Chapter 23- Ladies of the Divide

The gasps came first.

Not from fear—but awe. That kind of reverence mortals only feel when staring at something they are not meant to see.

Onto the stage—they stepped.

Five girls.

Short. Young. Unshod feet brushing against the dew-slicked boards like whispers of wind. Each wore a thick wooden mask, carved from ghost-white bark, sanded smooth and shaped to mimic beasts of forest myth—fox, deer, owl, bear, and snake.

The masks had no mouths.

Just wide, empty eyes, staring without emotion.

Moss trailed down some of their arms. Lichen clung like sleeves on others. One had fungus-colored freckles down her shoulder. Another’s hair was braided with soft vines and hanging lavender bells. The owl-mask girl had mushrooms growing where ears should be.

But together?

They danced like joy itself was bleeding into the air.

Their motions were a blend of the sacred and the silly—bouncing, bowing, curtsying with childlike charm, then turning sharply into regal posture with raised arms like antlers to the moon.

The crowd roared, not out of familiarity—but wonder.
This was no act.

This was ritual.

This was invitation.

This was a miracle.

Ydoc stood rigid, arms crossed. His silhouette alone amid a thousand clapping mortals.

He scanned the crowd, his sharp eyes flicking—Edwards? No.

Lucy? No.

No red dress. No teasing voice. No laugh. No strange step.

Just faces.
Just faces.

A muscle twitched on his brow.

“Great,” he muttered, “I’m brooding like him now.”

He caught himself smirking and immediately forced it down with a sigh. Folding his arms tighter, he tried to focus. Perhaps he'd write to the city later—an apology to their cultural secretary, maybe include a donation—

But then—a twitch of sweetness hit his tongue.

…Wait…

He blinked.

His hand had moved without thought.

In his mouth now was a hard candy—deep red, probably cherry or plum—smooth and round and very real.

“Huh…”

He pulled his other hand out of his coat pocket—there were more. Three others. Wrapped in little pieces of clear waxed paper.

Where had they come from?

He didn’t care.

He smiled. Chewed softly. His lips curled in satisfaction.

The girls of the Divide twirled.

A stagehand shot glittering lights of blue and green across the ceiling of the tent—tree branches painted in glowing halos. The masks shimmered. The girls leapt. One of them let loose a playful shriek and disappeared in a puff of dandelion seeds. The crowd gasped again, delighted.

Even Ydoc couldn’t help but whisper:

“...They are my girls.”

He popped another candy into his cheek, and let the magic wash over him.

(1)

 — The Wounded Deer

She steps forward like mist through the pines—silent, graceful, deliberate. Her long auburn hair falls in thick ribbons, tied loosely behind her head, but strands drift freely, as if carried by an unseen breeze. Her body is cloaked in warm earthen reds and wolf-fur trim, but her chest bears a faint glimmer of ceremonial lace—ghostly remnants of something noble, now overgrown.

But it's the mask that halts breath.

A pale white wooden mask—curved and branching like the skeletal snout of a deer, but corrupted. A black tar-like jaw emerges from the side, growing like a parasite over her face. It is shaped like a predator’s snout—perhaps a dog, perhaps a demon—and from its mouth drip golden beads like honey turned to venom. Its form is sickeningly alive, snarling as if mid-bite, fused into her.

Yet she walks proudly, sorrow in her composure, romantic even. A soft breath escapes her lips behind the mask. A boy might fall in love with her just from how she pauses, letting the moonlight touch her like an old lover.

She is contradiction incarnate: The wounded deer and the curse that devoured it.

(2)

- The Fox-Maiden of Bruises

She sits on the edge of the stage like she belongs to another time. Her dress is orange cotton, simple and mid-century, wrinkled in places from travel. One arm bears a dark bruise—ugly and unhidden—like a flower pressed too hard into skin.

Her legs are bare, her feet dusty. She does not dance. She waits.

The fox mask is unlike the others. Sharp. Regal. It’s made of polished red wood and adorned with long feathers that rise like a crown from her temples—raven black and ember-red. The mask has narrow eyes and a long, elegant snout. But what makes it so haunting is how well it suits her. It’s too perfect, too fitted—as if it were her real face.

Her dark hair spills in calm waves, pinned just behind the ears. The collar of her dress is pristine white. She looks like a girl from a painting, like a forgotten muse—sad and still.

There is no moss on her. No lichen. Just that silent bruise, that straight posture, that foxlike stillness.

She is the quiet one. The one the crowd cannot stop looking at, though she does nothing at all.

(3)
- The Sworn Mourner of Ashen Petals

She stands poised, unmoved, as if held in the moment between a breath and a sigh. Dressed in a long, torn kimono of smoky wine and pale dusk, she wears her grief like ceremonial armor. A skeletal rabbit mask clings to her face, sharp and ceremonial, yet almost pained in expression—its blank eyes adorned with painted red circles like tears long since dried.

Her body is lean, elegant, and scarred with history. A crimson tattoo—swirling and sharp like wildfire—crawls up her thigh like a brand left by devotion or punishment. At her side, a katana rests loosely against her hip, more ritual than weapon, a promise forged in silence.

But it’s what trails behind her that sets her apart—long flowing hair, jet-black and rippling unnaturally, like ink suspended in water. And from within this hair, white spectral cats emerge and disappear—charming, haunting things. They stretch mid-leap, twist in dreamlike pirouettes, and vanish into the curls of her living shadow. The swirls of black and wine-red curve around her like wind captured in a spell. These are not illusions. They are spirits—bound, summoned, or perhaps simply drawn to her melancholy.

She is both shrine maiden and executioner. Her presence is mournful yet fierce. She is the one who buries the forgotten with a kiss of steel and flowers already wilted.

They say she arrives only at the end of festivals.

(4)
 -The Doll Beneath the Root

A young girl, clothed in a modest green and cream dress, evokes sweetness at first glance. She holds the hem of her apron with perfect posture—her stance stiff and childlike, as if lifted from an antique painting.

But there is something off.

Beneath her porcelain legs, dozens of thin white arms snake outward, clawing from under her dress like blooming spider lilies of flesh. Some are soft and small like her own. Others are longer, knotted, twisted with vein and sin—some of them beastly, and some with ribbons still tied to the wrists.

These hands do not mimic her. They twitch. They reach.

She wears a long rabbit mask, unmarred and expressionless save for the red mark of binding etched into her forehead like a curse. Her real face is forever hidden, but her hair, long and flowing in perfect waves, moves as if it’s listening.

Beneath her feet, the ground is rotten wood. Roots—real, living roots—have burst through the floorboards and cradle her tiny body like a bouquet made of trees and corpses. Her eyes do not blink. Her hands do not tremble.

She is a child of the forest’s sorrow, a spirit of innocence possessed by something far more ancient.

People call her “The Seamstress of Regret.”

It’s said if you see her under a full moon, and she reaches out her hand to offer you a dance—you’re not dancing with her. You’re dancing with everything she’s absorbed.

She is far more monster than child.

(5) 

-The Voice Behind the Mute – "Wildeflower" 

She is the most beloved of the five—

The one who dances with her toes barely touching the ground,
The one who giggles in silence and tilts her head at cameras like a fae caught in a daydream.
A twisted druid of roots and bone and mystery—yet somehow, a mascot, even among children.

They call her Wildeflower, though no one knows if that's her real name or just a nickname gifted by the townsfolk. She's always seen wrapped in bandages and cloth, with goat-like legs, a crown of briars, and a haunting, beautiful wooden mask. Her fingers are bony but graceful, adorned with rings that jingle faintly as she waves and pantomimes joy.

Her presence is calming—a dreamlike contradiction of decay and delight.

And fluttering around her, like petals in wind, are her leaf spirits—tiny green wisplings with skull-like faces and glowing blue sprouts. They are always giggling. Always curious. Always singing.

They follow her everywhere, coiling around her hair like ribbons, pulling at her sleeves, floating in lazy arcs behind her like a whimsical parade of joy.

She has no voice. Not in the traditional sense.

And yet, people hear her.

They hear her voice in the air—
—when the wind brushes through the trees
—when the leaflings squeak in unison
—when their hearts ache in longing or swell with laughter

Her voice emerges like a shared hallucination, a feeling more than a sound—but only when she wishes to be heard. Sometimes it comes as a soft song on the wind. Sometimes, through a leafling that mimics her words in a chirping, musical voice. And sometimes… it’s as though a chorus of voices from other planes answer in her stead.

Some say Wildeflower absorbed the voices of a hundred spirits, and when she speaks, it is them who echo her soul.

Others believe she is the forest, and what you’re hearing is the land’s breath carried in birdsong and wind chimes.

But her companions say:

“She has no voice because the world itself volunteered to speak for her.”

Despite her eerie appearance, she is universally loved. She signs autographs with twisted floral wax seals. She poses with tourists by miming out hearts with her fingers. She leaves behind little hand-carved dolls made of bark and mushrooms for children to find. Her leaflings often stay behind as playmates for the lonely or sick—disappearing only once the child no longer needs them.

People bring her offerings:

Ribbons

Homemade pies

Music boxes

Hair combs

Old instruments

And she always bows in gratitude.
Always dances in response.
Always makes you feel like you matter.

Even if she’ll never say a word.