The forest was breathing.
Not in the way trees swayed with the wind, nor how animals stirred beneath the brush. This breath was deeper—slower—like the inhalation of something ancient buried beneath the earth, exhaling through twisted bark and frost-covered leaves.
Aurora stepped past the threshold of the crooked wooden door. The portal vanished behind her with a hollow click, as if locking time itself away.
Above her, the sky was not entirely sky. It pulsed in tones of deep violet and rust-red, clouds swirling like ink dropped in water. Silver vines curled across the moon, wrapping it in the shape of a cracked clock face.
She had entered a different realm.
Not quite dream. Not fully real.
The Clockwood.
She knew its name the moment her boots touched the pale soil. It echoed inside her like a buried word remembered too late.
Her surroundings ticked.
Every few seconds, a faint click resounded through the forest, like the turning of an invisible gear. The trees were twisted oaks, but instead of knots, they had clock hands embedded in their trunks, some spinning wildly, others stuck—frozen forever at the moment their curses had begun.
Some trees whispered as she passed.
Not words, but fragments of moments—a girl sobbing in glass shoes, a red cloak torn in the snow, a prince screaming inside a mirror that showed him as a beast.
It was memory.
Cursed memory, carved into nature.
And she was walking through it.
"You are one thread in a tapestry torn and rewoven by liars who pretend to be gods."
The letter's words echoed again in her mind. The scroll might have turned to dust, but its warnings hadn't.
As she walked deeper into the forest, the ticking grew louder.
Then she saw it.
A tree split in half, its bark blackened and smoldered as if scorched by lightning. In its center was a mirror—cracked, embedded like a heart. Through it, she glimpsed a ballroom drenched in blood, a masked figure dancing alone, over and over again.
She touched the mirror.
Pain shot through her fingertips—not physical, but memories trying to force themselves inside her skull. She saw flashes:
A glass slipper breaking against a royal step.
A girl refusing a crown.
A hooded figure dragging a body through snow.
A man in a mask, smiling as he placed a thorn in someone's eye.
Aurora recoiled.
This forest wasn't just a place. It was a map.
A twisted, living trail left by the ones who broke free.
Cinderella had been here. So had Red. Their curses had bled into the roots. Their defiance had stained the trees.
And now, the forest was remembering them.
Suddenly, the ticking stopped.
Aurora froze.
In the silence that followed, something moved.
Not in front of her. Not behind her.
Inside the mirror.
The masked figure had paused mid-dance. He lifted his head slowly. Aurora's breath caught as the figure in the mirror turned—and looked straight at her.
Eyes of hollow glass. A smile made of shadows.
And then he whispered.
"You're late, Princess."
The mirror shattered inward.
But no shards fell. Instead, the glass melted, spilling through the crack in the tree like mercury—pooling into the earth, slithering toward Aurora's feet.
She stepped back, heartbeat thundering.
The liquid formed a shape.
A crown.
Not gold. Not silver.
But glass—shimmering with fragments of seven faces, all warped by fear.
Aurora didn't touch it.
She simply watched as the crown pulsed once, then disintegrated into mist.
And the forest exhaled again.
This time, it said a name.
"Seraphine."
Aurora blinked.
She didn't know that name.
But it rang like a bell in her bones.
Not hers.
But… someone else's?
A girl who had come before?
Or a piece of herself long forgotten?
She didn't wait to find out.
The trees had started ticking again—but faster this time.
Warning her.
Urging her forward.
So she walked. Deeper.
Where the trees grew thinner and a path of shattered glass shards began to appear on the forest floor, catching the dim violet light like dying stars.
Where time no longer moved in a straight line.
And where the next curse waited to awaken.