BTS: A Sword of Glass

2: And Darkest Dreams

Maren heard the knob turn and the hinges creak. Yet, akin to the last time, not a soul entered or left. Rather, the entire space remained asleep and quiet. Every bit except for her and the withering fire in the hearth at her back that sputtered the echo of crackling wood. The door opened only a sliver to a darkness so deep and thick, that at any moment it could press and spill into her room.

Her head rested on her pillow, but she was wide awake. Alert. 

Once before, she'd called out to it. Asked who was there or what was going on. Whomever opened it never responded. Instead, that entity lingered on the other end of the threshold as a guest that refused entry. As though showing her the new path was all that it intended. More than that, it emanated patience. It waited for her to move.

In the back of her mind, she knew where it led. Twice before had it taken her to the same place since first revealing itself days ago. Even so, both of her feet came from under the covers and onto the marble floors, her legs carrying her one step at a time until the doorframe was right before her nose. Warily, she pulled the door open wider and stepped into the black. 

Twigs and leaves crunched under her weight. Dead grass poked the soles of her feet. The scent of Adara dissipated, replaced with rainwater and the musk of swamp--still waters and stagnant humidity. As she blinked, her vision swam into focus, the night sky clearing until she made out the outlines of overgrown roots and gnarled branches. The crickets chirped in secret song, not loud enough to get caught, but quiet enough to remind one another that they were there.

A passage within a grove of trees that greedily drank the moonlight with their canopies. It was a tunnel of overgrowth, where at the end a break in the dark trunks awaited. Over her shoulder, there was no longer a door or her new bedroom. Only rich forest. The palace had fallen away.

Alone, she marched onward. Awareness of the other presence tugged hard at her nerves with the sensation of eyes roving over her face. She continued her walk without being consumed by it. The more she considered it, the less she'd find it. Perhaps it floated on either side of her or stalked from above. Either way, it did not frighten her as much as it should have. She explored what it showed her in earnest. It watched her with curiosity and neutrality. An odd sense of protection and peace filled the air even if she knew not the name or location.

The most demanding instinct was the desire to see the end. The unspoken certainty that this was the place. Of what and whom, there was no answer. But she was supposed to be here. She melded into the landscape, into the course of night, and into the woods like a shifting piece that had always been. In her dreams, she understood what she did not entirely know.

Soon enough, the sharp pinch of grass transformed into coarse, packed dirt. Foliage shrank back into a rusted yellow moon hung in vast and starless obsidian sky. Though dust blew in the wind that brushed her ankles and the hem of her nightgown, it was not powerful enough to shake the thick lengths of vine that stretched and curled and tangled upwards. As far as the eye could see, and as wide as the distance of casting glances to either side, every sprout was bone white and decorated with thorns. 

Maren had seen bramble before in bushes that offered sweet berries during certain seasons and brittle twigs in others. But these stems were colossal. These thorns had outgrown her head and hands. Crawling into the empty spaces between them meant getting caught in the web. Trying to climb it meant being impaled by it. There was no way around and no way through. 

It was a wall.

She took a cautious step towards it. Nothing stirred, so she took another. She came close enough to raise her arm and prick her finger if she wanted to, and since she was not afraid, she lifted her hand.