Chapter 4- Outside the looking Glass.

The dinner continued in quiet bites and occasional commentary.

Edwards gestured with his fork as he spoke, each motion smooth and elegant, like he was presenting a lecture on beauty.

“You’d like what they’re planning this year,” he said between bites. “The Festival of the Stars. It’s been a long time, but the mortals are putting it together again.”

Ydoc looked up slowly.

“Festival…?”

Edwards nodded, smiling.
“For the spirits of the Divide. From the mortals—with love, as the posters used to say. Lanterns, music, those awful paper masks. You remember it. You went as a candle once.”

“I… what?”

But Edwards had already moved on.

“It’ll be beautiful. Not for us, of course. We’re too reclusive. But still—worth watching from the trees. I can already see the lights reflecting in your eyes.”

Ydoc didn’t reply.

He looked down at his plate.
The Alfredo swirled against the noodles, thick and glossy, clinging to every curve of the pasta. A familiar white. Creamy.

He blinked.

It was red.

The noodles were coated in a deep crimson, almost oily. The smell had changed too—tangier, heavier.

He hadn’t made red sauce.
He never made red sauce.

He stared at it, unmoving.

“Eat,” Edwards said gently.

Ydoc obeyed. Slowly. One bite.

The flavor was off. Metallic. Too sweet. Or not sweet enough.

He chewed, unsure, and looked up to say something—anything—

And paused.

Edwards’ cup was on his left.

He always placed it on his right. Always. The left hand was reserved for the napkin, the absent-minded playing with the edge of the tablecloth.

Ydoc looked down again.
There were bruises on his arm.

Faint, but visible. Yellowed at the edge, like they were healing. One along his forearm. One just above the wrist.

He pulled the sleeve down.

He couldn’t remember where they came from.

He looked out the window.

There was no rain.

But it had been storming. He heard it. Saw Edwards come in soaked and laughing, boots dripping on the floor.

Didn’t he?

“Something wrong?” Edwards asked.

Ydoc looked back at him.

And Edwards… was in a suit.

Not the puffy shirt.
Not the open collar.

A black suit, tightly pressed, buttoned to the neck. His fur was dry, sleek. His hair combed back in a sharp, deliberate style. His face was pale, and his eyes—

Cold.

Not cruel.
Not angry.

Just… distant.

Unfeeling.

Ydoc’s throat closed.
He reached for his cup, but it wasn’t there.

It was on the floor, shattered.
Had it fallen? Had it been dropped?

Why didn’t he hear it break?

“Magic,” Edwards said softly, not smiling now. He tapped his forehead, just above the eyes. “Sometimes it forgets what it’s doing.”

Ydoc felt dizzy.

“Why am I—” he began, but the words tangled, choked.

He looked down again.

His plate was empty.

Had he eaten?
He couldn’t remember tasting it.

He pressed a hand to his stomach.

It hurt.
-------

Ydoc tried to speak.
Tried to ask what was happening.
But his mouth felt full of paper. His hands were shaking.

“Eddy…?” he whispered.

Edwards didn’t look up from his plate.

Instead, his voice came flat. Cold. Hollowed out.
“Do you even know what chapter this is?”

Ydoc froze.
“What…?”

“How many times do you think we’ve done this?” Edwards asked, finally lifting his gaze. His eyes weren’t just distant now—they were piercing. They looked through Ydoc, past him, as if staring at something far beyond the cabin walls.

He set his fork down.

“Fifty-seven.”
He said it plainly, like someone tired of counting stars.
“Fifty-seven times you’ve rewritten this. Fifty-seven times you’ve made me walk through that door, say my lines, smile my smile.”

Ydoc’s lips parted, a trembling breath escaping.

Edwards’ voice dropped—quieter, but more hateful.

“You fool.”
He leaned forward.
“You wrote this book too many times.”

The words cracked like bone beneath velvet.

Ydoc pushed back in his chair—sick, spinning, unable to breathe.
“No—I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did.”
Edwards stood now, towering. Not furious. Just… done.
“You always do. You break yourself open, pour me out of the wound, and then beg me not to hurt you. Again and again. Pathetic.”

The lights above flickered.
The walls groaned.

The tablecloth curled at the edges as if from heat.

Ydoc tried to cry, but the sound didn’t come. Just air. Just a wheeze.
He wanted to run. Wanted to scream.
Wanted someone—anyone—to help.

Then—

“Your nose is bleeding again.”

The voice was soft. Familiar.

Ydoc blinked.

The room had changed.

Orange light spilled through the curtains. The storm outside had returned—soft now, steady, tapping gently against the windowpanes.

Edwards sat across from him once more—shirt loose, smile small and amused.

Everything was fine.

There was steam rising from their plates.

And Ydoc’s nose was bleeding.

Thick, black ink dripped from one nostril, pooling on his plate, staining the few remaining noodles in a surreal spiral of white and oil-slick black.

He reached up instinctively—but Edwards was already moving.

“Here,” he said gently. “Hold still.”

He stood, stepping around the table with a slow, practiced grace, and knelt beside Ydoc’s chair. From his pocket, he pulled a folded cloth—orange, matching the room—and reached up to wipe the ink away.

His touch was delicate. Not cruel. Not cold.

The bruises were gone.

His voice was warm.
“I keep telling you… you need to rest after these spells. Bleeding like this isn’t normal. Not even for you.”

Ydoc swallowed.
He couldn’t speak.

Edwards tilted his head, smiling just enough to seem concerned.

“There now,” he whispered. “Let’s clean this up.”

He dabbed again.
The cloth turned black.

But the smile never faded.