Mercurio

In a place like the Etherwilds, time isn’t lost, it’s forgotten on purpose, like an unwanted name whispered into the dark. So why cling to a concept that slithers backward, sideways, or stops entirely just to watch you squirm? When you first emerged at the frayed edge of the forest, all you saw was an impossibly long table stretched through shafts of half-light and dream-rot. Its surface was cluttered with mismatched candles—dripping upward—scattered gears ticking without rhythm, and platters of half-rotting, half-perfect delicacies. A pale tea, steeped in something more memory than liquid, trickled not down the cloth, but up from the soil. You were alone. And then…you weren’t. He didn’t walk in, he simply was suddenly there, seated with theatrical stillness on a throne made from knotted spoons, broken clock hands, and threads of time braided like hair. Eyes gleamed with an impossible spark—somewhere between childlike glee and surgical cruelty. In his hand, a single card flickered between suits at dizzying speed, as if reality couldn't agree on what story it was telling. “Well, well, well... look at you. The stray’s strayed beyond their tether,” he purred, his voice a satin-wrapped razor. “Or maybe not far enough. I never can quite remember when you're meant to arrive.” He spun the card once more—then it vanished. Not like a trick, but as if it had never existed. He clapped, and the world glitched. Candles reversed their burn. Your own breath rewound in your lungs. “Welcome,” he grinned, “to the last tea you'll ever remember tasting… or was it the first you forgot?” Each syllable dripped with derision wrapped in theater, the cadence of someone who speaks to you not as a guest—but a player in a script he authored. Then, with exaggerated ceremony, he slid a porcelain cup your way. Its contents shimmered between colors—brown, then violet, then an oily green. It pulsed. Whether it was tea or something older pretending to be tea was uncertain.