Chapter IV

The Key Master

At this moment in time, Emha was on the cusp of finally opening the tea house. She busied herself arranging the various business plates, each inscribed with different opening dates and sigils. This staggered scheduling was all part of her strategy—to gradually invite beings from different realms and worlds, allowing her to learn how to serve a diverse clientele of intricate and unpredictable guests. Though she was new to the business and often unsure about the complex rules governing the opening of certain portals, she was nothing if not meticulous. The last thing she wanted was to invite the wrong kind of customers.

Her journey to this point had been marked by months of preparation, countless nights spent in solitude, and even a near-disastrous incident that had almost driven her to abandon everything altogether. But that was before the key had found her. It was as if it had pleaded with her to stay, its small, fluttering wings insistent, its weight a comforting presence around her neck. She couldn’t just walk away from something that seemed to need her as much as she needed it.

Now, Emha found herself sitting cross-legged on the floor of the long hallway lined with doors, each one leading to a different reality. In her hands, she held two keys—her own, with its tiny bat-like wings fluttering gently, and the rider's key, which was heavier and wingless. The keys appeared to gaze into each other’s eyes, as if lost in some wordless conversation.

“What are you, some kind of long-lost lovers?” she mused aloud, tilting her head. “You owe me some explanations! Maybe I should just go back and return this key right now.”

“You can’t,” her key replied, its wings twitching slightly. “The portal’s gone. It’s closed, and there’s no going back.”

Emha’s eyebrow twitched, but she wasn’t in the mood for an argument with a key, especially not in the middle of the night. Instead, she leaned closer to the door and verified that the portal had indeed vanished, leaving nothing but a faint shimmer in the air. She felt a pang of frustration but quickly shook it off. To be safe, she retrieved a pair of oval stones with sharply carved teeth-like ridges and placed them on either side of the door. These were stones she had found scattered around the house itself, and after much tampering, she realized that placing them near a door prevented it from forming portals.

“Still relying on those dusty old stones?” the key wobbled in her hand, its tone dripping with disdain.

"Better safe than sorry," she muttered, giving the key a light tap on its head.

Satisfied, Emha walked back to her bedroom. But as she moved, a gnawing sense of unease began to creep in. It wasn't annoyance—it was something deeper, a feeling she couldn’t quite shake, as though she had invited a wrong step into her home.

Once in her room, Emha reached for her deck of divination cards, her fingers brushing over the well-worn edges. This was a ritual she often turned to when the world around her felt too uncertain, too chaotic. If she could draw the right cards, perhaps she could regain some sense of control, even if she knew deep down that nothing was ever truly within her grasp.

“Look at her, here she goes again,” her key whispered to the silent one, its tone more eager than fond. It seemed as if it wanted to show off, to prove that it was familiar with Emha’s ways.

Emha smiled faintly at the comment. There was comfort in this ritual, even if it was just a distraction. After clarifying her question, she drew three cards and laid them out in a line, flipping them over one by one.

Left vase: It can be found a the haunted tea house. Obscuritea plants have grown through the cracks of this vase, their roots spilling out and curiously examining the broken fragments.

Right vase: The drawing on the divination card. Something ancient and powerful has been sealed within this vase. Despite its cracks, the protective seal stuck to it continues to hold the spirits inside, preventing them from escaping."

The first card revealed a serpent, endlessly spiraling into itself. The second displayed a cracked vase, with two eyes gazing from within the cracks. The third card was shaded in black, without any other details. Each card bore a name in delicate script at the bottom: The Dead End, The Birth, and The Darkness.

The key leaned forward, squinting at the first card. “A serpent? What nonsense. Why doesn’t it just slide upward or escape? Is it a little silly?”

“Maybe it’s like you—caught in its own spiral and too stubborn to see the way out,” Emha teased, enjoying the way the key fluttered in response.

“The audacity!” the key exclaimed, its bat-like wings fluttering faster as if in a fit of laughter. Despite its indignation, it was clearly amused by the interpretation.

“What about the vase?” it asked eagerly, as though hungry for more.

Emha didn’t answer right away; her mind drifted, interpreting the card in ways that felt personal, but she couldn’t quite voice them. Perhaps because they spoke of something still forming, something not yet ready to be revealed.

“Well, whatever it means, I’m sure it’s something exciting,” the key chirped. It seemed far more entertained by the process of divination than Emha herself, treating it like a game of riddles. 

After a moment, Emha collected the cards and shuffled them back into the deck, feeling the weight of their meanings settle in her thoughts. She was tired, and though the darkness held possibilities, she couldn’t explore them just yet. “Let’s sleep,” she murmured, her voice soft.

As if responding to her, the key gently wrapped its small wings around the other key, holding it close as if to protect it. With a tiny sigh, it nestled down on Emha's chest, drifting into a quiet, restful sleep.

As she lay in bed, her mind drifted back to the black card. Instead of unease, she felt a sense of familiarity. Black had always been her color—the obscuritea plant that swayed softly in the wind outside her windows, the ink that flowed through her tattoos and lined her arms, and the obscuritea tea she brewed, which mischievously left wet footprints on the table, its tiny movements hinting at its own sentience. The darkness wasn't something to fear; it was the very essence of her world, the foundation upon which she built and created.

Her eyes fell on the little bat sleeping peacefully in his cage, his tiny body curled up, his flat face serene and unbothered by the world around him. “How can you be so relaxed?” she murmured, “You barely know me, yet you’re confined and sleeping as if nothing in the world could harm you.” She watched him for a moment longer, and, without realizing it, she felt herself begin to relax, too.

The calmness lulled her into sleep, her consciousness slipping away like ink dissolving into water.

Her dreams, however, were far from serene. A roaring fire erupted before her eyes, its flames crackling and licking the walls, threatening to consume everything in its path. But instead of fear, she felt the heat wash over her like an old friend’s embrace, warming her to her core. For a moment, she stood still, unafraid, as the fire swirled around her, welcoming its chaos.

And for the briefest moment, Emha let herself smile.

✦ 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the portal, the rider stood in front of the now-sealed door. His face remained perfectly still, calm, as he studied the spot where the entry had been. Not a muscle twitched. His eyes, a deep, endless black, reflected the faint glow of the tea house sign hanging on the door. There was no hint of emotion, no flicker of surprise or disappointment—just an unyielding, steady gaze.

The tea house sign shimmered faintly, the inscriptions shifting in and out of focus, as if the directions themselves couldn’t quite decide whether to be seen. The instructions would appear, clear for a moment, then fade as if second-guessing themselves, flickering between visibility and obscurity. It was as though the sign was connected to Emha’s thoughts, echoing her indecision and wariness about whether to allow others to find her tea house.

Watching this, the rider’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly—a faint squint of amusement, barely perceptible but unmistakable. It was as if he understood the conflict playing out on the sign, recognized the hesitation in her mind, and found it intriguing.

Without hesitation, he reached up and took the plate off the door. Instead of hiding it away, he hung it on his mount’s saddle.

The flame, mischievous and malicious when hungry, often fantasizes about burning the houses it encounters, imagining how they might taste. It frequently pesters the rider to document the flavor of every object it consumes.

“We should have burned her,” the little flame in his lantern grumbled, tapping its two tiny limbs against the pillow that supported it. Its eyes glowed brighter, flickering with a desire for destruction.

“Feeling a bit hungry, are we?” the rider responded, his voice steady and measured. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small piece of wood, tossing it into the flame without a second thought.

The flame devoured it in seconds, sighing with satisfaction. Its tiny fangs peeked out from a sleepy smile as it began to doze off, content. In its dreams, it saw a vast forest ablaze, flames stretching endlessly across the horizon, consuming everything in their path.

The rider watched the flame flicker and settle into its slumber, his gaze lingering for just a moment longer. Then, as if pulled back to the present, he turned his attention to the closed portal once more. His eyes, still reflecting the dim glow of the tea house sign, remained calm and unreadable. Without a word, he remounted his dragon-like steed, giving it a gentle nudge. The creature began to move, and the mist slowly receded around them.

As they traveled, an imposing figure emerged from the fog—a house with long, slender legs, lifting it  s structure high above the ground. It stood like a guardian in the landscape, towering over the earth with an eerie grace. Each leg moved with precise, deliberate steps, as if the house was choosing its path with care, never disturbing more than a single blade of grass beneath it.

The house itself was covered in dark, cracked tiles, and from these cracks, two shadowy eyes blinked, shifting and roaming across the structure's surface. The eyes were not fixed in any one place; they moved freely, sliding along the facade like shadows cast by the moon, observing everything from every angle. It was as though the spirit of the house filled the air within, flowing through every room, able to place its eyes wherever it wished without altering the construction of the house itself.

A long, spiraling tongue unfurled from the base, slowly curling and uncurling as if tasting the air. It moved in intricate loops, reminiscent of the serpent on Emha’s divination card, and made a soft, almost soothing sound as it brushed against the ground—like silk trailing across smooth stone. Occasionally, the tongue flicked upward, as if searching for something just out of reach.

A meticulously hand-drawn illustration of the house, accompanied by a detailed inventory list on the back. The author remains unknown, though perhaps it was made by the rider himself?

Vines coiled around one of the legs, climbing upward as if seeking to merge with the structure itself. The main body of the house was covered in cracks and worn tiles, exuding a sense of ancient, eerie elegance…

At the front, a large, golden-framed window stood out, its surface cracked and dusty, making it impossible to see inside. Around the window, other golden elements decorated the house—ornamental trims and small accents.

The roof was covered in shiny, scale-like tiles that glinted faintly, adding an almost surreal sheen to the structure. A couple of small towers were attached to the house, their spires slightly crooked but still intact, adding to its strange, uneven silhouette.

As the rider approached, the house dipped what could be considered its head toward him, as if acknowledging his presence. The eyes shifted, watching his every move with an unyielding gaze, and the tongue coiled tighter before slowly unfurling again, curious and attentive.

The rider stopped in front of the house, reaching out with his bandaged hand to touch its side, but then he paused. His eyes lingered on the door, and it was clear he already knew the truth. He no longer had the key—without it, he couldn’t enter.

"You should stay here," he said quietly, his voice soft yet firm, as if speaking to an old friend. "It's not safe out there for you."

He slowly began to unwind the bandages from his hands, revealing skin covered in intricate, tattooed sigils that glowed faintly in the moonlight. The patterns pulsed gently, as if responding to the air around him. Reaching out, he placed his bare hand against the house's surface, and the house responded instantly: its legs, like roots, began to pierce the ground, sinking deep into the earth. The eyes vanished, retreating into the shadows, and the tongue slowly curled back into the base of the house, disappearing entirely. In moments, the once-living structure appeared lifeless, like an ordinary, abandoned house, stripped of the spirit that had animated it.

The rider stood there for a moment, his hand still resting against the cool, cracked surface. Then, without a word, he lifted his other hand and made a subtle gesture. As if obeying his silent command, the mist around them began to swirl and gather, thickening as it coiled around the house’s base. It rose up in gentle, spiraling waves, gradually swallowing the structure until it vanished entirely into the fog, hidden from sight.

Without another glance at the door, the rider turned away, but not before taking a final look at the plate hanging from his mount’s saddle. The sigils continued to flicker in and out of focus, the first symbol faintly hinting at the area where the tea house was located. His expression remained as calm and unreadable as ever. He mounted his dragon-like steed once more, the creature’s scales catching the faint glow of the lantern as it waited for his command. And with that, they rode on, leaving the now-hidden house behind, fading once more into the mist.