The Well of Despair
“Deception seldom comes cloaked in darkness. It comes perfumed with comfort, wrapped in the promise of rest. Beware the stillness that silences your flame.”— Onyx Iskra
The nights had grown long — silver and sharp, the kind of cold that settled behind the eyes.
Even the air seemed to flinch before dawn.
Snow fell even here, deep in the Labyrinth. Lynx drew her cloak tight, the motion brisk, almost defiant. She followed the winding path through the forest’s lower veins, her boots crunching through the thin crust of snow that never melted here.
This was not the cold of wind or season, but the slow numbing of the heart’s will to feel.
The trees leaned close, their branches heavy with ice, their whispers full of warnings she pretended not to hear. She paused once, listening for her own breath and hearing only snow.
The Well of Despair lay beneath the roots of the Labyrinth, where the air was thick with vapor and the scent of damp stone. Lanterns hung like wilted stars, casting gold into the mist. The Fountain of Consequences shimmered in the center, its water glowing faintly blue and rippling with the hum of alchemy gone awry. Each drip from the arches struck like a heartbeat she didn’t claim as her own.
The falling snow slipped through broken arches and melted on the marble rim of the fountain, its flakes mingling with the steam that rose from the pool — a shimmering pool where many came to forget. Lanterns swung in slow arcs above the square, their light fractured through frost and smoke, glinting on feathers and fur alike.
Lynx stood on the fountain’s edge, her breath silver against the cold. A half circle of magpies, minks, and crows gathered close, waiting for her to begin. She bowed slightly, tail flicking with practiced grace, and launched into verse.
“Snow hides the footprints, but not the choice,
For silence still carries the echo of voice …”
The crowd sighed, charmed and warmed by her cadence. Coins clinked in the basin, and a few laughed too loudly. She smiled on cue — part ritual, part hunger — the applause feeding a warmth she mistook for worth.
But under her bright words, her thoughts tangled. The world moved too fast inside her head, ideas like flares she could never quite catch before they burned out.
A fox’s paw brushed her arm.
Rena, radiant in a red cloak that shone like embers, smiled with perfect ease.
“Your voice has grown rich as winter wine,” she purred. “You’ve earned this.”
From her sleeve, Rena drew a crystal vial, blue as glacier ice, light pulsing faintly within. Lynx hesitated, breath catching. She knew the vial well, but seeing this one now brought a sharp sting of unease. It was the same tell-tale kind she had carelessly abandoned beside the hearth at Moosewood. A wave of discomfort tightened her chest, fueled by the certain knowledge that Bear would have found the distinctive glass among the clutter and recognized its purpose. Her claws flexed against the stone — tiny tremor, instantly stilled. No one noticed. They never did when her grace was flawless. She snatched the vial.
The potion smelled faintly of cedar and rain. One sip, and the edges of her mind softened, thoughts slowing into syrupy calm. Her restless heart sighed, her body warmed. For a moment the crowd’s laughter felt like love, and she clung to it before it vanished. The noise of her inner storm faded, replaced by a deceptive peace that almost felt like stillness. For a breath, she mistook numbness for mastery.
Around her, the square blurred into color and laughter. The minks preened; the magpies trilled songs half out of tune. Some staggered in delight, eyes glassy with comfort. Their joy looked careless — almost cruel in its unawareness.
Lynx tilted her head. The laughter sounded strange now, as though echoing from a cavern — too hollow, too bright. Her gaze lifted.
On the upper ledge of the fountain, beneath an arch rimed with frost, perched a white owl — Avestra, the Maven. Her eyes were twin moons in the dark, watching Lynx without judgment, without blinking.
The false calm within Lynx trembled.
Something about that gaze stripped the sweetness from the potion. Her tongue felt heavy, her thoughts dulled. The slow comfort curdled into unease.
Behind her calm face, a single thought flickered — this stillness felt wrong, like a cage she’d mistaken for refuge. Her heartbeat returned, uneven, insisting.
This is not peace, she thought. This is pause.
Lynx looked back at the vial in her paw. The last of its glow dimmed.
“It’s fine,” she whispered to herself. “Just enough to quiet the noise. I can stop whenever I wish.” The lie sat lightly on her tongue, like snow before it melts. She closed her paw around the vial, confirming its emptiness.
The fountain’s mist darkened briefly — violet shadows swirling within the steam. She bent toward the water; her reflection wavered, split by ripples she hadn’t made.
The violet mist folded inward, as if listening.
“The mind that fears its flame,” Onyx Iskra whispered, “will seek any shadow.”
The words lingered like heat beneath ice — gone, yet not forgotten.
Her pulse quickened. She turned, thinking she saw a light flicker in the distance, but realized it was only frost. The crowd had resumed its laughter. Rena tossed her cloak, dazzling, and the minks cheered. Yet Lynx felt the distance yawning wide between her and them, a hollow she could not name.
Lynx’s eyes drifted to Rena, laughing with the magpies, her voice rich and effortless. Beautiful, yes — but brittle now, too rehearsed. How could one look so bright and be so false? The thought unsettled her.
She gazed toward the northern hills, where frost glimmered faintly in the distance. Avestra lifted her wings and flew that way, silent and sure. Lynx watched the white wings fade into the dark and felt something stir — a pull, faint but steady, pointing northeast.
She set the empty vial on the stone rim. Cold marble bit through her furred feet; the world felt suddenly, brutally solid. Its chime against the marble rang longer than it should have.
Without a word she slipped away from the loud circle and headed toward the mist’s edge, leaving the revelers to their own fading joy. The mist sighed behind her, exhaling what she could not.
And somewhere beyond the Labyrinth’s reach, the wind began to stir toward Frostwatch.
“When the restless heart first tastes false stillness, it believes it has found peace.
Yet peace that numbs is not peace — it is the frost before the thaw.
The wise flame does not rage against the cold; it listens.
For in the quiet ache between indulgence and awakening, the true ember stirs — small, defiant, and alive.”
— Onyx Iskra
Missed Chapter 1? Read it HERE
Missed Chapter 2? Read it HERE
Missed Chapter 3? Read it HERE