The Misthlit sisters walked the éaggemeare’s perimeter beneath a half moon. The night enveloped them with melodious chirps, low growls, and gentle rustling. They slipped passed the blockaded entrance and continued their rounds along the dusty streets as their flickering lanterns birthed ghastly patterns across the walls of the weathered shacks. A shutter snapped against its binding as they stepped left onto the second of the village’s three streets.

  Milde’s steady pace slowed. She stopped, “Cl?fre?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You know the house we just passed.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one that burned down.”

  “I know the one…oh. Oh!”

  They skidded round. Where the burned shell of the home had been, a house with thick mud walls and strong wooden lintels now stood.

  Milde fidgeted, “I suppose we’d better check it out.”

  They shuffled to the house’s entrance. Light spilled from beneath and between the cracks in the door. The acrid stench of burnt timber filled the air.

  “What are you waiting for?” said Cl?fre.

  Milde waved two fingers at Cl?fre, then eased the solid, wooden door open with the butt of her spear; it swung open without a sound.

  “Hello?” said Milde. She poked the hardened, charcoal coated earth floor, making a loud thud, then leapt inside. A surreal weight enveloped her body, as if she was wrapped in a cloak of feathers. Milde rubbed her arms – Gods, that’s creepy.

  Bright, colourful flares filled the space: wisps, hundreds of the pesky buggers. The floor was littered with burnt timber stubs and contorted metal. A crude table squatted in the centre of the room, unmarked by flames and scored with years of knife marks. Three chairs surrounded it, switching between real and ephemeral, while changing location every few seconds.

  “It’s safe, sort of,” said Milde.

  Holding her lantern above her head, Cl?fre stomped in and peered about. The sideboard sparkled as a pile of wool changed to yarn, then clothes, and back again. Transparent crockery glimmered with a white, wan light on glowing shelves.

  Cl?fre poked her head up the chimney, “There’s a bacon joint up here!”

  “Really, that’s the first thing you noticed?”

  “No, but what can I say about the rest? This is way too weird.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “We should do some investigating,” said Milde.

  “I suppose. I don’t want Sir Wulfsl?d and Cempa to ask questions we can’t answer.”

  They placed their lanterns on the table and examined the room, detritus crunching beneath their feet.

  “What are we looking for?” said Cl?fre.

  “Clues,” said Milde.

  “Leading to what? A case of domestic violence, maybe a murder while we’re at it?”

  “You’re a right joyous bundle of sarcasm this evening.”

  Cl?fre grunted, “We should search for why the house is here, look for magic things.”

  Milde scowled, “Why don’t you sit on one of those chairs?”

  “Bugger that.”

  “What’s the worst that could happen.”

  “You had to go and say that didn’t you,” said Cl?fre.

  “It’s just a chair.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll do it.”

  Milde held her breath as Cl?fre reached out and touched the chair’s laddered back.

  Cl?fre lowered herself onto the seat. It sunk as she put her weight on it. She made a circular motion with her buttocks like a cat trying to settle down. “It’s smooth, like someone’s been using it for years.”

  “I was hoping for something more dramatic,” said Milde.

  “Try grabbing a wisp.”

  The effervescing light balls whizzed about the room, changing colour every moment.

  “Did you see that?” Milde said.

  “See what?” said Cl?fre, leaning back on her radiant seat.

  “The glowing objects become less real when the wisps gather near them,” said Milde.

  Cl?fre shrugged and rocked back on her chair.

  Milde tried to grab a yellow wisp. It disappeared as her hand closed and she stumbled. The wisp reappeared three feet behind her, now blue. Milde tried again and cracked her head on the fireplace lintel.

  Cl?fre chuckled.

  “Shit!” Milde held her hand to the bump. No blood. She rubbed the bump a little, “This is getting us nowhere.”

  “I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” said Cl?fre.

  Milde turned and gaped at Cl?fre.

  “See,” said Cl?fre, holding a glowing red sphere.

  Milde scowled, “What does it feel like?”

  “It’s cold and it tickles.”

  “How useful.”

  “Thanks. Ow!” Cl?fre twitched and let go of the light. “Damn pest.”

  “What happened?”

  “It shocked me,” Cl?fre said.

  The wisp zoomed into the rafters.

  Cl?fre picked up the two lanterns and raced for the door, “Let’s go.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Milde. “You left something behind.”

  Cl?fre glanced back. A ghostly impression of her sat on the chair, balancing on the two back legs. It faced them and smiled.

  They ran.

  Cl?fre and Milde Misthlit - two mercenaries working for Sir Wulfsl?d.

  éaggemeare - a decrepit border town beset by magical trickery.