Chapter Eight: Secrets

I stepped into the hut with a sick twist in my gut, leaving Snow and Charlie behind by the fence. The air inside was thick with the smell of smoke and herbs—dense enough to choke on. The Wizard sat in his usual chair by the fire, his pipe glowing faintly in the dim light. Shadows danced across his face, making his expression unreadable.

“You wanted to see me?” I asked, closing the door softly behind me.

He didn’t answer right away, just exhaled a slow stream of smoke that curled like a serpent in the air. Finally, he nodded toward the worn couch across from him. “I did. Sit, boy.”

I hesitated for a moment before obeying, my pulse hammering in my throat. “What’s this about?”

The Wizard rested his pipe on the side table with deliberate care. His gray eyes met mine, sharp as a blade. “I’m not one to dance around the truth, child. We need to talk about what happened between you and him last night.”

My stomach dropped, cold and heavy. He knew. “What do you—”

“Do not play the fool with me,” he interrupted, raising a hand. The tone in his voice left no room for argument. “I know where you went last night. But I am the only one, am I correct?”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to nod. “Yes. I haven’t told anyone else about… what happened.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “I thought as much.” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “And I assume you haven’t told them about your association with yourself?”

My blood ran cold. My breath hitched before I could stop it.

“I see by your face that you know what I speak of,” he said quietly, almost pitying. “Yes, Carter—I know. I have known for quite some time. Your encounter with the Wicked was not chance. Neither was that mark on your arm.”

The Wizard’s words sliced through the air like a blade, and for a long moment, all I could do was stare. My mouth had gone dry, my thoughts scrambled. He knew. He’d known all along.

“You knew,” I finally managed to whisper, rage bubbling beneath the surface of my skin. “This whole time—you knew what he was.”

The Wizard’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “I knew what he is. The Wicked is no ordinary being, Carter. His existence is bound by something much older, much deeper than dark magic alone.”

I clenched my fists against my knees. “And you just—what? Waited for him to show up and tell me we’re the same person? You could’ve warned me!”

He sighed, the sound weary and ancient. “Would you have believed me, boy? If I’d told you that your greatest enemy wears your own face?”

The words hit me like a hammer to the chest. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. No, I wouldn’t have. Not in a million years.

The Wizard leaned back in his chair, eyes clouding with something like sorrow. “There are things at play here beyond your understanding. Time… fate… curses—they all tangle together in ways that even I cannot always see clearly. But I do know this: the Wicked didn’t just find you. He remembered you.”

My heart thudded painfully. “Remembered me? From when?”

“From when he was you,” the Wizard said simply. “From when he stood where you are now—confused, frightened, and dangerously close to the same path.”

A silence fell between us, heavy as stone. The fire crackled softly, throwing flickering shadows over the room. I could feel my pulse pounding in my temples.

“So what?” I finally said, my voice barely more than a whisper. “You’re saying I’m destined to become him? That I’m… doomed?”

The Wizard didn’t answer right away. His eyes met mine, steady and grave. “Destiny is not a straight road, Carter. But every road has turns. It’s what you choose to do next that decides which one you take.”

My stomach twisted, unease clawing at my insides. “And if I already feel him inside me?”

“Then you fight,” the Wizard said firmly. “With every breath you have left.”

He picked his pipe back up, leaned back in his chair, and puffed as though the last five minutes hadn’t cracked my entire world open. The smoke curled lazily in the air between us, ghostlike. “If she’s in the right place right now,” he said finally, “Snow should have your steeds ready for travel soon.”

My brow creased. “What do you mean, ‘in the right place’?”

The Wizard exhaled slowly, the light in his eyes dimming. “That,” he said, his voice lowering to a near whisper, “is not something you need to worry about right now. Some truths, if revealed too early, can shatter a soul before it’s ready to bear their weight. You’ll know when the time comes.”

The pipe clicked softly against the edge of the table as he set it down. “For now, focus on your journey. Shadowvale awaits you, and it will not wait kindly. You’ll need a head start… especially since he already knows you’re leaving.”

The blood in my veins turned cold. Of course he knows. Every step I take, every decision I make—he’s already lived it. But maybe… maybe that was my advantage. If I played this carefully—if I asked the right questions, chose the right words—maybe I could draw something out of him. Something he wouldn’t expect. A secret. A weakness. Something I could use to destroy him.

Both of him—and the one lurking inside me.

I stood, the wood of the chair creaking under me, and walked to the door like I hadn’t wanted to put it off for as long as I had. The morning air hit me again—sharp, clean, a liar compared to the taste of smoke and memory still in my mouth. Outside, Snow and Charlie stood by the fence, each wrapped in their own silence. Wiz nosed at the feed bucket, oblivious, and the horses stamped their impatience against the soft earth. Snow looked up as I approached, expression unreadable for half a second before it settled into something that might have been pity. “They’re ready,” she said simply. No small talk. No false comforts. Just the fact.

Charlie turned when he heard my steps, that familiar worry knitting his brow. He opened his mouth, probably to hand me some clumsy pep talk, but closed it again when he saw me. I didn’t want to be coddled. I didn't want to look weak. So I walked straight to Wiz, slid a hand along the horse’s neck, and felt the steady heat under his skin. Solid. Real. An anchor.

“You set?” Snow asked, voice low.

“As I’ll ever be.” I pulled my sleeve back, forcing my arm to show nothing more than the plain fabric of the robe.

My fingers drummed against the saddle, but I felt the sigil prickle under the cloth like an ember. I swallowed it down. No one needed to see that. Not yet.

Charlie came up beside me, close enough that I could smell the soap on his skin, the faint tang of the stew from last night. His hand found mine on the saddle—an old, stupid habit—and squeezed. “We got this,” he said.

He said it like he believed it. I wanted to believe it too.

Snow rested a hand on my shoulder, her touch light but grounding. “I want to speak with you before we leave.”

I nodded and followed as she led me away from the others. Wiz trailed behind, his hooves muffled in the morning dew. “What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound casual, though something in her voice told me this wasn’t small talk.

She turned to face me, fingers brushing through Wiz’s mane, her expression soft and distant. “He likes you,” she said, almost wistfully, as if admitting something precious.

I glanced at the horse and couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah… I think he’s alright, too.”

Snow’s smile deepened, but there was a glimmer of sadness behind it. “Then you should have him.”

I blinked. “What?”

She chuckled quietly, shaking her head. “He’s never trusted anyone the way he trusts you. And I know you’ll take care of him—better than I ever could.”

For a moment, I couldn’t find words. The world felt still, caught between us and the horse standing patiently at her side. The warmth that rose in my chest was unexpected—quiet, steady, real. I reached out and laid a hand on Wiz’s neck. His ears flicked forward, and he pressed closer, a soft huff escaping his nostrils. He knew.

Somehow, he knew.

When I looked up, Snow’s eyes glimmered with something unspoken. “Thank you,” I said quietly.

She nodded once. “Take care of him. And of yourself.”

As she turned to walk away, I caught Wiz’s gaze again—and in it, I saw trust, loyalty, and something that felt dangerously close to hope. For the first time since this journey began, I wasn’t just ready to face it. I wanted to.

Snow mounted Excalibur with the grace of someone born to a saddle. She offered me one last look—one that carried a thousand small warnings—and pulled her reins. “When you reach the pass,” she said, “move quiet. Avoid the high ridges if you can. Shadowvale listens.”

I nodded and swung onto Wiz. The leather grabbed me, familiar and unforgiving, and for a beat I let myself sit proud, rider and not-thing-that-the-Wicked-knew. Charlie clambered onto Prince beside me, and for a second, his grin was real. My chest ached with it.

We rode out of the yard with our hooves drumming the road into wakefulness. The village thinned behind us; roofs and chimneys and the First Wizard’s smoke-smudged windows fell away like a page being turned. The world opened up into fields, and beyond them, the land sloped toward the northern cliffs that hid Shadowvale.

The morning sunlight splintered through the trees, scattering gold across the path. Every sound seemed amplified—our horses’ breath, the scrape of leather, Charlie’s quiet whistle as he tried to make a joke.

Underneath them all, like a faint, impossible rhythm, I kept thinking I heard another sound: a low, almost-smiling chuckle that didn’t belong to anyone I could see. I tightened my grip on the reins and stared ahead. If the Wicked had known our moves before we made them, then I’d have to become unpredictable. I’d have to be something he didn’t expect. I could almost feel the choice forming in me—an edge that promised either salvation or ruin.

We rode on. The road grew thinner. The air grew colder. The sigil under my sleeve pulsed once, like a warning or a countdown, and I thought of the Wicked’s last words: We are the same person, just from a different time.

I’d prove him wrong. Or I’d prove him right. Either way, the ride to Shadowvale had begun.

As Wiz’s gait settled into a steady rhythm beneath me, my mind began to wander—dangerously so. The trees blurred past, and all I could see was him. The Wicked. Me. Whatever the hell he was. If I could just talk to him again—really talk—maybe I could figure out how to stop it. How to stop him. How to stop myself. Maybe he knew something—about what was coming, about what I could do to keep from becoming that monster I’d seen in the dark.

Snow’s voice cut through my thoughts, calm but edged with the kind of weariness that came from years of knowing too much. “We’ll make camp tonight. If the weather holds, we should reach Shadowvale in two days.”

Her tone made “two days” sound like a death sentence.

Charlie urged Prince up beside me, his horse snorting softly as he tried for a grin. “Nice morning, huh?”

I glanced at him. Sunlight spilled through the trees, warm on our faces, birds trilling somewhere unseen—it was a nice morning. And yet, the weight in my chest said otherwise.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice flatter than I meant it to be. “It’d be a lot nicer if the chances of it being one of our last weren’t so high.”

Charlie’s smile faltered. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. I didn’t blame him. There wasn’t much left to say when the clock was already ticking down. So we rode in silence, the only sounds the wind whispering through the pines, the steady drum of hooves on the dirt, and the quiet hum of fear neither of us wanted to name.

By the time the sun began to sink behind the ridge, the sky bled into streaks of crimson and gold—beautiful, if not for the weight of what it foreshadowed. Snow called for us to stop near a clearing bordered by tall pines.

The air there was colder, quieter. Even the birds seemed to have fled before nightfall. Charlie and I dismounted, leading our horses toward a nearby stream while Snow set up the small campfire. The scent of smoke and pine resin hung thick in the air, almost comforting. Almost.

“You’ve been quiet all day,” Charlie said, kneeling beside me as I filled the canteens. “More than usual.”

I shrugged. “Just thinking.”

He gave a soft laugh. “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

“Yeah,” I said. My reflection rippled in the stream—green eyes staring back at me, but for a second, I swore I saw red. The memory of him—of me—rose like smoke in my mind. The same eyes. The same voice. Just… older.

Darker.

Charlie’s voice cut through the trance. “You sure you’re all right?”

I looked up, meeting his gaze. For a heartbeat, I wanted to tell him everything—that I’d met the Wicked again, that he was me, that I could still feel his presence clawing at the edges of my thoughts like a shadow that wouldn’t fade. But if I did, what then? What if he started to see it too? The change.

“Yeah,” I lied softly, forcing a faint grin. “Just tired.”

Charlie didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. “We’ll get some rest tonight. Big day tomorrow.”

As he walked back toward the campfire, I lingered by the stream. The moon had begun its slow climb into the sky, its reflection glinting off the water like liquid silver. I dipped my hand in, trying to wash away the heat pulsing beneath my skin. But the water didn’t cool me—it hissed against my palm, faint steam curling into the air. I yanked my hand back, my heart thundering. For a moment, the mark on my arm pulsed again beneath my sleeve—black veins creeping just under the surface, then fading as quickly as they appeared. I swallowed hard.

Whatever had happened last night… it wasn’t done with me yet.

——————————————————————————————————————

I tossed and turned in my tent for what felt like hours, the silence pressing down on me like a weight. Every whisper of the wind felt too loud, every flicker of the dying fire outside casting restless shadows against the canvas. Sleep wasn’t coming—not with the thoughts clawing at the back of my mind. Finally, I gave up. I slipped from my blanket, careful not to wake the others, and crawled out into the cool night. The air was sharp, biting at my skin, and the forest around our camp was bathed in silver moonlight. I listened—nothing but the soft breathing of the horses and the rhythmic crackle of the fire. Pulling my robes tighter around me, I stepped into the treeline. Each step felt heavier than the last, the world growing quieter the deeper I went.

After what felt like an eternity of walking, I reached a small clearing—tight and lonely, wrapped in mist and moonlight. The air there felt… wrong. Thicker.

I sat down on a smooth stone, the chill biting through the fabric, and steadied my breathing. The shadows seemed to pulse around me, waiting.

“I know you’re watching,” I said, my voice low but steady. “You know where I am. Come find me.”

The words hung in the air for only a moment before the ground beneath me began to stir. A low hum vibrated through the clearing, then—fwoosh—red and black smoke erupted from the earth, curling around me like living fire. It stung my lungs, thick and sweet like blood and ash. My pulse hammered. When the haze cleared, he stood there.

The Wicked.

Draped in black and crimson, the faint glow of his eyes cutting through the darkness like blades. The air bent around him, heavy with power and something darker—familiar, terrifyingly familiar.

“You called for me?” he asked, his tone dripping with mockery, one eyebrow arched as if he’d been expecting me all along.

I forced a bitter smile. “You mean, you called for yourself?”

His lips curved into that same infuriating, knowing smirk—the one that said he already knew how this would end.

He took a slow step toward me, the ground seeming to ripple beneath his presence, and I realized—he didn’t walk. He glided, almost… predatory, each movement unnervingly fluid. My stomach twisted, equal parts fear and something else I didn’t want to name.

“You shouldn’t have come out here alone,” he said, voice soft now, but there was an edge, a promise of danger beneath it. “You know the rules. And yet…” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. “You always liked testing me.”

I clenched my fists, forcing my legs to stay put. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d show up,” I said, keeping my voice steadier than I felt. “Guess you didn’t disappoint.”

A low chuckle rolled from him, echoing strangely in the clearing. He stopped just a few feet away, and I could see the faintest shimmer along the edges of his robes, like smoke trying to escape but being held back by invisible chains.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he murmured, taking a slow, deliberate step closer. “But then again… you’ve always been reckless. I should be angry—but…” His smile flickered, almost human for a fraction of a heartbeat, “I’m intrigued.”

The hairs on my neck stood on end. The air between us pulsed, electric and suffocating, as if the clearing itself was holding its breath. I knew I should step back, run even, but my body refused. I had come here, after all. And whatever this was… I had already crossed the line.

“You always know what to say,” I whispered, voice rough, betraying more than I intended. “Even when it’s dangerous.”

His grin widened, eyes glinting like molten metal. “Danger is… my specialty.”

“So.” He flicked his wrist, and a stone rolled lazily toward him, as though gravity itself obeyed him. He perched on the rock, legs crossed, the casual ease of it jarring against the crackling tension in the clearing. “What made you risk your Fate tonight? Surely it wasn’t just to have a little chat with your big self—though, I admit, that

would be… amusing.”

The fangy glint in his grin was sharp, knowing—he already had me measured, dissected. Of course he did. He was me.

“You want to know what waits for you,” he said, voice low, teasing, dangerous, “in the place where our story first began. You want to see what I saw when I stood where you are now. And then…” His eyes flickered with wicked amusement. “You want to use my words to try to defeat us.”

I opened my mouth, searching for something—anything—to counter, but the weight of inevitability pressed me silent. He knew. He always knew. Every thought, every move, every fragile plan I clutched… he had already lived it.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “And what if I succeed?” I asked, though the words sounded weaker than

I intended.

He tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement, and the shadows around him seemed to lean closer, listening. “Succeed?” His laugh was soft, almost a purr, but it carried the weight of inevitability. “You won’t succeed. Not in the way you think. You’ll survive… but you’ll learn. You’ll see. And every lesson will burn.”

The air between us thickened, pulsing with a strange, magnetic pull. I wanted to step back, to retreat into the safety of the fire-lit camp, but my legs refused. I was trapped in his gaze—trapped by him and by myself.

“You think you can outsmart me,” he said, letting the words linger like a knife’s edge. “But we are the same. Every choice you make, every move you think is clever… I’ve already made it. Felt it. And yes…” His smirk deepened, eyes narrowing in mock warning, “you’ll still try anyway. That’s the part I like.”

I clenched my fists, the chill of the night biting through my robes, and felt something stir in my chest—a reckless, dangerous thrill. He was right. I would try. And maybe… maybe that was exactly what he wanted me to do. The clearing seemed to pulse in response, the mist curling tighter, wrapping around us like a living thing.

And in that moment, I realized: facing him wasn’t just about surviving Fate—it was about facing myself.

“I am not going to be you,” I spat, voice low and hard enough to bruise. “I won’t become what you are. I’ll go to Shadowvale—and I’ll end this.”

For a long beat he simply watched me, the corner of that wicked mouth softening into something that almost—dangerously—looked like pity. “You will fight,” he said at last, each word measured as if weighing my soul.

“But it won’t be me you face, Carter.”

His eyes held mine for a single, impossible second—an ocean of memories and warnings—and then the air around him rippled. Smoke unfurled, black and red, smelling of iron and old embers, and where he had been there was only the slow, obscene curl of vapor. The clearing exhaled; the crickets and the strange croaks resumed, as if the night had never hesitated. I sat frozen, the echo of his words thrumming in my bones. He was gone—yet the promise of him lingered in the mist, in the taste of ash at the back of my throat, and in the small, certain knowledge that whatever waited in Shadowvale would not be the enemy I expected.

I pushed my way through the brush, the branches clawing at my sleeves as I stumbled back into the clearing where our tents lay shrouded in silver moonlight. The camp was still, eerily so—no sound but the faint crackle of dying embers and the relentless thrum of my heartbeat in my ears. I slipped back into my tent, the canvas whispering as it closed behind me. Lying down, I tried to steady my breathing, to shut my eyes and pretend the night hadn’t happened. But the Wicked’s words wouldn’t stop echoing in my head, sharp and unrelenting—

It won’t be me you face.

The phrase sliced through me like glass, lodging deep beneath my skin. I turned over, fists clenching the blanket, but the feeling wouldn’t fade. There was something waiting for me at Shadowvale—something worse than him. Worse than me. And as the wind howled outside the tent, one truth sank deep into my bones: whatever battle lay ahead wasn’t just going to test me. It was going to break me.