jumped, jerking the cane and sending the ball banking to the side before she could get it back on course. Quinn’s shoulder slammed against the barrier. That’s what I get for being social.

“What?” She asked, glancing back at them with wide eyes.

         “How did you learn faery magic?” they asked again.

         Amelie opened her mouth to speak, closed it again. Opened it again. Furrowed her brow. A couple of fake wishes bumped against the bubble again, and both of them were too occupied in the question to notice them pop on impact with the plastic unlike all the others before.

         “That’s not…” She finally managed to say. She stopped, frowned, and tried again. “How in seven hells could you possibly know that?” She glanced through their bubble at the giant red letter ’S’ floating amongst the time wishes. “Don’t tell me there’s more personal crap floating around in this round!”

         “Not that I know of.” But, gods, wouldn’t that just have been icing on the cake.

         Amelie squinted at them suspiciously. When they didn’t offer any other information, she reluctantly admitted, “I…I learned from pixies and dryads. Who told you?”

         ‘Learned from pixies’ she says. As if fae folk didn’t target most humans for mischief or mortal peril the moment they laid eyes on them. Fascinating. Oh, right, they had been asked a question, too. “Well, you did, actually.” She gave them a confused and dirty look. “How the hell did you get pixies to teach you?” Answers for answers, Ms. Witch. Conversing wasn’t their usual cup of tea, but this was a game they could play.

“By asking nicely,” Amelie said, slowly turning to look back at where she was driving them. (Another fake wish slammed into the top of the bubble, and this time it burst with enough for that Quinn glanced up and caught a nervous glimpse.)  “What do you mean I told you?”

         Quinn worried their lip, considering. If I answer she might be more willing to tell me about her magic. But in return they’d be giving up their own secrets as well. It wasn’t a thought that settled well with them. But…on the other hand, the lute was gone. She already knew they could sing fire to life. Would Amelie really gain anything from the exchange?

         “You sound like fae magic,” they said finally. It came out as nearly a whisper.

         A beat of quiet again. Then, “Really?” she asked, sounding utterly fascinated. “I’ve never met anyone who could hear magic, before. I’d probably call you a liar just on principle, but, well, I guess it could make sense with the singing spell you pulled earlier…”

         Before Quinn could think of how exactly to respond, the ball started rocking furiously as more and more fake wishes burst against it on every point of contact. Quinn noticed now. Amelie definitely did too. By some turn of luck the same thick wall of plastic that was keeping them from breaking out of the hamster ball also seemed to protect them from any physical effects.

          This is bad. The fake wishes only reacted when I touched them myself before. Otherwise every strike of the grappling hook would have burst the spheres on contact. Why were they more sensitive now? Was it because they were getting closer to the real time wish?

         Simple. Not easy. They somehow doubted they would be able to get away with tapping the real wish against the side of their ball and have it count.

         As they both eyed the golden spheres flying by outside nervously, Amelie’s voice dropped to something softer than her suspicion from before. “What’s a kid like you doing in a demon game, anyway? One of the other opponents I faced was pretty young, too, but, well…”

         “I’m not a kid.” They realized almost immediately how childish they sounded. Then, eager to deflect that knowing look it got them, they asked, “What about you?”

         “I asked first,” Amelie pointed out, apparently not very eager to answer either. “Listen…I was talking with that old lady, Hilja, last round. Something’s wrong with this tournament, Quinn. Alcor has to have some sort of ulterior motive here.”

         Quinn stared at the back of her head, frowning. Why was she telling them this?  “Okay…like what?”

         “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But whatever it is, it can’t be good, and whoever wins this…one of us is probably going to have to deal with it–whatever it is.”

         “Okay,” Quinn had a sour feeling they knew where this was going. “And?”

         “And,” Amelie said, and they could practically hear the careful words being picked out of her head, “whatever Alcor’s up to, it’s probably going to be a real bitch to deal with. Especially after all of this.”     

         Dealing with an out of control demon. No, that didn’t sound at all appealing. And they knew…they knew objectively that this should be a big concern. They should care that the big scary demon was probably up to something…but wasn’t that what demons did? Weren’t there people who were supposed to deal with that sort of thing–magical girls and special investigators and the like? Why did that have to be their problem? They were in this to win a time wish–why was it that everyone they met lately was so eager to play hero?

         “Well,” Quinn said slowly, drawing out the words every bit as carefully as Amelie had, “I bet it would be a lot easier with a time wish.”

         Amelie glanced back at them again, looking like she couldn’t quite decide if they were being sarcastic. “Yeah…” she said measuredly back. “It really would.”

         If the tension that had sprung between them were any more present it probably could have gained sentience and started calling Quinn names. Quinn was just starting to wonder at the wisdom of whipping out the grappling hook when the heavy rocking of the ball settled abruptly as they shot out of the thick mess of time wishes and into a clearer space.

         The area was maybe the width of a football field, though it was hard to tell here. A couple of stray wishes flitted about like darting flies, but they were much fewer and farther between. There, in the center of it all floated not a single time wish as Quinn had expected. No–it was a pair, just as identical as the rest, spinning around each other in a cheerful dance while all the other countless time wishes rotated around them both.

         “A binary system,” Amelie breathed. It sounded a lot like a curse.

         Well, Quinn thought past their own irritated thoughts, one of his titles is the Twin Star, I guess.

For a single moment, both contestants sat perfectly still in the ball, staring at the twin wishes, wondering which one was real and which one was fake.

         It was a moment too long, because in that moment one of the spare wishes darting around crashed into the back of the stupid hamster ball.

         The resulting explosion was much stronger than the ones before, and it was enough to destroy the protective shell of plastic that had been allowing them to move so freely. It was enough to throw both Amelie and Quinn forward into yet another dizzying spiral.

         Oh gods, gods, gods, Quinn thought, resisting the urge to retch again when they settled into stillness. Something was wrong again. Something felt off. Frantically, they looked down at themself. The vision in their left eye was still intact. There didn’t seem to be any damage or pain, and the grappling hook was still miraculously in their grip, so what…?

         It took them a moment to realize how everything looked just a little bit bigger than it should. Their fingers, upon inspection, lacked the calluses built up from years of lute practice and stupid mistakes. A curious sensation, like something brushing their neck had them reaching up to feel at the stubby pig tails poking out of the back of their head.

         Quinn stared down at their younger self and scowled. Oh this just keeps getting better.

From only a little further away they heard Amelie laugh, “You look like you’re twelve!”

          Quinn turned to spit something irritably at the witch and their jaw dropped. “Holy shit!” Amelie’s hands, still wrapped around the cane, were wreathed in demonic blue flames.

         It took her a moment to realize what they were staring at, and when she did, she yelped and started waving them to put them out. After a few heart stopping instants, she calmed though, adopting a more fascinated expression. “It doesn’t hurt.”

         With that immediate crisis solved, both of them turn their attentions instead to the two wishes. The last blast had brought them conveniently close to their goal. The twin time wishes spun maybe seven meters apart. Quinn and Amelie had ended up almost exactly between the two, and now floated at the center of it all, watching the twins spin around them.

         “How do we tell which is the real one, though?” Amelie wondered. She was only a couple of feet away, watching, watching, watching the time wishes–trying to figure them out.   

         Quinn was not watching the time wishes. Quinn was watching Amelie’s cane.

         I don’t dislike her, they realized, with probably not the best timing in the world. They really wanted to hate her, and yet they couldn’t quite manage it. It was a thought that made them hesitate, just for half a second. I really don’t, but…

         I have to win. It burned inside them, almost loud enough to drown out everything else. Loud enough to make everything else feel so much less important–all the echoes of ‘monster’, of ‘selfish’ and ‘cold’.  If they could do it, maybe those echoes would fade away again. If they could just do this one last thing…They raised the grappling hook.

         They aimed and fired. They didn’t hit a time wish. They hadn’t aimed for one.

         The grappling hook hit Amelie in the side, knocking her clean off of the cane. From this close they heard the breath leave her lungs in a pained whoosh. They heard the humming of her magic. They heard the soft shink as one of the hooks miraculously caught on the hammer end of the cane on the rebound, pulling it back towards Quinn and bringing Quinn halfway forward to meet it.

         Quinn took up the cane without thinking, really. It was a motion born of an instinctual want to touch the magic, to feel it vibrating through wood and metal. It felt alive.

         “Stop!” Amelie’s voice rang through the space between them, wired with so much distress that it almost made them drop the cane on instinct. There was a desperate look on Amelie’s face that put a ball of ice in the pit of their stomach. She wasn’t looking at the time wishes anymore–she wasn’t sparing them a glance. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, but much more strained. “Give it back. Please!”

         Quinn stared down at the cane in their hands. It’s important to her. Of course it was. In every thrum of magic coursing through the cane, they could practically hear the years of wear, the whisper of spells, the fondness, the love that had been poured into it. Reflexively, Quinn’s thoughts turned to their lute. It wasn’t really the same, they knew. The lute couldn’t carry magic, couldn’t focus it–it was the music that did that. Despite years of love, of practice, without Quinn’s guiding hand it was still just an ordinary instrument, no matter how familiar, no matter how loved. What Quinn now held in their hands was something much stronger, something maybe even more precious to its owner than the lute was to them.

         Out of the corner of their eye, they saw one of the twin time wishes gliding toward them in its orbit, either real or another fake. And all the warm, nostalgic feelings in the world did not stop the awful idea that crept to their head.

         This close, the fake wishes explode when anything touches them. And with how strong the last impact had been they worried about what effects touching the wrong wish here would do–both in terms of bodily harm and how far away the aftershocks would throw them. The explosive force that had broken them out of the hamster ball alone probably would have been enough to take off an arm.

         “Listen,” Amelie was saying. “There are two time wishes here and two of us. If we each go for one it’s a fifty-fifty chance! That’s a fair shot!”

         A fair shot. Quinn watched the nearest wish creep closer. Since when was any of this fair? ‘Fair’ was almost as bad as dumb luck. ‘Fair’ was what their teachers had called it when they’d banned them from the magic classes at school.

         This was a demon tournament. It wasn’t supposed to be fair.

         The wish crept closer. It was only a few feet away. They weren’t practiced enough with the grappling hook to get the timing right. They took aim.

         “Quinn!” Amelie shouted, her voice several shades of panicked.

          How selfish it was, to want to be more.

         “I’m sorry,” they said over Amelie’s shout, over that humming middle C of magic, over the pounding of their heart. They meant it.

         The cane flew from their hands. It spun through the air, hammer end coming down to strike the nearest time wish just as it passed. In the space of time it took for this to occur, Amelie reached after the cane instinctively. Quinn steeled themself.

         It wasn’t a perfect shot, but it did the job: upon contact, the fake wish exploded, blowing both of them straight backwards. Quinn barely saw Amelie out of the corner of their eye, wide-eyed as she stared at where her cane had split apart on impact. They tried not to notice–didn’t give themself time to notice. As the force of the exploding fake wish hit them, they spun themself around, arms stretching out as they were blown straight towards the real time wish, which had continued happily in its orbit.

         The golden sphere was warm to touch as Quinn’s hand closed over it. They dropped the grappling hook and pulled the time wish towards their chest. I did it? they thought numbly when it didn’t burst. I…really did it. Hot tears spilled over their cheeks. They weren’t quite sure if it was relief, joy, or self-loathing that had set them falling. They weren’t sure what to feel, which of the emotions warring inside of them was supposed to be the right response. They didn’t have much time to mull it over.

         As the sound of the exploding fake wish faded, new sounds took its place. Curious sounds, like the small plips of thousands of fake wishes blinking back out of existence.  Loud, trumpeting sounds mixed with sounds like noisemakers from every birthday party they had ever attended as a child. Awful sounds, like the quiet sobbing from where Amelie floated.

         A popping sound as the Dreambender stepped into space right in front of them, a delighted gleam in golden eyes that made every hair on the back of their neck stand straight up.

“Alcor has to have some sort of ulterior motive,” Amelie had said. It hadn’t seemed very important at the time. It suddenly seemed a lot more important now.  

         “Congratulations!” Alcor the Dreambender said. His voice echoed through the void in multi-tones that sang of something dark and dangerous. His smile was too wide, too sharp. It looked–well, it looked outright demonic.

         Quinn Foley stared up at what was quite possibly the most powerful being in all existence. The time wish in their hands pulsed warmly, leeching all of the heat from their body, all of the blood from their veins. A single thought pulsed in time with the throbbing of their head, the pounding of their heart:  

         Of course, they thought, carefully not noticing the other opponents or their faces. They tried not to feel too guilty about how easy it was. Of course the very next round would be a one-on-one fight. There would be no chance to avoid their opponent this time–not that their last attempt had done any good. Just good old-fashion violence. Of course.

         It doesn’t matter, they thought, clinical detachment coming a bit easier now that they were standing in the calm of the mindscape. That might have worried them, if only the lack of panic weren’t leaving them so relieved. It doesn’t change anything.

         A presence behind them and an unpleasantly staticky feeling in the air made the hair on the back of their neck rise, and they didn’t need to look up to recognize the Dreambender floating there.

         “What’s up, Lute Strings?” he asked, the sharp smile coming through even without seeing his face. “Why the long face?”

         Lute Strings? Their mouth turned down into a distasteful expression. This asshole totally forgot our real names, didn’t he? They hadn’t been approached by the demon individually before, though they had caught glimpses of him talking with other contestants. They weren’t sure exactly how to respond, and, in any case, all that managed to escape their lips was a startled, “Uh…”

         The demon didn’t seem terribly bothered by this, and continued with, “Aw, come on, kid! I thought you of all people would be enthusiastic–you know, given your current track record and all.”

         Something that really wanted to be outrage squirmed inside them, but they just couldn’t muster the energy right then do anything stronger than cast the demon a resentful look. Alcor let out a laugh (what an ass) and floated off. 

         Quinn tried to ignore the off-kilter feeling that the demon had left them in, and instead swung the lute case off of their shoulder, unfastening the latches with practiced ease. The weight of the lute was a reassuring presence in their hands, familiar as a parent’s embrace or sunshine on their skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever they breathed–a deep, relaxed breath that they a didn’t have to force through their lungs. I can do this.

A brush of their fingers over the strings brought a hum of magic and sound that sent a flood of warmth over their limbs, climbing through their veins to chase away the numbness there. It was like coming to life again. They tuned on the fly, a new eagerness making their lips curl as they ran through the practiced movements almost thoughtlessly. They barely had time to finish before the Dreambender was ushering them towards the portals, and the fading tuning notes mingling in the air were in good company with the anticipation hanging over all their heads.

         I can do this. They repeated to themself with each step towards the portal. I can do this.

Upon stepping into their starting room in the shack, Quinn took in the weather-worn wooden walls and the fact that there was no roof over their head to block out the vast expanse of sky above and wondered idly at the mental state of whomever had designed this round. The room was narrow enough to be more of a glorified hallway, and the planks on the walls spaced just widely enough to leave cracks of sunlight creeping in. The room was lined on both sides by short stalls, like one might find in a barn. The floor of each pin was littered with blankets, feathers, and old pillows, most of which were spilling their cottony guts.

         The nursery, Quinn shook their head, recalling Alcor’s words about seeing familiar places.Out of all the different enclosures that the griffin sanctuary back home boasted, the building where they kept the fledglings before they were old enough to be graduated to a full enclosure seemed a rather tame choice, especially considering the nature of this round.

         The place felt wrong though. It was much too quiet for one, lacking the chirps and snaps of young fledglings and the brush of wind against old wood. It looked like someone had drained the life out of it; the grays and blacks stood out much too boldly, leaving the blue of the exposed sky above and the bright colors of the blankets and rich browns of the wooden walls faded as if someone had left it them out in the sun too long.

         It feels less like an actually place I’ve been and more like a far off memory.

         After their experience last round, Quinn was in no mood for memories. Now was a time for moving forward, not backwards.

         They half expected something to try to jump out at them as they walked through the too-quiet room, but they reached the door without anything more than some frayed nerves to show for it. That was fine by them–nerves they could handle. The way they figured, the maze had already well prepared them for whatever psychological prodding this round might have in store. They turned the handle and stepped out into the hallway, and if they thought they heard the whisper of feathered wings behind them as they stepped out of a fond memory and into the unknown, well, that was probably just a trick of the shack.

         The main part of the shack was a much livelier place than Quinn’s first room had been. Though almost completely devoid of color, the building seemed to be trying to make up for the lack of visual stimulation with movement. The hallway that they stepped into looked to be some sort of central room that might have served as a living space in another, more sane lifetime. Currently is better served as a terminal for winding hallways and improbably staircases converging at one point. The walls on both sides of the room boasted multiple doors of various shapes, sizes, and styles. Two hallways stretched away to Quinn’s left and right that, upon inspection, ran not only forwards but also upwards and sideways and round-ways as well until the halls looked more like spiraling snakes than actual passages. There was a staircase on the far side of the room–two actually, if you counted the upside-down staircase that intersected it about halfway, and if you counted the wooden planks floating around and re-arranging themselves into step-able intervals in the air just above their head that made three.

         Forwards or sideways, they asked themself. The flock of stair-steps fluttered past their face, and they nearly went cross-eyed trying to watch them. …Or upwards, or downwards…They were deliberating taking the right hallway when the damn thing twisted before their eyes, leaving the entrance of the passage looping in a spiral that had absolutely no regards for gravity. …Screw it. I’ll take the stairs.

That was all well and good, except the moment they stepped onto the bottom step the entire staircase dislodged itself from the wall and slid across the floor to attach itself to another, leaving them flailing to catch the rail before they could fall backwards and break something. Once the damn thing had finally stopped and they had climbed a couple of steps without anything weird happening, they started sprinting up the stairs, a little bit afraid of what might happen next if they lingered too long. They weren’t fast enough, apparently, because five steps down from the top the floorboards came to life and floated into the air to join their wayward brethren.

         “Shit!” Quinn cursed loudly, and then on instinct slapped a hand over their mouth. You’re not in the maze anymore, they had to remind themself. You can make noise. They pried the hand away from their lips and dug their fingers into their hair instead. In fact, I can be as loud as I want.

There was something to that line of thinking, the beginnings of an idea. Humming thoughtfully, they stroked the strings of their lute and watched as the upside-down staircase drifted forward to take up where the now missing steps had left off.

         The thing about one-on-one fights, Quinn figured as they hopped on to the new staircase and quickly found the floor floating somewhere above and the old ceiling below, was that they were not well suited for them. When it came to physique, they weren’t quite pathetic, but they certainly weren’t going to be winning any awards either. And as far as magic was concerned, well, they had already held their own against one witch, but as much as they’d like to pretend otherwise they still at a distinct disadvantage when it came to spell variety. If it came down to a fair fight, they really only had quick thinking and steel nerves on their side.

         But as Quinn stepped down onto the ceiling (now the floor), that spark of an idea became the beginnings of a plan. Because this was in fact not a fair fight. This was a demon tournament. And that just might be enough of a difference (they would make it enough of a difference) to count for something.

         Not quite as concerned about the scenery as they were about their line of thinking, Quinn Foley pulled the closest door open (tall, wooden structured, oddly familiar) and entered another nightmare.

         The room was wide and open where most everywhere else so far had been narrow, and whatever force kept the shack’s shenanigans running had taken the opportunity to fill every bit of space inside it. Objects floated just above the cheap laminate floor: chairs and music stands and sheets of paper that Quinn was suddenly afraid to inspect too hard. The walls looked solid–sheetrock hung with evenly spaced, cloth covered boards for sound proofing and charts displaying bold music notes and symbols that seemed to jump off of their paper when their eyes weren’t focused directly on them. More sound absorbing boards floated near the ceiling, and despite the solidness of the walls there seemed to be a cross-breeze blowing through the room, bringing with it echoes of musical notes (violins and horns and clarinets) that sent a shiver down their spine.

         “Effing hell,” they breathed in recognition, even if this version was all twisty and strange. The orchestra room.

         As much as Quinn Foley was no stranger to musical education, the orchestra room from their secondary school back home had never been a place they frequented since they had never actually taken part their school’s music program. In fact, in a place where rooms were supposed to reflect memories, Quinn could only recall one notable time that they had ever used the school orchestra room before.

         “Howya, Quinn.” The greeting made them jump–not so much from the suddenness of the sound but more for the voice that flavored it. You’ve got to be joking.

They turned with the slowness of someone who knew without a doubt that they were about to see something unpleasant but still dared to hope that they were wrong. As such, Quinn Foley was not at all surprised and not at all pleased to see, an all-too familiar and all-too smug form standing upon an old wooden podium hovering a couple centimeters off the ground.  

         Bran Cleary leaned forward, hands steepled in a thoughtful way that they knew from experience was not at all thoughtful. He grinned that old grin as if they were the best of friends. Funny, the last time they had seen their old classmate he had been wearing quite a different expression.

         “No,” Quinn turned promptly on their heels and made for the exit door on the other side of the room. “Absolutely not.” What was it the Dreambender had said, again, about familiar faces…?

         “Oi!” The person who most definitely could not be Bran Cleary protested, hopping down from his perch. “Is that all you have to say? ‘No’?”

         Quinn shot the person who could not be Bran a dry look. “No, I’m not wasting my time here.”

         “What d’ya mean wasting?” the boy demanded, looking every bit as outraged and pinch faced as they remembered. It was sickening. “After everything you did–”

         “Bran Cleary,” Quinn cut in, still walking, “is in a mental hospital in the physical world. Even if he were in the mindscape, I doubt he’d be able to hold a conversation.” Their eyebrows pulled together, irritated that the topic had even been brought up. “You’re not Bran Cleary.”

         The laugh that followed took them a bit by surprise–because despite their words, it seemed like such a Bran thing to do. “Alright, you caught me. But hear me out–”

         “No thanks,” they tossed over their shoulder, and the stranger gave a squawk of protest. “I’m not fond of chatting with strangers. You’re not my opponent, anyway.”

         There was a sound–small, barely audible–like something squishing behind them. A deeper voice than before chuckled, sending ice shooting down their spine. “Are you sure about that?”

         Shapeshifter, they recalled abruptly. That was the word the Dreambender had used.

         Despite their better judgment, they hesitated and looked over their shoulder, only to find the witch from the first round looming over them, the knitting needles sticking out of his hair gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. He stood casually but confidently, a wicked smile on his lips and his odd, button eye trained on them as if he could see into their soul.

         “You got the leg wrong,” Quinn deadpanned.

         The witch’s mouth turned down into a pout. “Oh zippers! Well, now, how about this one?” Before they could protest the form in front of them seemed to melt, squeeze into a smaller form, and then remolded itself until Kyrenia Delmar was standing before them.

         “There!” the thing said in Kyrenia’s voice, and before Quinn could avert their eyes the look-alike stretched her arms out in a sweeping gesture, a wide grin on her face that looked much too poisonous to be at home there. “Is this one more accurate?”

         The movement of her arms drew their eyes to the girl’s hands–or rather, the bleeding stumps where hands should have been. Their gaze shot back to the impostor’s face taking in the blood dripping from Kyrenia’s gorgeous blonde hairline.

         It’s not real. They told themself, but the dripping sounds of drops of blood pattering against the floor were trying very hard to convince them otherwise. They swallowed, finding the action hard with the lump trying to grow in their throat.

         “I wouldn’t know,” they said. When when they tried to turn away this time it was significantly harder to do. They started stalking towards the exit again, not intent on getting a proper response.

         “Geez, kid,” Kyrenia–no, the shapeshifter said. “What’s wrong with you? This is good stuff!”

         I’ve had enough emotional conflict for the month, thank you kindly. All they wanted was to find this round’s opponent and get things over with.

         There were footsteps following behind them, and a drip-drip-splot of dripping blood as one of the shifter’s arms moved to intercept them before it recalled that it didn’t have hands in Kyrenia’s form. Quinn managed to grab the exit door and rip it open before there was another shifting sound behind them and a hand grabbed their shoulder and pulled itself into the next room with them.

         They didn’t get it at first, where they were, and it was probably the lack of color that threw them off. The room they were in was half wild–trees marking the four corner intersections while pale, barely green foliage sprouted from their branches and made a canopy out of the roof. It was friendlier than the maze had been–carpet blending into off-shade grass and flowers growing up the walls to bring little splashes of almost-color. They almost missed the desk and dresser that seemed to be rooted to the ground like trees themselves, picture frames and knick-knacks littering their surfaces. Tiny painted griffins fluttered on the branches, and it wasn’t until they nearly backed into the familiar bed that they recognized the place as their own bedroom.

         “Like a faery garden,” Da has said so many years ago after he had finished painting the trees and flowers on the walls. The irony of the statement hadn’t hit either of them until much later.

         “Oh my!” a woman’s voice said behind them, and the blood in Quinn’s veins froze. It was one of those voices that couldn’t quite be placed but your mind knew you had heard before and that it belonged to someone important. If the shapeshifter hadn’t dared to walk in front of them in order to force them to be eye to eye, they might have stood there for days, trying to remember where they had heard it before.

         The face they recognized only slightly faster than the room, and unlike with Bran Cleary this recognition came not from memories but from pictures.

         “What an expression you’re giving me now!” the woman said, clapping her hands together gleefully. The gesture felt vaguely familiar–fitting with the light brown hair, the brown eyes, and the smattering of freckles that looked so much like the grayed-out picture sitting perched on their bedroom desk that it hurt. “I guess you’re not so unflappable after all!”

         “Stop,” they heard themself speak. The flat, expressionless sound of their own voice was a shock to their own ears. A jumble of other words backed up behind their teeth, wanting to take their turn, but when they tried to swallow them back down they seemed to all get lumped together into one word that hung on the tip of their tongue and left a bitter-sweet taste in their mouth: Mother.

The woman–no the shapeshifter–leaned forward, moving as if to pat the top of Quinn’s head, and they reared back like a startled horse. The mimicry of their mother’s face softened into a gentle smile. “Come now, Quinn,” she hummed, and the sound of it made every muscle in their body want to relax reflexively. “No need to be so tense.”

         Quinn shook their head. Their hands were shaking also. “You’re not real.” They weren’t quite sure whether the words were meant for the person standing in front of them or the picture on the desk.

         “Don’t be silly,” she crooned, reaching out to stroke Quinn’s cheek. For some reason, their arms wouldn’t move to stop her, and a warm hand traced over their skin, a hint of claws teasing at their jaw.

         At the small prick of pain, Quinn’s arms unfroze and shoved the butt of the lute forward into the shapeshifter’s sternum, sending the creature reeling backwards.

         “You’re not my opponent,” they said–the words weren’t nearly so flat and calm anymore, “and you’re certainly not my mother.” They straightened, hefting the lute in a position to either play or swing depending on what was needed. The next door was only a couple of steps away.

         The shapeshifter straightened from where it had staggered against the wall, an ugly grin stretched across their mother’s face. “So you do care about something! How very sweet. Is that why you’re here, child? To wish your precious mother back to life?”

         The foot that had been sliding backwards towards the door faltered, and for the first time since they were fourteen, Quinn Foley almost dropped their lute. In fact, all the determined thoughts and fighting instincts buzzing around in Quinn’s mind dropped right out of their head.

         “W-What? What did you just say?”

         The shapeshifter, for its part, looked just as baffled by Quinn’s reaction as they felt. “Oh,” their mother’s visage said, “Am I wrong?”

         “You…” Quinn felt as if someone had sucked the air from their lungs. “That’s…That’s not.”

         What Quinn was trying to say was that the assumption that the shapeshifter had so easily made–that a young person with a dead parent and a shot at a Time Wish might of course jump at the opportunity to bring that parent back to life–had in fact not occurred to them until this very minute.

         The shapeshifter was staring at them. “…Seriously? You’re so defensive about your mother’s memory, but you weren’t even going to consider bringing her back?” Another awful laugh. “Quinn Foley, how cold! How selfish!”

         From a logic perspective Quinn Foley wanted to protest. They had not seen their mother outside of photographs since they were three years old, and being surrounded by relatives had made sure that as a child they had never wanted for attention. So it might be a bit understandable, then, that bringing back a person that was mostly a stranger had not occurred to them so quickly as wanting to better their magical ability, which was an every present part of their daily life. But for the possibility to have never even occurred to them at all…

         In the space in Quinn’s chest right where they had been careful to carve out the pieces of guilt from the cases of Kyrenia Delmar, Bran Cleary, and even the witch, suddenly a new guilt came pouring in to fill in the spaces.

         “Shut up!” Quinn finally snapped. The shapeshifter’s laughing cut off abruptly, and it looked at them with interest through their mother’s eyes. The photograph on the desk watched accusingly. “What would you know about it anyway!” You’re not real, they chanted in their mind. Not real, not real, not real–They raised the lute, though whether to play, to flee, or to fight they knew not, and they didn’t get the chance to find out in any case. As they slid another step back towards the door, in tandem with their step the shapeshifter launched itself forward. In the time it took for the shifter to fly through the air, it shifted, arms stretching into talons and wings sprouting from its back so that by the time Quinn had brought up their lute to strike at its humanoid form they were bowled over not by a person but by an enormous griffin.

         The weight of the attack carried them both through the door an out into a main hallway of the shack. Instinctively, Quinn curled around the lute and hiked their jacket up to protect their neck as common sense battled with years of griffin related instructions drilled into their head.

         “Don’t make any sudden moves,” Da’s voice echoed in their head. “Don’t run, don’t try to fight. Make yourself small and unthreatening.” That was all well and good, Quinn fumed internally, but they highly doubted that the shapeshifter was stupid enough to fall for them playing dead.

         By some miracle the shapeshifter didn’t land on top of them when they fell, and two rounds of practice with running and dodging made rolling to their feet almost instinctual, if not more clumsy than if would have been were they in top form. They only managed to scurry a couple of feet before the would-be-griffin was on them. There was the sound of air whistling above their ear and Quinn ducked sideways an instant before a sharp beak stabbed where their head had been the moment before.

         There’s no way I can beat a griffin with just a lute, was their initial thought, ducking again to miss a swipe of claws. Quinn slammed up against the door as one of the talons nicked their forearm just below the their jacket sleeve, sending blood dripping down over their hand. Upon seeing the would-be griffin clacking its beak at them angrily they were vaguely reminded of Sisyphus in one of his bad moods…and they nearly thumped themself.

         You can beat a griffin with a lute; you’ve done it before, idiot!

         Before rolling out of the way as the shapeshifter crashed towards them, Quinn snatched at a door handle and ripped it open behind them. As the shifter launched forwards, it fell through the entryway into the room beyond. Quinn threw themself back into the door, slamming it closed with all of their weight behind it. The shapeshifter was quick on the uptake, and Quinn felt it slamming against the door to get out almost immediately, rattling the frame and jarring their back. Quinn steeled themself and let music flow from their fingers, trying not to think about the slick of blood it left on the strings in places.  

         This might not work on giant mutant dogs, Quinn mused as the first notes of Nocturne danced into the air, but I know for a fact it works on angry griffins.

If anything, the pounding on the door increased at first, and Quinn feared they wouldn’t be able to play enough of the spell before it broke down completely, but the first half of the song was barely underway before the thrashing began to grow weaker and further apart. Once the thumps on the door stopped completely, Quinn let Nocturne fade from their fingers and slumped against the door, willing their racing heart to slow.

         Maybe I should just stick to griffin wrangling like Da says, they thought tiredly. A moment later Quinn realized what exactly had just passed through their mind and a surge of frustration sent them back to their feet. No, I can do this. I want this. Kyrenia Delmar hadn’t changed that, their mother’s face didn’t changed that, and a fake griffin damn well wasn’t going to change that either.

         Quinn hefted the lute again, because in the end the weight of the instrument was still friendlier than the weight that had newly settled in their chest. Just keep moving, just keep moving. Don’t think about it too hard. They started back down the hall and pressed their fingers to the frets, preparing for an encore.

         As had occurred to them earlier before the whole shapeshifter fiasco, there was no need for silence this round, and in fact it was a bit counterintuitive to their purpose. They had no idea how large the shack was, and with weariness starting to drag their limbs and an increasing amount of stress with the more they encountered in the shack, the most ideal thing would be to find their opponent as soon as possible, preferably without their opponent sneaking up on them first.

         The shack seemed to be designed in such a way that a confrontation would happen on its own eventually by some turn of luck or chance. The thing was: Quinn hated luck. Quinn hated quiet, too, and if round two had proved nothing else it was that there was that nothing brought about violent confrontations like a whole bunch of noise. Logically, they could set about playing anything they desired on their lute and as long as they walked around enough their opponent would probably hear and come to investigate. That was all well and good–a half plan at best, but they had already been snuck up on twice, and they really weren’t keen on it happening a third time, so whatever they played it had to be something that was going to make their opponent less inclined toward subtlety.

         Thoughtfully, they plucked out a couple of notes, playing with a C chord before inspiration struck. The first few lilting patterns were almost as nostalgic as the rooms around them, though quite a bit friendlier feeling.

         Euphoria hopped from the lute strings with much more enthusiasm than Quinn was feeling at the moment, but after a bit the upbeat tune was enough to put a bit more of a spring back in their steps, even without being affected personally by its magic. It felt a little backwards to send it echoing down the halls towards wherever their opponent was since it was one of the only non-malevolent songs currently in their arsenal–a song to raise a person’s spirits and put them in a dizzying, almost high state of being. But they figured that if there was any song that would put someone off their guard this was it.

         Their stroll through the halls of the shack was just as weird as before. The floor seemed to get bored where it was pretty quickly and decided to climb onto the wall instead before they had even rounded the first corner, and another turn led them back into a corridor where some stairs rose up out of the floor in front of their feet and changed their path upwards. The further they walked, the more things they began to notice, too. There were picture frames hanging on the walls–some empty, most with unidentifiable things pictured, but a few showing people and places that were unfamiliar to Quinn. Sometimes they spotted question marks painted straight on the walls or floors, boldly proclaiming wordless questions that made Euphoria leap from their fingers just a little faster.

         They had been walking for quite a while and already halfway through their third repetition when there was a clattering from a door at the top of the staircase that had been following them for the past couple of halls. A moment later, the door burst open and a boy toppled out, barely catching himself on the stairs before he could plummet to his doom and make Quinn’s job a whole lot easier. They spared a moment to worry that it might be the shapeshifter, awake again and attracted by the new song, but the face that looked down at them was wholly unfamiliar outside of brief glances between rounds in the mindscape. In a similar moment they wondered if the shack had somehow bleached his hair of color along with everything else before taking in the green irises framing his dilated pupils and realizing that he must have come by the white hair honestly somehow. Now that they saw him up close and were paying attention he looked rather young–at least their age or younger. He also looked kind of like shit–covered in even more burns than they were and looking beat to hell.

         They didn’t realize that they had stopped playing until the boy shook his head roughly and wobbled back to his feet.

         “Whoa,” he said, bringing a hand to his temple. “That was weird…” His eyes seemed to snap back into focus, and he pointed a finger at them. “Oh! It’s you!”

         Conversing with the shapeshifter seemed to have shaken their common sense because instead of launching into another song they gazed back and said. “Yeah, it’s me.” Gods I must need sleep.

         The guy’s eyes flitted to the lute. “That was you playing?” The expression on his face seemed more amazed than wary–probably a bit of obliviousness left over from the song. He looked like he might have been a moment away from collapsing if Euphoria hadn’t put some spring in his step.

         “No,” Quinn said sarcastically, because they spoke sarcasm far more fluently than pleasantries. “It was the other lute player wandering around.”

         At the mention of ‘other’ the guy’s expression tightened nervously. They wondered if he had a run in with the shapeshifter as well, at some point. He started down the stairs toward them, a barely forced smile on his face. “I’m Zee. Nice to…aaaand you’re running away.”

         Quinn, who had started backing down the hall the moment he started down the stairs scowled. It’s not running. It’s a tactical retreat. “Big fan of personal space, me.”

         “Zee Hawth,” Zee repeated, as if they weren’t actively avoiding him. “Look, I know we’re supposed to fight each other,” Oh gods please tell me he’s not the chatty type, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t be civil.” Dear gods he is. “Could you at least tell me your name?”

         Quinn twitched one of the tuning keys, mentally weighing which song might be best here. I want him at a distance and I’d really prefer doing without all the friendliness.

         “Come on,” Zee prompted, clearly picking up on the fact that he was being ignored. “It’s just a name.”

         Just a name. They hadn’t bothered giving it out to either of the other opponents. It was just so…informal. Not that keeping it a secret had done the other two any good or ill, and Kyrenia had figured it out anyway, in the end. Maybe it’d get him to shut up, in any case.

         “Quinn,” they said eventually, when it was apparent that he didn’t plan on doing anything until they said something. If he wanted a last name too he could go stuff it.

         “Quinn,” Zee repeated, like he was actually going to make an effort to remember it, which just made them feel all kinds of uncomfortable. “Well, Quinn, I know it’s a fight, but I hope there are no hard feelings, you know–”     

         Gods above, they thought, how did someone who acts this nice make it into a demon tournament? That was a thought they didn’t want to explore too hard. Well, if this guy wasn’t going to get on with it then he couldn’t very well blame Quinn for doing it instead.

         The first brush of strings they decided on came in a minor key, and it echoed off of the hallway more than expected. Can’t play too loudly then, if I’m going to keep it from turning into a jumbled mess. Zee paused in his efforts to walk towards them, head cocking to the side. If I can slow him down, if I can immobilize him before he even attacks, maybe things won’t go so badly this time. But with the energizing effects that Euphoria tended to have it was likely that Nocturne wouldn’t be immediately effective and might even take a couple of full play-throughs to get the desired effect. That was time Quinn didn’t have.

         It was with this in mind that they sent Despair ringing from their fingertips.

         It wasn’t a song that Quinn often found use for–a spell to demotivate and suck the will out of other people until they were left near catatonic. The melody was a slow tune of long, minor notes at first, building into something louder, something creeping and ominous. Zee moved towards them warily, eyebrows pinching together in something baffled but instinctually unnerved.

         “…Fine,” they barely caught his voice over the rising notes. “Be that way, I guess.”

         They had just backed up to the end of the hall when Despair hit the end of its introduction, and their fingers paused in a tacet. The already formed notes hung in the air and seemed to grow louder in the absence of other sounds, building into an eerie hum that pulled what little blood was left from Zee’s face. For a beautiful second, Zee froze, hanging on the notes like a fish on a line, a glazed expression flitting over his features.

         Then, unexpectedly, Zee’s eyes snapped back into focus again, and he looked at Quinn–the sort of look that comes with realization of a challenge and the stubborn determination to beat that challenge into the ground. It was a look Quinn knew well, just not on another person.

         Oh you’ve got to be shitting me.

         In that moment Quinn knew for a fact that Despair was not going to work on Zee Hawth. If he somehow had the mental fortitude to shake himself out of a magical stupor that fast then the song wasn’t going to be able to sink its hooks in well enough to be very effective. Maybe if they had an hour they could make it work, but not like this. How the hell the kid had built up enough mental will power to break free from something like that in the first place was anyone’s guess. Quinn kind of didn’t want to know.

         Before they could contemplate any of this too long, Zee made a sound that might have been something apologetic and raised a burned hand forward. The only other warning Quinn got was a sharp buzz that rippled through the air (D sharp) as magic crackled to life around the boy’s fingertips. They threw themself to the side and rolled into an adjoining hallway that spun them around to land on the ceiling right as a bolt of lightning hit the wall behind where they’d been standing.

         Holy shit on a stick. Quinn thought. This guy can do elemental magic? That didn’t seem right though, the crackling of magic died out almost immediately after it came, and there were no vibrations the hung around after that would suggest him building up any more for another attack. Letting curiosity win over survival instincts just this once, they peeked back around the corner to see Zee sitting on his ass on the ground, looking almost as shocked as the wall. The tips of his fingers looked like they had soot marks on them.

         “Ow,” he wheezed. Quinn briefly contemplated the odds of waiting out their opponent until he passed out on his own.

         This idiot has no idea what he’s doing, they surmised from his pained facial expression verses the melon sized char mark on the wall. Which meant that he obviously wasn’t a trained magic user.

         “Where did you learn that?” they couldn’t help asking, because honestly the guy didn’t look like he was going to be standing up in the next fifteen seconds and there was a spark in the back of their mind that they hadn’t felt in a while. Not a trained magic user. And yet here he is, able to use magic.

         Zee laughed a little, rubbing the back of his head. “Didn’t learn it exactly. It just kind of…rubbed off on me, I guess?”

         Quinn frowned. That was the most uninformative answer they’d heard all night. This was why they didn’t bother talking with people.

         “What about you?” Zee asked, looking up at them, “that was magic just then, right? Is the lute enchanted?”

         “Uh, yeah,” Quinn said. Technically it wasn’t a lie, even if the idea that a couple enchantments could even get close to their power level was frankly insulting.

         “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come out here and make it a fair fight?” Zee hedged, and with that they figured they weren’t going to be getting any good information from him and decided it would be wise to put some more distance between them and their opponent. Backing down the hall, they considered the list of useful songs left at their disposal.

         Too mentally resilient for Despair, which means the sorrow spell probably won’t have much luck either. And there’s no way in hell I’m using the fire spell in a closed space like this. Zee Hawth was turning out to be a major pain in their ass.

         There’s one spell I know will work, they realized. And it shouldn’t even take that long. Their thumb pressed hard against one of the lute strings, pulling it taut. They’d been trying hard not to think about that one song, actually. This round and the last had made it damn near impossible, but they had still been trying nonetheless.

         I want to win, they reminded themself. It’s not like last time; I know what I’m doing now. But if they wanted to do this right, they were going to need some space to play, and they couldn’t very well get it in a hallway.

         Footsteps rang on the hardwood floors as Zee apparently recovered himself enough to follow again. He rounded the corner and spotted them right as Quinn passed through another door. They let the first two notes sing before their eyes adjusted to the dimness that greeted them. It wasn’t a chord but a pair of dissonant notes that made the hair on the back of their neck stand straight up. Another pair followed, and then a triplet as they stared at the array of mirrors that were floating around the room around them.

         It didn’t look like a specific memory of theirs. Maybe it belonged to Zee, or maybe it was just the shack screwing with both of them. It’s like an old funhouse, they thought, a hall of mirrors. Well, if a hall of mirrors happened to gain sentience and a sense of spite, anyway. Quinn’s entire field of vision was taken up by floor-length mirrors that hovered just barely off the ground and had been arranged into a maze of sorts. The moment they stepped into the room, the mirrors burst to life and went about rearranging themself into a new pattern as they walked towards them.

         A wide grin slipped onto their lips, right as their thumb hit an E flat to spring the music into a jumping allegro. Perfect.

         By the time Zee Hawth entered behind them, Quinn was strolling through the mirrors, carefully plucking the notes they needed out of the air while the mirrors scrambled to rearrange themselves again. This was not a carefree song, and it certainly wasn’t one meant to lull and flow on its own. This was Cacophony, and it was a raw, feral magic that jumped from the strings in fits of organized chaos. This was a song that sang to one’s anxieties and made nightmares from memories.

         Watch the dynamics, they told themself as Zee started turning about this way and that, eyes darting between the countless reflections staring back at him. The tuning’s good, but don’t take the tempo any faster. Two years ago they had tested this out on Bran Cleary in a school orchestra room, mistaking ‘close enough’ for ‘good enough’. Cacophony was the only song to date that could handle in-song adjustments and wrong notes to a reasonable degree and come off more effective rather than weaker for it–as long as the basic melody held it would not fall apart. Considering that ‘more effective’ in this case meant sending a person spiraling into a severe nervous breakdown or worse, that wasn’t exactly what Quinn was aiming for. Not if they didn’t have any better options.

         They could see Zee’s reflection in the hundreds of mirrors around them, turning around in circles in a desperate search for something more solid than an image and growing more frantic by the second. He’s got strong will power–a strong mind. But will power wasn’t the only thing that made sanity. And it only took one chink in the armor of the mind to make it shatter.

         Cacophony had backed down to a nice andante now, notes swirling around each other but not quite wanting to make friendly. It made their ears dizzy in an effort to keep up with all of the jumping around that was going on. Quinn was standing towards the back of the maze now, catching glimpses of a panicky Zee as he started clutching his hair and muttering to himself.

         Right as they were about to hit the first repeat it all went to hell.

         Zee yanked something from somewhere around his pants pocket area (a hip strap?) and a flash in one of the mirrors proved it to be a dagger. Quinn’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat. Their forefinger skipped over a G to make it a flat, and Zee Hawth shrieked, bringing the dagger up over his head. For a moment, Quinn had the horrible thought that maybe they had gone too far again and this teenage boy was about to stab himself. Instead, he flipped the weapon and brought the hilt smashing down on the nearest mirror, shattering it into a thousands pieces along with quite a bit of the calm mask of composure they had been letting themself sink into.

         The shattering of the glass wasn’t enough to make them drop the song, but it was enough to make them move again, edging nervously further into the tangle of mirrors that had once again started to rearrange themselves. There was another crash and the clattering of glass shards raining to the ground as another mirror went down, then another.

         Is he trying to smash all of them?  Given the sheer number of mirrors in the room that would take quite a lot of time. But if the crunching of glass underfoot was any indication, Zee was not simply smashing every surface within smashing range; he was moving through the maze quickly, only breaking mirrors at certain intervals.

         They figured it out only moments later. As Zee drew closer Quinn was surrounded by images of the approaching boy, and it occurred to them a bit belatedly that the very method they were relying on to stay hidden made it difficult to pick a direction to properly retreat towards. With each crunch of footsteps and fall of the dagger hilt, another Zee disappeared from the reflections, narrowing down the number of directions he was approaching from gradually, and the closer the footfalls got, the more mirrors got shattered.

         He’s smashing the mirrors he can see me in, Quinn realized.

         The closer the sound of footsteps got, the more other sounds they began to hear as well–heavy, labored breaths and nervous whines. In the mirrors they could see how wildly the dagger swung in Zee’s grasp and a shimmering wetness that had started to trail down his cheeks as he staggered on and on and on. Not long now, they told themself, but the fact that he was still going and thinking enough to search for them set their teeth on edge.

         Quinn’s estimated path away from their opponent turned out to be not so wise a route when he appeared in front of them in the flesh in a shower of glass shards. A chuckle fell from his lips at the sight of them, a little too high and a little too hysterical to be at all natural.

         “I did it!” he said, speaking to the air to the right of Quinn’s head. “See, I knew I could do it without your help!”

         Who he thought he was talking to was anyone’s guess. Quinn suppressed the urge to back away from the unbalanced boy in favor of playing on. A couple more bars and he’d be too caught up in his own troubles to remember they were even there.

         Zee let out a whine as another dissonant pair rang through the room, and his eyes latched onto theirs. So much for that plan. What a frustratingly stubborn boy. “Y-You’re doing something to my head!” he breathed, waving the knife with one hand that was shaking and tangling the fingers of his other through his white hair. “He’s not here, but I can hear him again!”

         Now Quinn did move back because they did not like the look creeping into Zee’s eyes. Everyone reacted a little differently to having their anxieties played upon, and there was no surefire way of knowing what exactly they might do. Which was precisely why Quinn had wanted to keep their distance.

         “You have to stop!” Zee said, staggering towards them. His voice was quavering almost as much as his arms, and tears were streaming down his cheeks that he didn’t seem to notice. Quinn’s finger’s wanted to freeze–to heft the lute as the only shield between them and the anxious person with a dagger. “I d-don’t want to hurt you!” His breaths were coming raggedly in rapid puffs of air, like he was about to start hyperventilating.

         Just a little more. Quinn told themself, ignoring the shaking that was creeping into their own fingers. The revised rendition of the song was most of that way over.

         They had been paying so much attention to the weapon in Zee’s hand that they hadn’t notice the other hand stretch towards them. Suddenly the air was charged again, humming a high D sharp. Quinn didn’t think. They wrenched up the lute a millisecond before lightning struck, the instrument taking the brunt of the blast that knocked them backwards into the mirror behind them.

         Sharp pain burst from the back of their head where it hit and shattered the mirror behind them, and they could feel a trickle of warmth in their hair. There was an unpleasant ringing in their ears and a metallic taste in their mouth as blood poured from a bitten cheek. For a moment their vision swam in and out of focus before mercifully settling. Quinn Foley didn’t spare much time to worry about that. Heart pounding, they flipped over their lute.

         The enchantments seemed to have held–the instrument was in one piece with only a nasty char mark just below the neck as far as permanent damage went. On the not so permanent damage front though…

         Quinn stared at the snapped G-string with something like dread churning in their stomach. They stared at Zee, lying back against a mirror across from them, looking beat to all hell but already more alert now that Cacophony had been cut short. They looked down at their trembling fingers.

         “You shouldn’t have done that,” they whispered. With some difficulty, they forced themself back to their feet. The room tilted around them. Calm, calm. Deep breaths. It doesn’t matter.

         The motion sent Zee scrambling to regain his own footing. His limbs still shook. His eyes were still too wide. But the dagger was still in his hand.

         I’m not practiced enough for this. The thought pounded in their head–or maybe that was just throbbing from the blow they’d taken. Cacophony doesn’t use the bottom G-string much…but it would still shift the tune of the song. It would be a collection of wrong notes thrown into a spell that was already unstable. The song wouldn’t be controlled. It would be just like last time.

         …But it would probably work. And that was the worst part of all.

         Pick another song! But their fingers were already sliding on the strings, mentally adjusting for the necessary change in notes. He’s unbalanced–maybe Despair would work now.

Quinn Foley didn’t have time for maybes.

         “Selfish”, the shapeshifter’s accusation rang in their ears.

         Maybe I am, they thought.

“You’re bluffing,” Zee said, a bit more strongly than before. He really was resilient. “You can’t play with a broken string.” There was blood pooling around the collar on their jacket in the back. He noticed in the mirror, and his eyes widened in concern. “I don’t want to hurt you. Why don’t you just admit defeat and we’ll call it a match?”

         At the suggestion, something snapped inside them, and the heaviness that had been hanging around in their chest burst into something hot and angry.

         Better selfish than stuck with how things are now.

         Quinn faced him, fingers hovering over the strings and the words ‘I’m sorry’ hovering in the back of their throat despite the anger. Because they had been down this road before, and this time they couldn’t call it an accident.

         When it became obvious that Quinn wasn’t going to be backing down, Zee lunged forward, dagger in hand. When he moved to strike the dagger was low, clearly avoiding aiming for the head or chest, but another lost string would be worse than either. Quinn, against all instinct, slammed their arm into the blade, trusting enchantments to keep it from slicing through their jacket and into flesh. Zee clearly hadn’t anticipated this, and the dagger flew from his trembling hand and went skidding across the floor. They expected him to make a dive for the lost weapon, so they weren’t prepared for him to pull out a second dagger from a strap on his left hip and come at them low. They had to scramble sideways to clumsily avoid getting stabbed in the thigh. Zee’s momentum carried him forward and the moment it took him to regain his balance was just enough for them to recompose themself.

         Quinn struck the first two notes of Cacophony again, this time in a sharp key. This time louder and less controlled. Every muscle in Zee’s body froze. The dagger fell out of his grasp and Quinn kicked it away. When Zee tried to move to pick it up, Quinn sent another couple of dissonant notes singing, and his limbs started trembling too hard to cooperate.

         There were warm drops trailing down Quinn’s cheeks. When they spoke it was half an apology and half an explanation.

         “You’re in my way.”

         As Zee’s mind was already off-kilter from Cacophony’s tamer rendition, it barely took a couple bars before the song’s original form fully took hold. With a missing string, the melody took on a hint of oddness, but kept its same shape. Everything went sharper than intended, and when Zee shakily tried to stand and face them, Quinn raised the tempo, pushed the notes louder and faster. Zee fell to his knees. A sixteenth note run with two holes where the G should be sent shivers through the air, and he let out an anguished noise that was much too quiet to be a yell but too loud to go unheard. They pushed on anyway.

         It was impossible to hear their own beating heart over the music. It was impossible, and they told themself so.

         Zee went down a lot quieter than Bran Cleary had, with quiet shaking and whispers of “No, no, no…” until his breathing became too uneven carry on with even that. They knew the moment he broke–not quite halfway in, just before the first repeat–when a peal of laughter tore from his lips, and his body started rocking side to side. Gradually, Quinn let the song fade out into nothing, staring at their own reflection in the shattered bits of glass clinging to the mirror in front of them.

         It felt like an eternity before the last dissonant notes faded away, leaving nothing but the sounds of Zee Hawth trapped in the prison of his own anxious mind.

         A moment passed, then another, and Quinn began to nervously wonder what exactly the Dreambender considered ‘defeat’. Just as they were beginning to work themselves into a quandary, though a swirling blue exit portal popped into existence, scaring the spit out of them.

         As eager as they were to be gone, their feet hesitated just in front of the portal without their consent. Thoughts wandered through their head unbidden.

          He’ll be okay…right? Death in the mindscape wasn’t permanent. Injury wasn’t supposed to be either. But this was the playground of the mind, after all…what about mental injuries?

         In the corner, Zee Hawth let out a small whimpering sound that was far more chilling than any dissonant song could be, and the thing about mirrored rooms was that you couldn’t quite look away, no matter how hard you tried.

         Cold, the shapeshifter had called them. Selfish. Monster. A shame there were no voices in their head here save their own.

         Definitely a witch if he’s got that much magic hanging around him. Unless he had had a particularly bad curse put on him, which Quinn doubted if the Dreambender himself had invited him to participate in his tournament.

         The witch was watching them back, a pleasant smile on his face that Quinn might have taken at face value had they been meeting on street corner rather than a fight to the death. “Oh, my, you’re looking pretty high-strung, there.” He said.

         Quinn’s hands tightened around their lute and they glanced over the thread, yarn, and needles sticking out of the guy’s hair. Was…was that supposed to be some kind of pun?

         Unsure how to react to that, they turned back to surveying what was in front of them. The path immediately ahead looked relatively clear, but down the way a field of what were probably flowers and assorted plant-life had overgrown the road, turning it into a meadow of neon colored blossoms that looked innocent enough, if not blinding. Probably a trap. Having grown up alongside cute-but-deadly creatures their whole life, Quinn was taking Alcor’s warning about the flora and fauna seriously.

         Which meant, despite every instinct screaming at them to get a move on, Quinn was reluctant to be the first to run off from the start and get offed by a rabid bunny or something. Not that it would be any better to let the witch over there get a head start, but you couldn’t exactly win a race if you were dead.

         “You seem conflicted,” said witch mused, still firmly standing on the starting line. “By all means, do go on ahead. I wouldn’t want my caution to tie you back.”

         Is this guy trying to psyche me out? He didn’t look like he was trying to trick them, but Quinn had met enough liars to know not to trust a friendly face. He wants me to go first? Of course, then he could follow behind from a safe distance while they tripped any obstacles and attracted every monster within spitting distance. Or is he bluffing and he really is trying to psyche me out and make me hesitate…that would give their opponent a head start that could prove to be their downfall.

         Quinn huffed and shook their head. Idiot, you’re just wasting even more time now. It’s a race! Don’t over think it. Just go!

Casting one last side-glance at the witch, Quinn hefted their lute and took off sprinting.

         Besides, it wasn’t like they wouldn’t hear the witch coming with all of that magic clinging to him.

         It was about the time Quinn hit the meadow that they realized they might be a bit out of their depth here.

         Upon first approach the flowers didn’t seem immediately dangerous. They didn’t grow fangs or turn into monsters and reach out to bite Quinn’s ankles like they had half-expected them to, so Quinn instead turned their concerns about the type of creatures that might be lurking underneath the cover of the brightly colored blooms, thoughts of snakes and angry rodents crossing their mind.

         With this in mind, Quinn ran their fingers along the lute’s keys and adjusted the tuning before easing into the first few bars of Nocturne, figuring that if the song spell could put an angry griffin to sleep then it could probably sooth a couple of rabid garden creatures. After finding a calm balance between the nervous thrumming of their pulse and a fleet tempo, they felt confident enough to step forward into the field, wary of the fact that their opponent couldn’t be very far behind them.

         A couple of things made themselves quickly apparent. First and foremost was the fact that just because the plants didn’t initially act threatening did not in fact mean that they weren’t murderous hellspawn. The moment Quinn’s ankle brushed a bright electric blue tulip with a smiley face on its center was the moment said flower’s petals grew to be about as long as Quinn’s arms and its cutesy smiling mouth opened and stretched to form an angry maw with rows of sharp teeth.

         Secondly, and perhaps the most obvious thing that they should have considered beforehand: plants did not have ears. Nor did they in fact sleep. Quinn didn’t think of this, unfortunately, until the surprised and somewhat desperate crescendo that they forced from their fingertips on instinct at the attack, failed to have any affect on the devil plant.

         Quinn leaped backwards from the gnashing teeth, which got them out of snapping range but also brought them stumbling over an assortment of other flowers. This lead to yet another horrifying discovery: apparently all of the flowers in the field reacted to touch, and each color of flower had its own uniquely horribly reaction. While the blue flowers turned into snarling monsters with giant teeth, the bright orange ones grew long vines that swung themselves around like glorified jump ropes and would try to strangle you. The blindingly yellow sunflowers actually jumped off of their stalks and spun around in the air, petals stiffening into blades that turned the flower heads into improvised ninja stars. The garish red flowers flat out turned on their stalks and shot lazar beams at them, because for gods’ sakes there was no kill like overkill.

         (There were a couple of lilies strewn about the chaos that didn’t seem to be causing any trouble other than belting out pre-Transcendence pop songs whenever disturbed. Quinn hated them the most.)

         With zero time to plan and a song that was falling on nonexistent ears, Quinn dropped the sleep spell from their fingers, hiked the collar of their jacket as high up on their neck as it would go, and, ran, thanking whatever gods may be for the strengthening and heat resistant enchantments on their jacket and lute.

         They lost count of times that seeking teeth and razor petals bit into the leather of their sleeves only to be mercifully repelled, and there were a couple of heart stopping moments when some of the vines almost succeeded in tangling themselves around their backpack. After a few terrifying moments of blind running and kicking out at tangling vines and stems, they hefted their lute by its neck, and switched to wielding it as a club. Begging forgiveness from whatever musical deities might exist, they swung the lute wildly to bat the angry foliage aside and deflect lazar blasts, hoping beyond hope that the reinforcement enchantments on the instrument would hold.

         Quinn was pretty sure that they were going to get eaten alive by flowers here at the start of the race and not even make it past the first round when they stepped on something squishy underneath the tangle of flowers and found themselves thrown up in the air, barely missing getting their had snapped by a cheerful blue flower. In their brief moment off the ground they glimpsed brown bumps just barely visible under the flower heads from above. Mushrooms? Curious, once their feet were back on the ground, Quinn made for one and hopped on its head with both feet, praying that it wouldn’t grow a head and try to eat her too. Just like the first mushroom they’d stepped on, this one also sent them bouncing high into the air, flailing to avoid the projectile sunflowers and lazar beams flying about. They’re like trampolines!

When jumped on, each mushroom released a puff of glittery dust, which Quinn didn’t doubt was poisonous. However, it seemed that as long as they kept moving forward they could avoid inhaling the stuff. Better yet, they were able to move forward without disturbing quite as many flowers that way.

         It was in this manner with quite a bit of dodging ability, a fair amount of speedy bouncing, and a significant amount of whacking that Quinn made it to the edge of the meadow with battered boots, torn clothing, and some nasty cuts on their face, hands, and legs but thankfully everything intact.

         Once on the other side, Quinn resisted the urge to flop down in the middle of the road and take a rest to catch their breath. Instead, they settled for walking and turning their lute over in their hands, searching it over for damage. There looked to be a couple of nicks on the instrument’s body in places where razor sharp petals had hit, and there were a couple scorch marks on the wood from defecting the red flowers’ unlikely lazar beams. It was still in one piece, though, and a couple strums proved it to still be in playing condition.

         They nearly jumped out of their skin when their foot brushed a smiling lily that had sprouted up in the middle the path, causing it to start shrieking a high-pitched rendition of “Ladies Really Don’t Want to Not Have Fun”.Eye twitching, stomped the flower into the dirt until the singing finally, blessedly stopped. Looking down at the trampled mess of petals, they almost felt bad for the poor thing. Almost.

         There were some rustling sounds off in the fluffy pink bushes on the side of the path. Quinn quickened their pace and took up Nocturne again, louder this time. The only good thing about the plants was that they couldn’t chase you…well, probably not anyway.

         The path stayed mostly clear for a small stretch, and the sleep spell seemed to be working to keep whatever might be lurking off of the path at bay for now because nothing jumped out at them. After a sharp bend in the road, though, the bushes on the wayside thinned out and instead gave way to what could only be described as a forest of massive pieces of candy.

         Of course, Quinn thought, eyeing towering candy canes and walls of chocolate bars. No cheerful hellscape would be complete without an overload of sugar.

The grass had gone from an improbable but constant shade of neon green to shifting between any technicolor that it damn well pleased, making the ground look like it was moving. They were also pretty sure that the squishy pastel colored bushes strewn about were actually made of marshmallow. To make the headache-inducing nightmare even worse, there was now a river of rainbows running along the side of the road.

         Just keep going, just keep going, they chanted to themselves. Best to just take the strangeness at face value and move on. After what had just happened the last thing they wanted to do was stop to inspect something and set off another death trap.

         The marshmallow bushes were trembling, and Quinn got the distinct feeling that they were being watched despite the fact that Nocturne was still floating in the breeze. Maybe it’s not as effective to things further away? Maybe they should have tested some of their spells out in the larger griffin enclosures.They willed themselves to stop thinking about it; ‘maybe’ was a monster in its own right.

         Not even a minute down the path and they could definitely hear things moving around, hidden by stalks of candy bars and creeping behind lumps of gumdrops unseen but definitely there and definitely not asleep. Quinn reluctantly crescendoed the music as they looped the song back to the beginning again, afraid that too much louder would unbalance the spell and make it entirely useless. Most of the scurrying footsteps paused or slowed after that, but not all. Between a pair of marshmallows, they managed to spot one of the offending creatures swaying in place–some weird hybrid creature with a winding, snakelike head and the body of a badger.

         Despite the tension dogging their steps, everything was going well until the rainbow river wound its way around to block the path. Quinn paused at the bank, wondering just how likely it was that the rainbow liquid wasn’t actually water and how awful an idea swimming across would be. Their heart just about stopped when a giant furry head broke the surface.

         A giant yellow dog rose up out of the depths, friendly and smiling as every other damn thing in this technicolor nightmare. They told themself that they shouldn’t be surprised at this point. That didn’t keep their heart from racing and adrenaline from shooting into their veins. It took every ounce of will power in their bones to force their fingers to keep the strings dancing, fumbling a couple of notes in the process.

         The dog stood and shook off the droplets of rainbow liquid still clinging to its fur, which Quinn leaped backwards sharply to avoid. Then it lowered its massive head towards them, squinting its eyes at the lute in their hands but otherwise unaffected by the spell entirely. It was becoming quickly apparent that there were indeed things worse than an angry griffin.

Quinn swallowed nervously as the beast blinked at them, and by now their song was only still going on pure muscle memory and a fear that drowsiness was all that was keeping the monsters lurking in the background at bay.

         “Hello there!” the yellow dog said, wagging its massive tail and lifting its front paw out towards them. Quinn flinched backwards instinctively and hit another wrong note. “Would you like to lick my candy paw?”

         For the first time in years, their hands completely faltered on the strings, and they let the song fall apart into silence. Quinn Foley stood starting at a giant yellow dog in an imaginary candy forest and found themself truly and utterly at a loss for how to react.

         “Um,” they managed, stupefied. “I, um…” They fidgeted with the lute’s tuning pegs nervously, noting somewhere in the back of their mind that the landscape around them was not as silent as it should have been in their song’s absence. “No thank you…?”

         Obviously that was the wrong thing to say.

         The dog’s previously friendly face suddenly turned murderous and its eyes flashed a very much unhappy shade of red. Quinn started backing up until their back hit a massive candy cane. The paw that had previously been held out as an offer turned and swiped at them, and razor sharp claws would have taken off their head had they not had the presence of mind to duck and roll to the side. Instead, the claws sliced through the base of the candy cane, cutting it clean in two. Quinn would have been thrilled by the fact that the large stalk of candy toppled in just the right direction to not only avoid crushing them but also form a nice bridge across the rainbow river of death had it not been for the fact that the stupid piece of candy wasn’t the only thing that came down.

         Crashing to the ground after having been shaken from his perch clinging to the side of the giant piece of candy was the witch.

         How did he get up there? Quinn thought.

         How long has he been right behind me? Quinn thought.

         How the hell is he still awake? Quinn thought. Then they got irritated.

         They didn’t get to dwell on it for long, though, because the giant dog made a dive for both of them, snarling in a most unfriendly fashion. By some miracle it went for the witch first, leaving Quinn enough time to roll to their feet and put some distance between them and the beast. They were all for scrambling across the newly created candy bridge and leaving their opponent to their demise, but an abrupt increase in volume of the magic hum surrounding the witch made them pause and glance back curiously, just in time to see a long length of red yarn shoot out from the witch’s hand and wrap around the dog’s paws.

         Predictably, the beast stumbled and fell, growling as more yarn weaved itself through its legs to tangle it further. It looked like that might have been the end of it, but a moment later the dog snarled and flexed its legs, causing enough of the yarn to snap so that it could lunge forward, towards the witch. The witch just smiled serenely. At his side, a metal knitting needle floated out from his nest of hair and stabbed the dog in the eye.

         “My, my,” he said to the beast as strings continued to fly forward and tie it up while it writhed in an effort to escape, “I do so hate violence. I would have been content just stringing you up, but it appears you’re not very sharp.”

         More puns, Quinn pursed their lips. And knitting puns at that. Oh, gods, I guess you could say he’s a knit-witch. Hah!

Their eyes darted between the bridge and the witch, considering. They really didn’t want to get into an altercation, especially not when they could hear the monsters in the candy underbrush starting to stir now that the giant dog was down and there was no song to subdue them. But…

         He seems to have followed me this far without me knowing it while avoiding the monsters I haven’t managed to sedate. That was going to be a problem up the road if it continued. And given that Quinn couldn’t run and play at the same time, well, it was only a matter of time before the knit-witch caught up with them again anyway. It may be better to settle things here and now when the finish line wasn’t in view.

         Quinn hopped up on the candy cane bridge, edging their way sideways across it and letting their fingers play on the lute again. The witch didn’t give any indication of noticing when they took up the song. He’s done something to block his hearing, probably, they decided. Once across the rainbow river, Quinn eyed the quivering in the underbrush that told of yet more monsters eager to meet them. Knowing now that volume was definitely not a good enough boost to knock out the murderous creatures, instead they opened their mouth and sang.

         Most of the spells that Quinn had composed had a vocal version–sometimes following the same melody as the lute’s song but other times forming a harmony. There were almost never words incorporated–that would feel too much like a verbal spell for their own pride to be comfortable with. While the lute songs and vocals could be used independently of each other with pretty much the same effect, the few experiments Quinn had been able to do showed that combining the two could improve spell effectiveness overall. It tended to be a bit of a dodgy practice, though, considering that Quinn wasn’t the greatest singer, and if they got too off pitch it could make the entire thing fall apart. Now, though, across the river from immediate danger and with the stone cold determination setting in their stomach that came with knowing that a fight was brewing, they were willing to risk it.

         Quinn’s voice started off just a hair on the flat side, but they were able to adjust, mostly, and blend their voice to weave in juxtaposition with the melody flowing through the strings and up into the air. Almost immediately the movements of monsters froze and everything on their side of the river stilled into complacence as their voice and the lute’s danced together in the breeze like lovers, gentle and sweet.

         That was, until Quinn felt thin tendril creeping around their boots and shrieked, jumping about a foot in the air and dropping the song like a stone.

         The witch was standing on the same side as them now, only a few meters away. Lengths of yarn and thread extended from his fingers like puppet strings as he watched them.

         “How courteous of you to wait,” he said.

         Quinn opened their mouth to retort, but then noticed that the witch had somehow tied a knitted square over each of his ears. If it had been ordinary fabric Quinn would have scoffed at the attempt at makeshift earmuffs, but with the magic yarn that the man used it was likely that the material had been enchanted to successfully block out sound. “A bit pointless trying to hold a conversation when you’ve already turned a deaf ear, yeah?” This was not good. Not good at all.

         Obviously the witch hadn’t heard what they said, but he responded to the fact that they had spoken. “This does take out all the fun of chatting, unfortunately. Quite a shame.”

         The witch stretched his fingers and yarn coiled towards them again. With nothing practical to intercept or cut with, Quinn leaped backwards away from the seeking strands. They briefly considered the idea of using the lute to deflect with but then dropped the idea as soon as they remembered the way that the magic yarn had easily entangled the giant dog still tied up across the river–what a fantastic way to lose the only form of weapon that they had.

         Quinn quickly found themself tied up in a game of dodging and ducking between the giant candy pieces surrounding them for all their agility was worth, chased by strings weaving themselves through the obstacles. In the middle of what was quickly becoming a web of crafting material, the witch stood placidly, directing his fingers like a puppet master and watching them run was a pleasant smile on his face.

         Counter to every instinct that was screaming at them to run forward down the road instead of in these circles that were just making a mess of the area, Quinn continued to loop in circles around the witch. Given how he had apparently been using his magic string to climb the candy stalks and stay out of danger, they doubted that he was likely to stand much risk of getting tangled up in his own threads. But keeping this fight stuck in one area where all of the bloodthirsty creatures interested in killing them were sound asleep was well worth the time it was taking.

         There was that, and there was that fact that while Mr. Witch was enjoying his little game of thread-the-needle Quinn was getting up close and personal with his magical yarn and thread. And they were listening.

         Many thundering heartbeats with about a million near misses later and they had it. Middle F, slightly sharp. Blindly, they twisted the lute’s keys a hair, bringing the notes a little sharper than usual so that they match with the hum of magical vibrations. They nearly turned the wrong way and ran face first into the mess of yarn forming around them in the process. Careful, careful. Fast, but careful. Experimentally they struck the F string. A slightly sharp middle F hummed through the air, and every magical strand in the area shuddered.

A smirk split Quinn’s face, perhaps a bit too happy for something currently running for their life. Aaaand we’re in tune.

Of all of the songs Quinn had composed over the years, the vast majority of them were based in psychological manipulation–spells for sleep, spells for inspiring anger, spells to make a person disoriented, that sort of thing. It was just the type of thing you wanted if you were aiming to get revenge on terrible classmates or arrogant teachers with little chance of getting caught. It was not, however, ideal when your opponent had their ears plugged and was slowly ensnaring you in a web of string.

         Which left Quinn’s least favorite song, and incidentally the easiest one to play when you were concentrated on keeping ahead of the witch trying to tangle you instead of what your hands were doing. It also just happened to be the absolute only song in their repertoire to date that required sung lyrics to accompany unless they wanted the whole ridiculous landscape to go up in flames.

         Quinn ducked, two lengths of thread flying over their head, and automatically rolled away from the growing web, coming up in a clear area on the path and barely avoiding having their leg snagged. In the half a moment that it took the witch to adjust his strings accordingly, Quinn came up standing and struck up the short, easy chord combinations that spelled out the melody of Conflagration, now in the sharp key that the magical yarn and threads were bound in.

         The lyrics were always a bit trickier, usually following the same format but having to be adjusted depending on what Quinn’s target was. Just as they were about to jump in with words two pieces of yarn finally succeeded in slithering around their ankles and they were tumbling backwards onto the ground. The impact caused their fingers to jump–a split-second break in the song that was almost enough to shatter the buzz of magic that was building in the space around them.

         Yarn tugging at their boots, Quinn scooted backwards as best as they could with little success. Dammit! The red string curled up their legs slowly but surely. They were going to have to be fast.

         Reaching for that calm place within them that let them face down an angry griffin without flinching, Quinn stared at the witch and sang:

         Lute strings and yarn,

         Yarn and lute strings.

         Mercifully, their voice slid into the right key without much adjustment. Each repetition of the word yarn came out a sharp middle F, making the strands hanging in the air and crawling up their legs shiver.

         One of them burns,

         One of them sings.

The magic buzzing along with the musical notes flitting through the air locked onto the strings weaved between Quinn and the witch before sparking to life. All around them the magical yarn and threads began to tremble and smoke. Quinn was a good distance from where the witch was standing, but not far enough away to miss the widening of his natural eye as the web surrounding him burst into flames.

         Quinn cut off the song with a sharp yelp as the strands wrapped halfway up their legs caught too, and they broke off playing to roll on the ground to put it out. Luckily the yarn weakened as the fire burned through it and snapped, giving them the chance to fling the stuff off of their legs before they got too severely burned. Walking out of this is going to suck.

After regaining the fragments of their composure, Quinn used the giant lollipop sticking out of the ground nearby to lean again. Most of the flames were already dying down and leaving smoldering but still intact string.

         The witch was not amused. While Quinn had been scrambling to free their legs, he had torn off his sparking earmuffs, reddening marks on his outer ears showing where he hadn’t been quite fast enough. The song hadn’t been strong enough to ignite the fully knitted pieces of cloth, but it had been enough to set them smoldering. Apparently deciding that he’d rather not add more fuel to the fire, the witch dropped his threads and withdrew a pair of metal knitting needles form his wild hair. His smile, now lit by the glow of the smoldering web surrounding him, had lost all of its pleasantness. The blood in Quinn’s veins ran cold despite the fire-born warmth building in the air.

         “It seems that I’m somehow just not getting my point across,” he said. There was a darkness in his eyes that made Quinn want to bury themself in the ground. “Let’s see if can change your tune.”

         A metal shaft sprouted from the lollipop stick right next to their head, and a shriek escaped Quinn’s throat as they jumped away from it. They had barely seen the witch lift his hand to throw the needle.

         Calm, calm, they told themself, and they forced themselves to pick up the song again, notes jumping from their fingers like the sparks still flitting around in the mess of yarn and threads between them and the witch. Make it stronger this time.

         Lute strings and thread,

         Thread and lute strings.

         One of them burns,

         One of them sings.

         The dying flames singeing the threads burst back into life, and tall flames licked the yarn and ate through it.

         Shirk! Another needle flew past their head, and they didn’t dodge fast enough to avoid a hot flash of pain where the metal nicked their left ear. Quinn Foley squared their shoulders and played on. A little more, a little stronger. A new line of lyrics wrote itself in their mind and flowed past their lips.

         Threading and yarn,

         Lute strings and song.

         Set fire to stitching,

         And burn till it’s gone!

They winced at the slant rhyme, hating how split second lyrics never came out quite how they planned. It was a short-lived nit-pick because as the last note of the spell floated from their lips several things happened:

         First and foremost the fire flared and almost immediately finished eating through what was left of yarn and thread, once again turning the web of assorted string into a web of fire before burning itself out.

         Secondly, the witch started screaming as his leg caught fire.

         The last couple of notes of Conflagration died on Quinn’s fingers, and they stood staring. The witch’s screams only increased in volume, as if to fill the absence of the song. His entire left leg–clothed only by a knee-high knitted sock–was engulfed in flames. It took them a moment to understand. The lyrics had supposed to ensure that the fire only touched the magic yarn and thread; it shouldn’t have affected ordinary items of clothing–otherwise their own clothes would have caught fire.

         When they realized their hands came up to their mouth in horror, and they felt faintly like retching.

         His entire leg is knitted from the knee down. All with magic yarn. Magic yarn that was quickly being eaten away by the improved fire spell, leaving nothing of the knitted prosthetic.

         The witch finally noticed them still standing there, and his head snapped up to stare at them with such a look of raw hatred that Quinn really did almost throw up.

         “You!” he snarled, reaching up to his mess of hair, looking to grab something. To grab what Quinn never found out because they turned and ran, steel nerves finally faltering.

         Casting another sleep spell didn’t cross their mind as they flew down the path this time. Without worrying about playing they blew past potential hiding places for monsters without much thought other than putting as much distance between them and what they had just seen as possible.

         In the end, the pain from the fresh burns they had received and a cheerfully pink sign announcing the finish line were what finally slowed them to a walk just as they stepped out of the candy forest.

         I just crippled a man, they thought. Though, well, not permanently if this was just the Mindscape…but still.

         Was it worth it? They wondered. Their footsteps froze a couple of meters from the finish line. There was blood dripping freely down their neck from where one of the witch’s knitting needle had clipped their ear. There were cuts and bruises all over their body and burns on their legs from their own fire spell. They were mentally and physically exhausted, and they were going to be having nightmares about a certain witch staring at them with murder in his eyes probably forever.

         Sighing, Quinn ran a hand through their hair…then shrieked as a fluffy white rabbit that had crept up from the side of the road sank its teeth into their ankle. It took a couple of frantic moments to beat the thing off with their lute and send it scurrying back from whence it came. After that they decided that, for now, the answer to their question was a confident ‘maybe’ and started forward again before anything else could take a bite out of them.