An hour later, Henry and Elara trudged through an old, abandoned mineshaft carved by the ancient dwarves. The air was damp and cold, clinging to his skin and carrying the scent of stale earth and stone. Mineral deposits glittered faintly along the walls, but their beauty was lost on Henry. His stomach felt like it was folding in on itself.

He rummaged through his pack with trembling fingers and pulled out a chunk of crusty bread and some dried fruit. It was stale and unappetizing, but hunger gnawed at him with the viciousness of a starving wolf. He bit off a mouthful of bread, barely noticing the grit between his teeth.

Elara buzzed around him in chaotic spirals, her wings a jittery blur. She was humming a tune—something bright and lilting, though it occasionally slipped into discordant notes that set his teeth on edge. Without warning, she stopped, hovering inches from his face, her grin stretched wide and manic.

“Hey, Henry! Wanna see something cool?” Her eyes gleamed like twin pinpricks of madness.

He chewed furiously, determined to finish his bite. “If it doesn’t involve you flinging guts around, sure.”

She clapped her hands, eyes glittering. “I make no promises!”

With a snap of her fingers, a glowing orb appeared in her palm. It shuddered violently before expanding into a twisted pinwheel, its edges jagged and serrated. The thing spun manically, slicing through the still air with a sickening whirr.

“Isn’t it pretty?” Elara whispered, her voice like the edge of a blade. Before he could respond, she flung the pinwheel into the air. It detonated with a wet, meaty pop, sending out a shower of writhing, fleshy worms. Each one squirmed through the air, covered in glistening, bulging eyes that blinked in nauseating synchrony.

Henry’s jaw froze mid-chew. The dry bread turned to paste in his mouth.

The worms began whispering—sibilant, breathy murmurs that slithered through the tunnel, hinting at decay, betrayal, and things better left forgotten.

Henry gagged. His stomach clenched, hunger evaporating into a cold void of revulsion. He tore the bread from his mouth and dropped it, the half-chewed mush splattering onto the stone floor.

He stared at the twitching worms, bile rising in his throat. “What in the actual hell is wrong with you?”

Elara twirled through the air, her laugh a spiraling crescendo of glee and madness. She caught one of the worms, cradling it like a precious jewel. “Oh, Henry, you’re so picky. They’re just a little squishy!”

She squeezed the worm, and it popped, splattering his boots with something that smelled like spoiled meat.

Henry’s stomach lurched. He shoved his pack closed and stumbled away, his appetite thoroughly murdered.

Elara drifted after him, her grin a razor-thin crescent. “Why so squeamish? They just want to say hello!”

“I don’t want their hello,” he muttered, his face pale. “I want them to die horribly.”

She giggled, spinning upside down. “You’re no fun when you’re queasy.”

“Then stop making me queasy!”

She pouted, eyes glinting. “Where’s the joy in that?”

The worms convulsed where they hung in the damp air, their glistening forms twitching in a macabre dance. One by one, their flesh began to split, thin cracks forming along their segmented bodies. Wet, peeling sounds filled the tunnel as the worms’ outer layers sloughed off, curling back like rotting petals.

From the ruptured husks, something pale and delicate unfolded. Gossamer wings, slick with mucus, slowly unfurled, catching the dim light of the mineshaft. The creatures trembled, shedding the last of their slimy skins. What emerged were moths—wings translucent, veins etched in crimson, eyes still bulbous and glassy. They fluttered weakly at first, then took flight in chaotic spirals, leaving faint trails of damp, red mist in their wake.

The moths didn’t vanish; they hovered, their pale forms pulsing with a soft, crimson glow. They cast trembling, wavering light onto the rough tunnel walls, their chaotic movements sending shadows skittering and twisting like living things. The air was filled with the faint, papery rustle of their wings—a sound that prickled against Henry's skin.

Henry stumbled back, his breath quickening. One of the moths landed on his shoulder, its tiny feet cold and clammy through his shirt. It pulsed once, twice—then a thin proboscis unfurled, inching toward his neck like a needle seeking a vein.

With a strangled yell, he swatted it away, his hand coming back smeared with sticky, dark residue. The moth burst apart midair, its wings disintegrating into a fine, red powder that clung to his skin. He shuddered, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, but the powder clung stubbornly, seeping into the creases of his skin.

Elara hovered nearby, her eyes wide with an unsettling, innocent delight. The fluttering moths circled her like a macabre halo. “See? They grew up so fast! Don’t you just love a good metamorphosis?”

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“Metamorphosis into what?” he snapped, his voice tight. “Weapons-grade nightmare fuel?”

She grinned, teeth sharp and eyes glinting. “Exactly! Aren’t they precious?”

The moths illuminated the path ahead, their glow constant but flickering, casting writhing shadows that made the walls seem to breathe. Henry watched in uneasy awe as one landed gently on his shoulder, its glow pulsing before it vanished in a soft, wet sigh.

“How do you do that?” he asked, curiosity slipping through his wariness.

Elara's grin widened, her eyes glinting with something wild. “Oh, it’s not magic, silly. It’s love—the kind that squeezes too tight and leaves bruises.”

They continued walking, the tension tightening like a noose. Elara clapped her hands, and instead of a whimsical toy, a grotesque marionette dropped into existence, dangling on tangled, rusted wires. Its wooden face was painted in a cracked, unsettling smile, eyes hollow voids that leaked a slow, black ooze. The limbs twitched violently as she manipulated the wires, making the puppet jerk and convulse like a broken corpse strung up for a macabre show.

The marionette’s jaw fell open with a brittle snap, its mouth lined with jagged splinters. A slow trickle of crimson welled up from its throat, staining its wooden chest like a spreading wound. Elara giggled, twisting her fingers to make the puppet’s arms claw at its own face, tearing away thin curls of rotted wood.

“Shh,” she whispered, eyes wide and feverish. “He’s trying to remember where he left his skin.”

Henry recoiled, bile rising in his throat. “What is that?”

“Just a toy that got lost,” she cooed, her voice sweet as decay. “But it found its way back to me. They always come back.”

The puppet’s head twisted with a sickening crack, its hollow eyes locking onto Henry. A sound like a wet rattle escaped its throat, as if trying—and failing—to form words.

Henry swallowed hard, every nerve screaming to run.

“Watch this!" She jerked the marionette. "Walk the dog!” The marionette tumbled forward, limbs scraping across the ground in grotesque spasms, wires unspooling with a metallic clatter. With a sharp snap, she yanked it back, and it dangled before her, head lolling, mouth twitching open.

Henry’s jaw clenched. “Elara, what the hell are you doing? That thing isn’t a toy!”

She ignored him, eyes gleaming with a wild light. “Around the world!” She spun the marionette in a wide arc, its hollow eyes leaking black ooze. The jaw creaked wider, splinters cracking, and a faint sound wheezed from its throat.

“...help...”

Henry’s breath caught. His eyes locked on the puppet. “Did—did it just say something?”

Elara grinned, teeth sharp. “Oh, you heard that?” She gave the wires a cruel twist, and the marionette’s head jerked up, mouth splitting open wider.

“...please... help me...”

A chill stabbed through Henry’s spine. He stumbled back, his voice shaking. “That’s not funny, Elara. Stop it!”

Her grin stretched, eyes alight with glee. “But he loves to chat!” She flicked her wrist again, and the marionette’s limbs flailed, the jaw snapping shut before wrenching open.

“...won’t you play with me...?”

Henry’s stomach twisted. His hands curled into fists. “Elara, enough! Just stop!”

She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Why? He’s having so much fun.” With a final flick, the marionette dangled limp, its twisted mouth fixed in a grin too wide, too wrong.

The crimson glow of the moths pulsed around them, casting distorted shadows that crawled along the walls. The puppet’s hollow eyes seemed to watch Henry, even as it hung motionless.

“Nope. I don’t like this.” Henry’s voice was tight, his eyes locked on the marionette’s twisted grin.

Elara sighed dramatically. “Oh, fine. Spoilsport.” With a flick of her wrist, the marionette crumpled into itself like a broken doll, dissolving into a swirl of black mist that coiled around her fingers before vanishing. She wiped her hands theatrically. “We’ll try something lighter.”

Before Henry could respond, she snapped her fingers. In her palm appeared a glass spider, its legs thin as needles, joints clicking softly as it twitched to life. Its abdomen pulsed with a faint crimson glow, casting eerie, writhing shadows on the tunnel walls.

She dangled the spider by an invisible thread, letting it sway inches from his face. “Isn’t she adorable?”

Henry took a step back, his breath shallow. “No. That’s worse. Put it away, Elara.”

Her smile sharpened. “Oh, you’re no fun.” She twirled her fingers, and the spider danced on its thread, drawing closer to his shoulder. “She just wants to say hello.”

He swatted at the air. “Elara, I’m serious. Stop it.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Oh, I know you’re serious. That’s what makes it fun.” With a sudden flick, she dropped the spider onto his shoulder.

A cold shiver raced down Henry’s spine. The spider’s glass legs tapped against his shirt, the tiny clicks echoing in his ears like the ticking of a clock.

“Get it off!” His voice cracked as he brushed frantically at his shoulder, but the spider skittered to his other side, clinging stubbornly.

Elara floated closer, grinning ear to ear. “She likes you! See? I told you she just needed to get under your skin.”

Henry’s eyes flashed with panic. “Elara, I swear—”

“Fine, fine.” She rolled her eyes and plucked the spider off with exaggerated delicacy. The glass creature curled its legs into a delicate ball, and Elara tucked it into her sleeve with a satisfied hum. “There. All better.”

He exhaled shakily, tension still coiled in his muscles. “Thanks.”

But her eyes were already glinting with fresh mischief. “Now, about that pick-me-up.”

She reached into the air and produced a small, ornate flask. The metal was etched with swirling patterns, the cap shaped like a grinning skull. The liquid inside shimmered with a sickly, iridescent glow.

“I said I’m fine,” he muttered, taking a step back.

She pouted, lower lip trembling theatrically. “Henry, darling, I wasn’t asking.” Before he could react, she popped the cap and thrust the flask under his nose. The scent was sweet and cloying, like rotting fruit mixed with burnt sugar.

He recoiled, gagging. “Elara, I told you—”

“Shhh.” She tilted the flask toward his lips, her smile tightening. “Trust me, you’ll feel so much better.”

The liquid touched his lips, cold and viscous. A shiver of unnatural energy surged through his veins, sharp and electric, and then it slid down his throat.