The garden had long since stopped blooming. What remained were pale vines twisted like veins over stone, and roses the color of dried blood, their petals cracking at the edges like old parchment.
She stumbled into the clearing, breath ragged, throat burning from tears and cold night air. Her dress — once soft, once silk — now torn and clinging to her damp skin, caught on branches and thorns she hadn't seen while running. Her bare feet were cut open, smudged with dirt and something darker. Something old.
Her hands trembled. She clutched her chest, as if holding herself together would stop the shaking. But the words spilled out anyway — not screamed, not sung, just spoken, through a voice strained raw:
"Gentle breeze...
Sparkling lake...
Glowing night with a hint of haze..."
Her lips quivered. The air around her grew colder — not wind, but presence. Something listening.
"Calling folks, glamour-laced,
Feet dancing, wanting to escape..."
She remembered it now — the voice in her dream. The woman in red shadows. The lake that bled light.
"Clearing her throat...
Their song had begun…"
Her knees buckled, but she didn't fall. Not yet. Her eyes darted toward the hedges behind her — nothing, yet. But she could feel them coming. The ones with no names. The ones that came when she was invoked.
"Enchanted in woods... end of fun..."
A branch snapped behind her. Her breath hitched. Her voice dropped into a whisper — trembling, broken, knowing:
"Had they thought… would they escape…
Calling merfolks beneath their lake?"
Something rippled in the garden fountain nearby. Water no longer clear.
"Shrieking of curses… show of despair…"
The girl wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. Not from fear now — from memory. A memory not hers. A memory given.
The poem continued, half-recited, half-remembered. Her voice tore as she said it:
"A queen with no throne…
Mortal, they thought…"
She was crying again, not even noticing the tears.
"A Queen, No more
Now beyond their hold…"
The words didn't just fill the air — they changed it.
Something ancient rustled in the dark, like silk dragged across grave-soil. The earth groaned. The roses leaned.
"Dancing in blood... she poured on folks…"
She gasped. Her hands clenched. The taste of metal on her tongue.
"God forsake she'd do...once on her throne"
And then silence. Except for the thing moving closer.
She looked up, eyes wide. Hair tangled. Knees bleeding.
And she whispered the final line like a prayer—or a curse:
"A cause of their deeds…"