The cell door creaked open, and a stern-looking guard stepped inside, his face shadowed beneath a worn, dented helmet. Behind him stood the village elder, her expression sharp and cold, like stone weathered by years of distrust. Her gaze fixed on Henry, unwavering.

"You will come with us," she said, her voice icy and detached.

Henry swallowed hard, his heart hammering as he tried to keep his voice steady. "What do you want with us?"

The elder's gaze hardened further. "You'll stand before the council," she replied. "It's time to face judgment for bringing this curse upon our village."

Sarah's fingers tightened on Henry's arm, her knuckles turning white. "Please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "We haven't done anything wrong."

The elder barely glanced her way. "Save your pleas. The evidence is clear."

Henry felt a surge of anger tighten his chest. "What evidence? You've taken my wand, accused us without proof. We're not responsible for the mist!"

The guard took a menacing step forward. "Enough," he barked, his voice grating. "You'll come quietly, or we'll make you."

Reluctantly, Henry nodded. "Fine. We'll come. But we deserve a chance to defend ourselves."

"As if there's any defense for bringing darkness upon us," the elder muttered.

They were led down a dim corridor, torches flickering on the damp stone walls. Sarah walked close to Henry, her head downcast, fear evident in her every step. The air grew heavier as they approached the grand hall, murmurs of a gathered crowd reaching their ears.

They emerged into a vast chamber filled with villagers. Faces grim and unyielding surrounded them, eyes narrowed with suspicion and dread. At the far end, the council sat atop a raised platform, the village elder taking the center seat.

Henry and Sarah were brought to stand before them, the weight of countless gazes pressing down like a physical force. The elder rose, her voice echoing through the hall. "These outsiders stand accused of bringing the curse of the mist upon our village. They will face judgment."

A hush fell over the crowd as the elder continued. "Does anyone speak in their defense?"

Silence.

Elara froze mid-step, one foot hovering in the air as though caught between thoughts. Her head tilted sharply to one side, her curls bobbing erratically, and she let out a low hum that was far too cheerful for the tension in the room. "Plainly?" she echoed, her voice lilting as if she'd been asked to define the very concept of words. "Oh, dear blacksmith, plain is such a dull shade for a canvas this... messy."

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

She twirled suddenly, her wings flaring out, scattering faint motes of light that shimmered like fireflies in the dim hall. "Do you know what’s fascinating about riddles?" she asked, her gaze fixing on the blacksmith with unsettling intensity. "They make you think. And thinking--ah, thinking--is a rare and lovely thing in the face of fear."

The blacksmith flinched but held his ground. "This isn't a game, fairy."

Elara’s eyes went wide, then narrowed as if she'd heard something absolutely scandalous. "Not a game? Everything is a game, my sturdy friend. The mist plays with your sanity, the village plays at blame, and you--" she tapped her chin dramatically, "--you play at looking brave while your hands tremble."

Gasps rippled through the crowd, and the blacksmith’s cheeks reddened. Henry groaned inwardly. She wasn’t exactly helping.

"Elara," he hissed, tugging at her sleeve, but she swatted his hand away with the casualness of someone shooing a fly. "Shush, darling. I’m on a roll." She turned back to the crowd, her expression as serene as a pond moments before a stone breaks the surface.

"You all want answers," she said, her voice softening into something melodic and strange. "But here’s the truth: the mist is not your enemy. It’s not theirs, either." She gestured toward Henry and Sarah without looking. "The mist is an invitation. A door. It simply exists--like rain or shadows. It’s what lurks inside of you that shapes it."

The villagers recoiled, their muttering growing louder. The elder’s eyes flashed. "And what are you suggesting? That we are the cause of this plague?"

Elara clasped her hands behind her back, rocking on her heels like a child caught in mischief. "Not suggesting. Stating. It’s your fear, your anger, your secrets--" she rolled the word on her tongue as if tasting it, "--that give it strength. But if you’d rather point fingers and burn people at stakes, well, that’s certainly one way to keep warm on a chilly evening."

A stunned silence fell over the room. Henry’s heart pounded as he watched the villagers’ faces shift from outrage to confusion and back again. Beside him, Sarah clutched his arm tightly, her fingers digging into his sleeve.

The elder finally spoke, her voice low and dangerous. "You speak as if you know the mist. As if you are part of it."

Elara’s head snapped toward the elder, her unblinking gaze sharp and glittering. "Maybe I am," she said with a whisper of a smile, her tone both playful and utterly serious. "Or maybe I’m just the only one here willing to look at the mess you’ve made and call it what it is."

Her wings twitched, and she turned sharply, pacing back toward Henry and Sarah. "Come along, darlings," she chirped, her tone abruptly cheerful. "We’ve entertained these lovely folks long enough. Let’s not overstay our welcome."

"But--" Henry started, but Elara didn’t wait. She waved her hand dismissively, scattering more of her strange, shimmering light. "Don’t worry. They’ll figure it out. Or they won’t." She leaned closer to him, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But if they don’t, it’ll be hilarious. When the elder goes crazy, run."

Henry glanced nervously at the crowd and then back at Elara, who was already floating lazily toward the door, her wings glowing softly. With a sigh, he followed, Sarah close behind.

From behind them, the elder's voice rang out, steely and cold. "This isn’t over."

Elara didn’t look back. "Oh, it never is," she called out with a singsong lilt.

“Guard’s Seize them! They have the hat!.” They booked it.