Double Vision

Some bonds answer before language

Welcome to Day #17. Earlier episodes are listed below.

This little series intersects with other tales based in the world of Nevicata devised by Maryellen Brady 💗📚 for her 24-Day ADVENT-ture 2025. She’s invited us all into her world.

PROMPT (#17): How will your character meet the Light of Patience?

Day 1: Welcome to Nevicata
Day 2: A Light Snack
Day 3: Breakfast of Impolite Champions
Day 4: Case of the Nightmare Scarf Lady
Day 5: Ferrel versus the Princess Posse
Day 6: Life Takes Practice
Day 7: Hide-and-shriek
Day 8: Happiness is a Warm Bath
Day 9: Open Mic, Open Heart
Day 10: Disasterpieces
Day 11: Disastermath
Day 12: A Matter of Temperment
Day 13: Stage Fright
Day 14: Nyxie’s Choice
Day 15: Utter Otter Madness
Day 16: The Unbearable Height of Tradition

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The world exploded.

Not violently—joyfully—as the ceremonial ring burned overhead and the masquerade festival surged into being all at once. Lanterns flared brighter. Music fractured into a dozen competing rhythms. Masks came out, went on, came off again. Someone released a flock of glowing paper birds that immediately panicked and flew straight into a hot dog cart.

Ferrell was knocked clean off his feet.

He skidded across the stone, rolled once, twice, and came up hard on his side, blinking stars out of his vision. Snow clung to his whiskers. Confetti stuck to his fur. His heart pounded like it had just learned a new, faster language.

He laughed—breathless, involuntary.

Then he looked up.
And saw himself.

Not a reflection.
Not a trick of lantern light.

Him.

Standing a few feet away in the churn of bodies and color: small, coal-black, wide-eyed—wearing his face, staring back with the same stunned expression, tongue lolling in exactly the wrong way.

Ferrell froze.

The Cerberus pup froze too.

For a heartbeat, the noise of the festival dropped away, replaced by a ringing silence that felt personal. Accusatory.

I finally have fun, Ferrell thought wildly, and now I’m haunting myself.

He scrambled backward on instinct, paws skidding on stone.

The Cerberus pup bounded forward at the same time—flopping into him like a joyful avalanche.

All paws.
All enthusiasm.
All poorly coordinated excitement.

Nyxie bowled the otter over, again, tail wagging hard enough to shake snow loose from nearby lanterns, yipping happily and trying to lick his face with an alarming lack of restraint.

Play.
Friend.
Chase.

Ferrell let out a startled yelp that turned into laughter before he could stop it. Something warm and familiar unfurled in his chest—sharp, sudden, unmistakable.

Nyxie?

The name surfaced without thought.

Nyxie paused, cocking her head. Both ears tilted in unison.

Ferrell?

The recognition wasn’t language. It was gravity. It was the way a song resolves without explaining itself.

For half a second, the world made too much sense.

Then Ferrell saw the crowd again.

Saw the masks.
Saw the crush of bodies.
Saw Mr. Shade forcing his way through the revelers, voice cutting clean through the noise.

“Nyxie!”

Ferrell’s heart slammed into panic.

Too much.
Too loud.
Too confusing.

He wriggled free of the too-large paws, backing away as Nyxie bounced forward again—confused, delighted, ready to chase. He shook his head hard, ears flat, breath coming fast.

“No—no—no—” he muttered.

To himself.
To the world.

Then he turned and ran.

Nyxie took one startled step after him—

—and stopped.

Something tugged at her chest. Absence.

Before she could decide whether to follow, a shadow dropped beside her.

Solaine moved fast and without hesitation, scooping the Cerberus pup against her chest in one smooth, practiced motion. Nyxie squirmed, confused, craning to look back toward the disappearing otter.

“Easy,” Solaine murmured. “I’ve got you.”

With a single powerful beat of her wings, she lifted into the air—already angling away from the square, toward warmth, wards, and the relative safety of the café.

Across the square, Mr. Shade skidded to a halt, eyes sweeping the chaos.

He saw Solaine.

Saw Nyxie in her arms.

Relief hit him—not complete, but immediate and undeniable. Nyxie was not lost to the crowd. Not trampled. Not vanished into the night.

Whatever else had gone wrong, she was safe.

Mr. Shade exhaled once, sharp and controlled.

Then he turned toward the café. What mattered now was getting ahead of the confusion before it spread any further. Explanations would be required. Perhaps apologies.

Behind them, unnoticed in the churn of boots and celebration, something small and shiny lay half-buried in the snow.

A pendant.

Dean Blackscale stopped.

She looked down.

Then she smiled—and picked it up.

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The café was chaos.

Not the explosive kind—just the slow, sticky kind that came from too many bodies, too much sugar, and a night that refused to end politely.

Tessela was three orders behind, two marshmallows short, and one minor panic attack away from instituting a strict no joy after festivals policy.

“Hot chocolate for the table with the antlers—no, the other antlers,” she called. “If anyone orders peppermint again, I swear I will close forever. Again.”

Nyxie—currently in the form of a Cerberus pup—sat on the rug near the hearth.

At first, she circled it. Slowly. Nose low. Tail stiff with concentration. Then she lay down, pressed her face into the fibers, and inhaled deeply.

The scent hit her like a memory she didn’t know how to name.

Warm.
Familiar.
Safe.

Her tail thumped once and she whined.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a soft, confused sound that slipped out before she could stop it. She pawed at the rug, nosed it again, and curled tighter, as if closeness alone might fix whatever was wrong.

Something was missing. She didn’t know what. She only knew it was supposed to be here.

Solaine noticed immediately.

She stood near the window, wings folded tight, eyes flicking between what she thought was Ferrell and the street beyond. The parade was over, but the masquerade festival hummed in its aftermath—laughter drifting, lanterns guttering out, magic fluctuating unevenly.

Across the room, Tessela slid a plate onto the counter and, without breaking stride, set another in front of Nyxie.

Nyxie perked up instantly.

On the plate: honey biscuits. Sugared almonds. Something pink and suspiciously sparkly.

Nyxie gasped—actually gasped—and swallowed one biscuit whole.

Solaine stared.

“That’s… new,” she said slowly. “Ferrell doesn’t like sweets. He’s more of a bread-and-regret guy.”

Nyxie licked powdered sugar off her nose and wagged proudly.

Tessela frowned at her, then shrugged. “Well. Maybe he’s finally come to his senses.”

Solaine’s wings twitched. “Unlikely. And I’m worried that Mr. Shade is going to come looking for him.”

Tessela winced. “Ah.”

“Yes,” Solaine said flatly. “Ah.”

She looked down at Ferrell—who had curled back onto the rug, nose buried deep, tail still wagging in a distracted rhythm.

“I don’t know that I trust him,” Solaine admitted.

The bell over the door chimed.

Solaine stiffened.

Nyxie’s head snapped up.

For half a second, the café froze.

Then Nyxie barked—sharp, joyful, unrestrained—and bolted.

“FERRELL, NO—!” Solaine shouted, already moving.

Too late.

Mr. Shade had barely stepped inside before a coal-black blur slammed into his legs.

Nyxie skidded, bounced, and launched herself upward, paws scrabbling at his coat as she barked excitedly, tail wagging hard enough to rattle a nearby chair.

“Nyxie!” Mr. Shade said, relief breaking clean through his composure.

Solaine skidded to a halt in front of them, heart pounding. “Ferrell—I am so sorry, he just—wait.”

She stared.

Mr. Shade gently disentangled himself and crouched, hands hovering uncertainly as Nyxie immediately sat—perfect posture, ears forward, eyes shining.

He inhaled.

Then exhaled.

“There appears to be some confusion,” he said carefully.

Solaine’s stomach dropped. “That is not Ferrell.”

Mr. Shade looked up at her. Something unreadable crossed his face—relief, dread, calculation, all braided together.

“No,” he agreed. “This is my daughter. Nyxie. She doesn’t usually look like this—it’s a masquerade form. She chose it… because she misses her best friend.”

He hesitated, then added, “A Cerberus pup. I suspect you can infer the rest.”

Solaine looked at Nyxie. Then at the rug. Then at the empty space where Ferrell should have been.

“I see,” she said. “Then where is Ferrell?”

Mr. Shade straightened. “I believe,” he said, “that he has taken the form of an otter.”

Solaine’s slapped a hand to her forehead.

“The otter,” she said. “The one who lit the ceremonial ring?”

She dragged a hand down her face and exhaled. “Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he?”

Mr. Shade nodded once, distracted. “I don’t yet understand the full scope of what’s happened, but Nyxie has had quite enough excitement for one evening. It would be best to return her to herself.”

He knelt, fingers already searching for the pendant that would unravel the charm.

Then he stilled. Slowly, he stood. His face had gone a shade paler than usual.

“What?” Solaine asked.

“The pendant,” he said. “The charm that releases her from this form.”

A beat.

“It’s missing.”

Solaine closed her eyes. “Of course it is.”

She opened them again, already resigned. “Very well. I suppose I should help you find it.”

She turned toward the counter, where Tessela was in full crisis-management mode—pouring, shouting orders, and gently shushing an espresso golem whose vents hissed steam with every offended groan.

“Tessela,” Solaine called, raising her voice just enough. “Could you be a dear and keep an eye on Ferrell—Nyxie, I mean—for a few minutes?”

Tessela didn’t look up.

“Of course, love. Order up! Double skinny hot chocolate—dark. No froth, marshmallows on the side, with a shot of kombucha and a sprinkle of fairy dust.”

Solaine glanced back at Mr. Shade, gave a helpless shrug, and turned for the door.

They headed back into the night—toward the square.

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