Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 127933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
There were two extra bedrooms, their beds made with military precision, untouched and waiting. A couple of doors refused to yield, even to the key that now hung around my neck, their secrets firmly locked away. Circling back towards the master bedroom, my curiosity led me to try the room beside it.
The key turned in the lock with a soft click. I pushed the door open and immediately froze.
It was a nursery.
The aesthetic was on brand with the estate--the very Isle itself. It was beautiful, different than anything I’d ever seen, a curious blend of gothic elegance and childlike whimsy, fitting Stygian Isle's dark undercurrents. The walls were painted a deep, midnight blue, speckled with silver to mimic a starry night sky. A grand, ebony crib stood as the room's centerpiece; its bars were carved with intricate designs that hinted at the Isle's sinister lore.
Plush toys of mythical creatures — dragons, phoenixes, and griffins—sat perched on shelves and in the crib, their eyes glinting with ruby-like stones. The rocking chair in the corner was an ornate piece I could tell someone had put a lot of time into it, its high back was adorned with carvings of the moon's phases and upholstered in velvet the color of deep wine.
On a dresser, among an array of delicately crafted items, lay a book that caught my eye. I approached and saw it was a Stygian version of nursery rhymes, its cover a tapestry of dark art depicting scenes from the Isle's legends. Tentatively, I flipped through it. The rhymes were familiar yet twisted, morphed into versions that whispered of the Impío beliefs and the darker side of fairy tales.
I flipped the pages, stopping on one with an illustration. It was haunting, even in its cartoonish simplicity. It was a twisted rendition of something far too familiar yet drenched in the macabre. Masked children stood in a circle; their faces hidden behind distorted animal masks. Their small hands were linked together, and they danced around a massive pyre that stood at the center of the page.
Flames licked hungrily at the base of the structure, casting long, ominous shadows across the ground. Ashes floated down, delicate as snowflakes, settling around the children's feet, despite the roaring blaze. I began to read quietly to myself.
“Ring around the pyre,
A chant we never tire,
Ashes, ashes,
We burn for desire.
The flames will rise, consume our cries.
Bound to the Isle's eternal ties.
Ashes to ashes, dust to bone,
In the darkness, we atone.”
I read it again, and a vague memory stirred at the back of my mind, like a faint whisper in the dark. I could almost hear the melody as if someone had hummed it to me long ago. The notes were elusive, but the tune was unmistakable. Where had I heard this version before? I flipped a few more pages and stopped again on one that depicted a vine that wound up toward the sky, thick and thorny, its tendrils twisting through the clouds like a living thing. It pulsed with a faint, eerie glow.
The sky above was dark, angry clouds swirling in purples and blacks, lit up by distant flashes of lightning. In the shadows of those clouds, I could barely make out the silhouette of something—no, someone—huge and terrifying. A giant or the dark lord of the Isle himself, waiting at the top, hidden in the storm. At the base of the vine stood a boy. Jack, I realized, though his face was shadowed, his expression was difficult to read. He held something glowing in his hands, a token of some kind, the light casting sharp shadows over his features. The innocence you’d expect from a child was absent, replaced with a determined wariness.
He wasn’t climbing out of curiosity or adventure; he was climbing out of obligation. Behind him, barely visible in the mist, were the figures. Masked and cloaked, they stood with arms raised, urging him forward. Their faces were hidden, but their presence was unmistakable, adding an eerie pressure to the scene. They were there to watch, to judge, to ensure Jack fulfilled his duty.
Scattered around his small, booted feet were the remains of those who had come before him—bones and relics, blackened stones marked with strange symbols. A reminder that failure was not an option. The image felt heavy, weighted with expectation and the burden of sacrifice.
This wasn’t the tale of a curious boy climbing a beanstalk for treasure. It was something darker. The vine was a symbol of power, yes, but also of fate—of the inescapable duty the Isle demanded of its sons. Jack wasn’t seeking fortune. He was offering himself to the Isle’s will.
I stared at the image a moment longer, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest as I read the words that accompanied it.
Jack, oh Jack, be not afraid,
Climb the vine that fate has laid.