Chapter One: The Angel Trumpet Tavern
The Capital reeked of rain, soot, and sour wine. Jasper’s boots were caked in the crust of the road, his brow wet with sweat and exhaustion. The golden jaguar, Flame, padded at his side with her ears low and tail twitching, unnerved by the chaos of city life.
They had wandered far—too far—and dusk now crept down between the slanted rooftops and crooked chimneys. He wasn’t seeking shelter as much as surrender. Then, in the corner of his eye, a strange shimmer caught him—a glinting, unnatural glitter wafting like heat-haze from a narrow, crooked alley.
He turned. It was quiet there.
Drawn by some unseen tug, Jasper moved down the lane. At the end stood a crooked medieval building with a freshly painted swinging sign: The Angel's Trumpet. A bright yellow trumpet flower arched across it, being gently pollinated by a pixie mid-hover, her glittering wings suspended in the paint as if she might take flight.
Beneath the sign, leaning against the weathered tavern wall, was a real pixie.
She was tall—for a pixie—slender and lush. One leg bent back slightly, toe pointed, revealing a long, silken thigh that shimmered in the gaslight. Her wings caught the glow like stained glass. She wore a silk-like dress that clung like smoke, shifting with her every breath. Her eyes were playful, her smile warm. She reached out a hand.
Jasper halted. Flame hissed, low and protective, her fur bristling.
The pixie merely smiled wider, her fingertips casting a dusting arc of golden shimmer toward them. The powder sparkled in the fading light. Flame’s ears lowered. Her hackles smoothed. She blinked slowly, then sat, suddenly docile.
“Welcome, weary knight,” the pixie purred. “You must be tired.”
Jasper’s limbs were heavy, his mind fogged with gentle warmth. He nodded slowly.
They stepped inside. The scent hit them first—honeysuckle, lavender, and something too sweet to name. Unknowingly, they inhaled. Pixie dust.
Jasper’s pupils dilated.
Inside, soft laughter. The flicker of candles. A copper bath was being drawn by one of four feminine pixies who now flitted gently through the room. One knelt beside Flame, stroking her golden fur as the jaguar purred with a drowsy rumble. Another began to unfasten Jasper’s night armor—brown and dulled from travel. She laid his shield and blue longsword reverently aside on a chaise.
Fruits were brought—strange ones, soft and wet. Sweet nectar dripped down his chin as another pixie fed him. A final spoon was dusted with gold shimmer. Snorted. He sank deeper into bliss.
Laughter rose like music. The room glowed.
But above them all, unnoticed, a mirror loomed on the wall. Dark. Unreflecting.
It watched.
Within its surface, a presence stirred—a Shadow Guardian, bound to the portal, watching Jasper with knowing stillness.
He had his orders.
The warrior had arrived.
The Queen would be saved.
But first… he must pass over.
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Chapter Two: The Velvet Night and the Mirror’s Pull
The night in the Angel’s Trumpet unfolded like a dream wrapped in silk. Gone was the grime of the road, the ache of many miles walked, and the iron weight of duty. In their place: warmth, music, and the giddy hum of magic hiding behind every shadow.
Jasper leaned back in the deep copper tub, steam rising in lazy swirls scented with chamomile, crushed violets, and something else—something faintly sweet, elusive as a half-remembered song. Four pixies, draped in sheer silks and laughter, danced around him with practiced grace. One hummed a lullaby from a forgotten age as she massaged the road’s burden from his shoulders. Another gently removed the last of his armor, the blue longsword and worn brown shield carefully set aside in a corner of the chamber, as if laying a knight to rest.
Flame, his golden jaguar, purred like a thundercloud gone soft, lapping at a silver bowl of cream laced with glinting dust. One pixie, small and bold, curled around the beast’s great paw and traced her runes with berry-stained fingers. The cat twitched once, then settled, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking with delicate satisfaction.
Jasper now wore only a snug, woolen nightshirt—stitched from some soft fiber he couldn’t name—and long socks that reached just past the knee, warming him with an uncanny comfort. The cold and weight of armor were forgotten. A pixie fed him slices of blood orange and honey figs while another whispered stories in his ear, brushing dust-dipped fingers across his lips. The dust lifted him—first in spirit, then in mind—his thoughts loose, floating like petals on wind.
He blinked slowly.
A lightness took him.
His limbs grew heavy with comfort. His mind flickered with warmth, the words of the lullaby washing over him like waves against a moored boat. The world narrowed to gentle hands, soft voices, and the fading ache of long miles.
One of the pixies slipped behind him, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck in a tender embrace. Her cheek rested against his, the way a mother might cradle a child or a lover hold a soldier returning from war. He sighed. His eyes drifted closed.
Then, he was asleep—completely, utterly, without resistance.
The pixies smiled to one another.
Across the chamber, in the deepest hush of the far wall, stood the old mirror. Ornate. Heavy. And blacker than pitch. Its silver frame curled like vines wrapped in twilight. And behind the mirror, something shifted.
The shadow guardian stirred.
Eyes opened within the glass—pale, knowing, waiting.
The pixies knew.
Still singing softly, they looked to one another and nodded. Then, with practiced ease and reverent grace, they began to move. Their hands sparkled with motes of blue light as they gently lifted Jasper, now resting in that dream-sweet slumber, and Flame, already asleep and shimmering faintly with dust.
The mirror rippled.
A breeze blew through the room—though no windows were open. The scent changed: richer now, ancient, wild.
With fluttering wings and glowing eyes, the pixies carried their chosen through the portal, the glass parting like water. On the other side, unseen yet felt, lay a realm older than any map, hidden in the hollows of song and pollen and dream.
The Angel’s Trumpet tavern faded into a whisper behind them.
And the fey world waited.
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