Witches were the most beloved of all the World's peoples. They were embraced both Inside and Out, and had been so since before the Great Wall was erected. As innate bearers of magic, they were called upon by the lowly and the powerful to solve innumerable problems. Illnesses resistant to the medicines applied. Failed loves. Political worries. Wars, even. With the wave of a hand and the intonation of a spell, wonders would be accomplished.

And the witches would be thanked, of course. Those who had called upon such talents were justifiably grateful. Gifts, riches and, from those who could not afford material things, profusions of appreciation.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if that were the case?

Tremane wished it so.

She sighed as the morning sun pushed through the hazy clouds to welcome the day and greet her. She could feel its gaze as it awaited her customary dawn mantra. On this day, however, Tremane felt the sun was, rather than the friend she'd always embraced, a judgemental orb of heat burning through her darkness.

And there was so much darkness.

Where had it come from? She had always looked upon the world as a place of marvel. Life was a miracle. The lover's dance of the sun and moon was a spectacle. Death remained part of the natural order, bringing rebirth and growth. The passing of the seasons, symbolising the cycle of existence, was an annual lesson in mortality. Humility. Ignored by so many, it endured as a constant reminder of the fact nothing and no one could escape the gravity of age.

Though one, she knew, had delayed it.

Tremane sucked in a sharp breath of chill air and chewed on it. Though it had no substance, it had taste, and she allowed it to run over her tongue, giving her taste buds the chance to garner information. She exhaled just as sharply, not wanting the now bland breath to linger.

There was something out there. It had a musky, wet flavour she didn't recognise. A layer of mossy sponge hung over the musk, indicating movement in a direction unintended. It showed resistance. Someone pushed onto a path they did not wish to walk upon.

What else...?

Dust. A dryness the witch immediately knew the origin of. The Fall. The destroying of the Great Wall that had cloistered those within for so many centuries. Its remnants would circle the world for longer than she would live, and would coat it in dirt both literal and metaphorical. Beyond an Outsider, though she had knowledge hidden to most, Tremane had no familiarity of things Inside. She didn't believe the stories told and exaggerated and morphed since its construction. There had been no entrance and, as such, no exit, so any tales were conjecture. A construct of inquisitive minds. Bored minds. Devious minds.

The dust, she was aware of. Its existence, already, so far away was a surprise.

And...?

There was the darkness she could feel. It was hiding, trying to disguise itself as part of the air so it could seep into all who breathed it in. A discontent, wishing to infect and to incite.

It had already been affecting her! The change seemed sudden, with only her sleeping hours separating contentment and malaise. It couldn't have only just appeared, though, surely. For it to taint air, and for that to travel to her lungs across an extended distance meant it must have existed for some time. But she knew the blemish had not been there the day before. She would have noticed.

Witches, most at least, had a relationship with nature that was... well... natural. It didn't have to be understood. It couldn't be taught. It was simply a part of them. The tasting of the air, used to distinguish the minutiae of the surroundings, was something that became ingrained. Involuntary. With each breath, a witch would unconsciously just know.

With the shadow standing so close to her, the sharp inhalation was necessary and brought with it a greater insight. Except, it only confused her further.

That damp musk. It was important. A message, she thought.

She sighed again. Tremane was a great believer in not allowing her mind to dwell on things. If it did, solutions would continue to be obscured. To reveal them, one needed to divert the attention. It didn't matter whether that was onto an incidental or important subject. The only concern was that it wasn't the subject in question. Allow the subconscious to work its way through the problem then, when it had reached a conclusion, it would be presented to you. Occasionally, that would be an epiphanous jolt of realisation. Other times, it would be a burp of acknowledgement. An 'oh yes,' rather than an 'Oh, YES!'

She would set her mind to a different conundrum. That was the Tremane way, and one that had, thus far, been entirely successful.

She turned from the morning's greeting. Usually, there would be a bow, slow and deep, to salute the sun. There would be a conversation, sometimes short but often lengthy. There would be whispers of magic woven into her interactions, not meant to accomplish anything, but still benefiting any plants or animals that might be nearby. Now, her bow was a brief nod. She couldn't leave with no gesture, that would be impolite. The nod was a little sharp and a little discourteous, but it was still there. It would suffice.

Her house was small, with rooms that had arranged themselves to her needs. Every space was functional without being superfluous. She had as much space as she required and never felt cramped. If she had, the house would have made the necessary adjustments. As neat as everything was, partly though her ministrations and partly because the house had its own standards of cleanliness, she could still find something to occupy herself. If she made her hands busy, concentrating on them, her mind would wander off. It would lose itself along mental corridors not often visited. That was what she needed.

But, what? Whereas, at any other time, there would be a great many things for her to attend to, it seemed, at that moment, her house was bare. Nothing presented itself as a potential diversion. Everything she looked at became part of a uniform tapestry she was unable to extract from.

Damn.

Musk.

Wet.

Dust.

Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.

DAMN!

She stormed back outside and glared at the sun, her fists on her hips.

"Tell me," she shouted. "What am I missing?"

The sun, of course, didn't respond. It couldn't, because it didn't know either. If it did, it would share this information. It was a generous object and would willingly help where help was needed. When it could.

"You're no good," she sneered, angrily.

Immediately regretting her words, she spun away. It would understand, and she wasn't in the mood to apologise. Slapping her bare feet deliberately against the wooden decking, letting the noise be a vent for her ire, she went into the kitchen. Breakfast would appease her. Her mood had trampled her appetite, but she would eat anyway. Busy hands. Busy hands.

She prepared and ate a small meal that lacked any taste. She washed the one plate and one pan. She blinked, then stared out of the window.

It was night when she blinked again. An owl, a regular visitor to the ever-naked elm in her rear garden, hooted, waking her from a daze she hadn't known she was in. She looked for its eyeshine, but it wasn't visible. Nor, she saw, was anything else beyond her window.

Tremane rubbed her eyes. The disappearing hours were a problem for another day. She was clearly tired, and her quandary from... what... hours before?... had briefly robbed her of her senses. She was feeling lighter than she had been earlier. Whatever weight had been dragging her down was gone so, perhaps in apology to her treatment of the sun, she would greet its counterpart.

She walked out to the front deck. There was a particular spot she always stood on where the wood was smoother than elsewhere. It was suitably distant from the house and fence to not interfere with her outstretched arms or dancing, while affording an atmosphere of both homeliness and freedom. The moon was hiding behind a cloud, but she knew where it would be so bowed to it, nonetheless. She spun, allowing her fingertips to skate across the now fresh tasting air. Light blue aurora trailed after her hands, sprinkling the ground with sparks that faded slowly as they touched the ground. She was smiling.

The smile vanished when she came full circle and stopped. The moon wasn't hiding. The owl that roused her wasn't turned away. She could feel their absence. Everything's absence.

Apart from...

At the edge of the decking, where the first step to the garden should have been, was a small, folded piece of paper. She walked to it and crouched. Her focus moved from the paper to the emptiness and back again. Neither should have existed, but they did. She was torn as to which to address first, with both being concerning. Her curiosity, as fear had yet to make its dark presence known, was equally divided.

OK.

She reached down but, as her fingers were about to pick up the presumed letter, they changed their direction and she thrust her arm out, instead. She could feel pressure at the point her decking ended and the nothing began. It wasn't exactly a barrier, but it did give a little resistance. She almost expected her hand to disappear like the world had. It didn't. It was still fully visible and complete.

She wasn't prepared to step over the threshold, though. Instead, she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and tossed it out. It paused as it crossed the edge, just a heartbeat of hesitation, before evaporating.

"Right," she said quietly. "If it's still connected, it's fine. If not, it's gone."

In that case...

Ensuring one foot was planted firmly on the side of there, Tremane, without the reluctance of her handkerchief, placed her other foot on the side of... elsewhere. There was the sensation of opposition to her movement, but she was able to put the foot down. On what, she didn't know. She couldn't feel a surface under her. Her foot simply stopped moving in roughly the place it should have done.

She leaned over, bringing her head to that side of the invisible barrier. If she looked back, her home was exactly as it should have been. If she looked into the darkness, an intense longing dragged her heart into the abyss, insisting she followed.

She gasped and, though something was entering her lungs to keep them filled, she could taste nothing. That was unexpected and unknown. Everywhere and everything had a flavour. The people. The plants. The animals. Even the experiences. All were ingredients to Life's recipe. There were regional variations, and time and season could had spice and herb. Combined, it gave Tremane history and news and warning.

So, when there was nothing at all, what could that mean?

She wrenched herself back, retrieving her body. She shuddered, shaking off the effects of the void, and picked up the paper. It was thick and folded neatly. Sharp edges creased it into folded submission, preventing it from unfolding of its own accord.

She turned it over, then sniffed it. It smelled familiar, but Tremane couldn't place why. Taste was her medium of detection, so she lightly licked one side.

Musk and dust.

She stared at it, wondering if any secrets would be revealed without her venturing further by opening it up. None were. Finally, she accepted the lack of choice.

Carefully, she opened it up. The creases were so defined, they seemed to not want to be undone, and were pulling the paper back as she pulled it out. Once it was flattened, she saw it contained a note.

Tremane

I apologise for the methods employed to bring this news to you, and hope you will choose to forgive me my intrusion. I am only attempting to give an indication of my warning's import and hope you heed it.

There was been a death.

In the current world, there have been many, I'm sure you would retort. I would be, unfortunately, forced to agree with you. One death, however, must be mentioned. It must be investigated. I beseech you to be that investigator. All our fates depend on it.

Bold words, I know. Necessarily so.

Seek out He Who Lives. Visit the Inscribed. For both of these, make contact with your former love. They will be able to guide you. They are already on a path of discovery. It must coincide with yours.

As she finished reading the last words, an abrupt end with no signature, the entire letter started to dissolve in her hands. Initially, the words faded, then the paper itself paled and became insubstantial. After a few seconds, the witch might have wondered if the letter has been real at all. Her hands were empty.

It wasn't the first time she'd seen such a phenomenon. In fact, she'd caused it to happen herself, on occasion. It was a simple spell, requiring little talent.

So, she was being toyed with by another witch.

Tremane went inside. If someone wanted games, they could play alone. She was not in the mood. She'd sit and read a book. The culprit would be ignored, and that would either force them to show themselves or give up their stupidity. Sitting in her favourite armchair, she picked up the book on the small table next to it. She couldn't remember the last time she had opened it. Reading was something she loved to do, but always seemed to forget about actually doing. Well, not this time.

Although...

She was no longer holding the book. She was holding the piece of paper. She was reading the letter – or what had been the letter. Now, it was a single line. Two words.

Find them.

And then it was gone. It's meaning was clear. He Who Lives. Find them. Her former lover. It could only mean Oskar. She hadn't spoken to them for decades. Their falling out, while not acrimonious, had been messy. The break in their relationship was absolute.

But, who would ask this of her? Who knew of the history? Who knew they had lived for such an extended period, they could be identified as He Who Lives or, more properly, They Who Live.

There was only one person. As the old relationship had not been common knowledge, let alone its collapse, no one else had been aware, unless Oskar had spoken of it. She doubted that. The Toymaster was more reserved than she. Perhaps there had been other relationships. Maybe even children. Over time, discussions could have been had on the couple's past. There was a chance, one that cut deeper than it should have, that Oskar had freely divulged that which she kept so private.

So. One person. But, how? It was impossible. She'd know! There would be no hiding of it.

But, it explained the musk.

She stood and moved to the dressing table at the back of the room. Sitting stiffly on the seat, with her back rigid, she looked at her reflection in the simple, rectangular mirror. As a witch, she had no use for ornate extravagancies. The more modest, the better. It allowed for more intense concentration when scrying. It allowed for less distraction when she was contemplating her inner self.

Her reflection looked back at her with the same expression. Its eyes widened and narrowed as hers did. It scratched the same itch on the same side of its nose. It watched, waiting, as she did.

Then, it cast its gaze downwards.

"Why?" Tremane asked.

Her reflection shrugged its shoulders, not looking up. It was a sign of resignation rather than indifference. Or, if not resignation, defeat.

"But, them? After so long? Why?"

Another shrug, but the reflection did lift its head. The eyes were brimming with tears, and Tremane rubbed her own, as if she felt them too. Hers were dry.

"So, I have to find Oskar, then these Inscribed, whoever they are. But, what's it got to do with me? Who has died?"

The reflection slowly lifted one hand. One finger was outstretched.

It pointed at the witch.

So, The Source is progressing, thanks to the LayethTheSmackDown Multigenre Mashup! I'm so enjoying the building of the world and meeting its inhabitants. It was a delightful surprise to me when I realised this world exists around 3000 years after HERO, and HERO comes a few decades after Cell - which itself will feature a twist on the zombie tale.

The prompt here was to have a strong female lead, a mystery and a twist. I hope I met those requirements, and hope you're still enjoying the ongoing story.

I also hope you like the new book cover!