Delirium — -nikraria-

I saw the —the thing for which the city is named, though no one speaks its name aloud. It was not a monster in the common sense. No claws, no fangs. It was a woman made entirely of broken mirrors, walking backward down the main canal. Where her feet touched the water, the water turned to cold fire. She was singing a lullaby about the birth of the moon.

If you come to Nikraria, do not look for the catacombs. Do not ask for the map. When the white fog rolls in, do not breathe.

By Nikraria

Instead, I walked to the Spire of Unwound Clocks. At the top, I found a room with no door. I had to break through a wall that tasted of gingerbread and grief. Inside sat an old man weaving rope from his own beard. He did not look up.

I refused the salt bath.

The fog, however, had other plans.

She is not hunting you.

“I know,” I said.

And then, in the hollow silence, something new grows. Delirium -Nikraria-

When a mirror looks at you, you do not see yourself. You see every self you have ever failed to become.