The air in the carnival was thick, oppressive. Each breath Mathew took felt heavier than the last, as though the very atmosphere resisted his presence. The vibrant, bustling memories of his childhood—bright lights, excited laughter, and the smell of roasted peanuts—were grotesquely twisted here. The colorful carnival tents were now dull and torn, their fabric flapping like the wings of dying birds.
Every step Mathew took echoed unnaturally, the sound bouncing off invisible walls. The lights flickered sporadically, casting jagged shadows that seemed to move on their own.
He tightened his coat around him as the temperature dipped unexpectedly. As he passed a fortune-teller's booth, the painted face of the mannequin inside turned to follow him. He paused, staring back at the lifeless doll, his jaw tightening when it gave him a slow, mocking wink.
"Just an illusion," he muttered to himself, shaking off the chill crawling down his spine.
Mathew continued forward, but the unease only grew. A faint tapping noise came from behind him. He stopped and turned swiftly, but the path was empty, stretching into endless darkness.
"Focus, Mathew," he whispered, pushing forward again.
The tapping grew louder, echoing like the rhythmic drumming of fingers on a table. Then, without warning, something brushed against his shoulder. He spun around, his heart pounding, but there was nothing there.
Before he could compose himself, a pale hand shot out of the ground and grabbed his shoe. Mathew stumbled back, yanking his foot free just in time. The hand writhed, clawing at the air before retreating into the soil.
Mathew exhaled shakily, his sharp blue eyes scanning the area. "Something's having fun," he muttered.
As he approached a cluster of deserted shops, their lights suddenly blinked on, flooding the area with garish, multicolored brightness. The abrupt change made him jump, his hand instinctively brushing the hidden blade beneath his coat.
Then, a voice broke through the oppressive silence. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Mathew turned, his eyes narrowing as they landed on a woman seated on one of the faded horses of the carousel. She was no older than thirty, her casual outfit of jeans and a loose sweater out of place in the sinister atmosphere. A cigarette hung lazily between her fingers, its smoke curling upward like a serpent.
"What's someone like you doing here?" Mathew called out, his tone sharp but cautious.
The woman exhaled a stream of smoke, her posture relaxed as if she were lounging in a park instead of a corrupted carnival. "Came to work, obviously. Now someone's having a bit of fun at my expense. Took my shoe and everything." She raised her foot, wiggling her toes, which were clad in nothing but a brightly colored sock.
Mathew's brows furrowed. "You seem rather unbothered by it all."
She shrugged, flicking ash from her cigarette. "What's the point in panicking? It's just a prankster."
"Prankster?"
"A mischievous little imp, to be precise." Her voice was calm, almost amused. "Nasty little thing. They feed off chaos and love to toy with people—especially those who wander into their domains uninvited."
Mathew studied her carefully, his instincts screaming for caution. She was too composed, too unaffected by the darkness pressing in around them.
"And who are you?" he asked, his voice low.
She smirked, taking another drag of her cigarette. "Who do you think I am?"
"Someone who shouldn't be here."
The woman chuckled, shaking her head. "You're sharp, Mathew Thorne, but not sharp enough."
His pulse quickened. "How do you know my name?"
She stood, brushing off her jeans as she slowly approached him. Despite her casual demeanor, there was a predatory grace in her movements.
"You've grown up quite a bit since I last saw you," she said, her voice laced with nostalgia.
Mathew's eyes narrowed. "Isabel?"
Mathew's skepticism deepened. She looked impossibly young—far too young to be the woman Alden had described from decades ago.
She smiled, a glint of mischief in her dark eyes. "It's rude to ask a lady her age, you know. But for you, I'll make an exception."
As if reading his thoughts, Isabel added, "Magic has its perks. Keeps the years from showing, if you know how to use it."
He shook his head, struggling to reconcile the impossibility before him. "This doesn't make any sense."
"It rarely does," Isabel said, her tone light. "Now, let's focus on the matter at hand."
"And what exactly is the matter at hand?" Mathew asked.
Isabel gestured to the twisted carnival around them. "We're in the domain of an imp—a minor demon with a penchant for mischief. It's been playing games with you, and it'll keep doing so until it gets bored or until we stop it."
"Stop it?" Mathew repeated.
"Yes," she said simply. "But it won't be easy. Imps are quick and clever. Catching one requires a certain… finesse."
Mathew crossed his arms, his skepticism returning. "And you think you're up for it?"
Isabel smirked. "I've dealt with worse than this. But the question is, are you up for it?"
Her gaze sharpened, and Mathew felt as though she were peering straight through him.
"Why are you so calm about all this?" he demanded.
"Because panicking doesn't help," she replied. "And because this is a test—for both of us."
Mathew's jaw tightened. "A test for what?"
"For you to prove what you're capable of," Isabel said, her tone turning serious. "And for me to see if you're worth helping."
Mathew frowned, her words only deepening the mystery surrounding her. "Fine," he said after a moment. "But if you're hiding anything—"
"You'll what?" Isabel interrupted, her tone teasing. "Judge me?"
He didn't respond, his piercing gaze locked on hers.
"Relax," she said, turning toward the carousel. "Let's focus on catching the imp first. Then we'll talk."
She began walking, motioning for him to follow. Reluctantly, Mathew fell into step beside her.
As they moved deeper into the carnival, the air grew colder, the shadows darker. The faint sound of giggling echoed around them, followed by the soft patter of footsteps that seemed to come from nowhere.
Mathew's senses were on high alert, his every instinct screaming that they were being watched.
"Don't look so tense," Isabel said, her voice light. "It's just trying to scare you."
"It's working," Mathew muttered, his eyes scanning their surroundings.
Isabel chuckled. "You'll get used to it."
They stopped in front of a distorted funhouse mirror, its surface warped and cracked. Isabel studied the reflection for a moment before speaking.
"Imps love places like this," she said. "They're drawn to chaos, to fear. It's like a buffet for them."
"So what's the plan?" Mathew asked.
Isabel turned to him, her expression unreadable. "We lure it out. And when it shows itself, we trap it."
"And how do we do that?"
She smiled faintly, her dark eyes gleaming. "Leave that to me."
Mathew nodded, though unease coiled in his gut. He didn't trust her, not fully. But for now, she was his only ally in this twisted domain.
As they prepared to face the imp, Mathew couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter was only the beginning—that Isabel knew far more than she was letting on.