Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Uh, King Dice, wait up!”

Henchman’s stubby legs scrambled to keep up, his oversized feet slapping against the red velvet carpets that lined the underbelly of Hell’s Casino. The air down here was thick with cigarette smoke. Neon signs buzzed overhead in languages no mortal could read. Laughter, wailing, jazz, and the clink of glasses echoed like ghosts in the background.

King Dice ignored him.
He strolled ahead, shuffling a deck of cards between his long, gloved fingers. 

“You’re slowin’ me down, Henchman,” Dice said flatly, eyes forward.

“Aw, I don’t mean ta!” Henchman squeaked.

They passed a table where a trio of alcoholic beverages were arguing loudly over their bets. 

Ginette the martini sloshed and slurred her speech. “I’m tellin’ you, the kids can take them.”

Ol' Ethan the rum glass disagreed with a set of hiccups. “No way, not the mermaid.” 

Nearby, Chips Bettigan, the betting chips, took bets from a conjoined domino twin and a talking cigar puffing smoke rings in the air- Pip and Dot and Mr. Wheezy. 

King Dice gave them a sideways glance but kept moving.

Henchman grinned nervously as Dice strode toward the elevator, flinging its ornate golden gate open with a loud clang .

Henchman scampered up the control panel and jabbed the glowing red button. 

King Dice leaned casually against the elevator wall, eyes half-lidded. The cards danced in his hand again, flicking from palm to palm with a magician’s flair.

He smirked to himself. “And here we go!” 

—

Just past the forest clearing, a loud, sputtering sputtering cut through the air. The trio turned—and ducked—as a janky plane buzzed overhead, its propeller barely hanging on.

It swerved once, twice, then dive-bombed into a soft patch of grass, where it sputtered out in a puff of smoke.

From the cockpit leapt a canteen with thick pilot’s goggles and white gloves- their classmate, Canteen Hughes.

“CUPHEAD! MUGSY!” he shouted, voice warbling like a car horn. 

“Canteen?” Mugman blinked. 

Canteen saluted. “Aviation’s the future, my friends! No more walking—just gliding on clouds and engine fumes!” He struck a pose. “I call this bad boy the Cloudskipper. She only stalls when you turn too hard!”

Chalice raised a brow. “That thing looks like it was built out of pie tins and copper wire.”

“Accurate! But it flies! ” He grinned. “You want it? I’ll loan it—on one condition.”

The trio leaned in.

Canteen pulled out a thick scroll of aviation safety blueprints. 

“No one sits in that cockpit unless they study these!”

Cuphead groaned. “Homework? I thought we were done with that when the principal exploded.”

“She combusted from stress, not exploded,” Mugman corrected.

“I stand by my point.”

The trio took the series of blueprints from Canteen and looked them over carefully.

Chalice squinted at one of the pages. “So if the pitch goes too steep, the wings stall, and then the lift—”

After a good five minutes of looking over the blueprints, Cuphead finally said: “I think I’ve got it.” 

“Alright,” Canteen declared, “I hereby approve your emergency use of the Cloudskipper!”

“Dibs!” Cuphead shouted. “Dibs, dibs!”

“We’ll bring it back in one piece,” Mugman promised.

“Surely we won’t need a plane ever again after this,” Cuphead added with a wink as he clambered into the tiny one-seater and grinned widely.

“Good luck!” Canteen saluted again as the plane’s engine whined to life.

The Cloudskipper lifted, wings wobbling, Cuphead whooping as he barely missed a treetop.

“Wooo-hoo!” he shouted. “Tell the Devil I’m flying first-class!”

Chalice and Mugman raced below, trying to keep up as the plane wobbled toward the jagged line of cliffs ahead. Across a wooden bridge over the river, stood a tall, rusted dome- Hilda’s observatory. 

Cuphead circled it once, then again. “This place looks abandoned,” he called down. “No lights, no telescope movement, not even a creepy silhouette in the window!”

Chalice and Mugman rushed up the hill and knocked on the observatory’s massive brass door. The clang echoed out into silence.

Nothing.

“No answer,” Mugman muttered. “Maybe Goopy was right…”

Then Chalice paused, shielding her eyes.

Above the ridge, not far from where Cuphead’s plane hovered, a white cloud drifted lazily in the sky. And laying on top of it was a woman, snoozing away, one leg dangling lazily off the side. 

“There!” Chalice yelled, pointing Cuphead in the right direction. 

Cuphead swept the plane upwards.

The woman jolted awake with a startled shout. “Whuh-? Who dares!” She saw Cuphead hovering a short distance away and looked down to see Chalice and Mugman below. She scowled. 

“What do you twerps want?” she yelled, her voice echoing through the sky. “Don’t you know it’s rude to wake a lady when she’s taking a nap?!” 

“Are you Hilda Berg?” Cuphead asked. “We’re looking for the debtors!” 

“So you know about my debt?” Hilda crossed her arms. “Pfft. You look too wimpy to take me on, cup boy. I’d knock you right out of your boots before you could blink.”

 “Goopy Le Grande sends his regards,” Mugman shouted up suddenly.

Hilda froze.

She turned, slowly, eyes narrowing. “Goopy?” she echoed.

Her tone was different now. No longer mocking. Just… guarded.

“Well,” she said finally, her voice cooler now. “What business do you have with ol’ slimeball?”

“He’s joining our crusade against the Devil,” Cuphead said. 

That made Hilda blink. “The what now?”

“We’re rallying the debtors,” Cuphead explained, “We’re gonna take a stand—once and for all. No more contracts. No more runnin'. No more Devil.”

Hilda stared at him, then she threw her head back and let out a loud, sharp laugh. “ HA! You’ve got to be kidding me!” she scoffed. “You three think you’re gonna pull off a rebellion against him ? You’re lucky I don’t swat you out of the sky just for waking me up with that nonsense.”

Chalice cupped her hands. “Look, we’re not here to fight! We just want to talk!”

“I don’t talk to fools,” Hilda snapped. “Especially the airborne kind. Goopy should’ve warned you.” 

Mugman called up. “But Goopy said you were the first person who ever looked out for him.”

That seemed to hit. Hilda’s scowl faltered.

“I did look out for him,” she said quietly, almost like she was talking to herself. “Little blue-eyed blob always tagging along, asking about planets like they were people…”

Cuphead lowered the plane slightly, enough to meet her eyes.

“He still remembers you. And he thinks you’d want to be part of something bigger than the Devil’s little circus act.”

Hilda looked at them a moment longer… then sat down cross-legged on her cloud. 

“The truth is,” she said, voice lower now, “I was reading the stars last night. They said, 'Accept unexpected journeys.' ”

She eyed them. “This counts, I suppose.”

“So you believe in fate?” Cuphead asked.

“I believe in signs.” Hilda narrowed her eyes.

Cuphead grinned. “So you’re in?”

Hilda leaned back, one hand resting on the cloud, the other pointing at him. “Slow down, twerp. You think I’m just gonna zip along with you just like that?”

“Well... yeah?” Cuphead said.

Hilda snorted. “You’ve got nerve, cup boy. I like that.” She paused. “Maybe I ought to tell you how this star happened to fall.” 

The night sky above the Inkwell Isle was a canvas of stars painted over black velvet. Perched on the roof of an old house, under scratchy wool blankets, a ten-year-old witch named Hilda Berg stared through a battered telescope, whispering constellations to herself.

"There’s Virgo," Hilda muttered, brushing a lock of dark brown hair out of her eyes. 

When she was younger, Hilda would look at the constellations with her Grandma.

"Those stars don't just twinkle, liebchen ," her grandmother would say in her thick accent. "They whisper. They show us futures, if we are brave enough to listen."

Her grandmother, Hildegard Berg, had once been the most revered headmistress of Hexenwerks Magierakademie. Her legacy loomed large over the family, especially after she passed. But Hilda’s mother—a rigid, practical potion witch—had no patience for “sky-watching.”

Beneath her, inside the slanted house, the shouting had begun again.

"Hilda! Get down from there this instant! You haven’t stirred your potion once tonight!"

It was her mother, again. Always her mother. Always shrill, always disappointed.

“I’m charting,” Hilda muttered back without moving. “I can finish my studies tomorrow.”

She had no talent for potions. Her elixirs always exploded, curdled, or worse. The only things she had a feel for was the sky. 

“You’ll never master real magic like this!” her mother snapped. “Stars won’t boil a cauldron, and they sure won’t summon you a familiar!”

Hilda clenched her jaw. The familiar. She was the only witch her age without one. Instead, she had built herself a tiny mechanical owl named Noctua with a wind-up key and spring. It wheezed and chirped, but it followed her loyally.

Her mother hated it. So did most of the coven. Only one person had ever encouraged her curiosities—her grandmother. 

“ You have his eyes,” Grandmother had whispered to Hilda once.

Hilda had never known who “he” was. Any time she asked about her grandfather, her mother would wave it away.

“Nothing but a bad memory. You’re better off not knowing.”

But Hilda wanted to know everything.

Hilda blinked through the telescope and adjusted the dial. A glimmer of light from a distant planet shone back. Her fingers trembled slightly as she scribbled a note into her star journal.

—

Two years later, the gates of Hexenwerks Magierakademie, the private and exclusive all-girls magic school, groaned open to admit its newest class.

Hilda Berg, now tall and skinny, with long curly hair, stood stiffly in the entrance hall, her satchel clutched tightly to her chest, the faint ticking of a pocket watch echoing with each nervous breath. The great granite towers of the academy loomed above her like sentinels. 

 She could already feel the stares. Hilda’s reputation preceded her—though not in the way she might have hoped.

“Berg? As in the Berg?” whispered one girl. 

“Her grandmother was headmistress, right? She’s probably already memorized the entire Codex Arcanum.”

The great entrance hall of Hexenwerks was vast. Floating chandeliers drifted, casting shifting stars onto the vaulted ceiling. Banners of deep purple and gold shimmered with enchantments, fluttering despite the stillness of the air. 

New students gathered in lines before a semicircle of thirteen figures- twelve professors, and at their center, the headmistress. 

Headmistress Steiner stepped forward, raising her voice. “Welcome, students, to Hexenwerks Magierakademie. Here, you will learn to wield the sacred forces of true witchcraft.” 

Her gaze swept across the crowd, and for a moment, paused on Hilda.  

“You!” she said.

Hilda’s face went bright red as everyone turned to look at her. 

“We have a prodigy among us, class! Miss Berg, come up here, if you please.”

Hilda shuffled forward, the sound of her heartbeat drumming in her ears. Steiner put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Why don’t you show these first years how it’s really done?” Steiner suggested. “Show us a spell!”

 “Sure…” Hilda reached into her satchel and took out her wand. Instantly Steiner’s face fell.

“Your grandmother didn’t need a wand to do a simple spell at your age.”

“I’m not my grandma,” Hilda said quietly. 

“Sorry?”

Hilda waved her wand, and one of the stars on the ceiling fizzled out. 

There was silence.

“Well. Certainly you’re good at something.”  Steiner said with a strained smile on her face. 

Hilda brightened. “Yeah. The stars. Do you have a course on astrology?” 

Steiner narrowed her eyes. “Astrology is a curiosity, not a discipline. We haven’t taught Divination and its arts here in years.” 

“What? Why not?”

“It was deemed no longer…appropriate.” Steiner replied coolly. 

The class snickered. 

—

In her first potion-brewing class, Hilda turned a healing tonic into a smoking, acidic sludge that ate through her cauldron. In hexing drills, her incantations fizzled, misfired, or reversed entirely. A miscast jinx even gave Professor Heksebene a tail. 

Hilda was as quiet out of class as she was in it. She didn’t really have any friends or people to talk to in her dorm tower. On weekends and days off, she would spend time alone at the old observatory tower, which had been abandoned and off-limits since long ago. 

It didn’t take long for the nickname to form.

Stargazer. 

One afternoon, Hilda had been sketching in her notebook during lunch—detailed designs of a mechanical broom, complete with miniature engine- when another girl snatched it out of her hands. 

“Ooh, what’s this?” the girl crowed, turning the book so others could see. “Look everyone! It’s the future of witchcraft! Look at those cogs! Maybe one day we’ll fly with steam, and wear goggles instead of casting spells!” 

The laughter was brutal.

Hilda ran. She didn’t even stop to grab her notebook. 

She ran until she was too blinded by tears to see. Wiping them away, she found herself deep in the northern wing of the academy’s library. Slumped between the shelves, she wept silently, face buried in her hands. 

When she finally cried herself out, she wiped her face and began drifting among the shelves. Her fingers trailed across one old tome that tugged at her curiosity: Advanced Methods of the Divining Arts. 

She opened it up to dusty pages, where intricate diagrams of lunar houses, planetary alignments, and finally- an entire section on tarot. But something was wrong. Several pages toward the end of the book were illegible, warped, even. 

This section has been magically obfuscated , read a scrawled note in the margin. 

Hilda closed the book slowly, putting it into her satchel, her curiosity piqued. 

—

Time passed, and things didn’t get any easier.

It didn't help that Noctua had mysteriously stopped running midway through her first term.

“Familiars are bonded for life,” mocked one girl in a sing-song tone. “Unless the witch is too pathetic to sustain the link.”

Laughter echoed.

By night, Hilda continued to study astronomy in secret. Not just star names or their positions—but their alignments, their stories. Her notebooks were filled with calculations and planetary translations of the movements of the sun, moon, planets, and stars, from which she made her own divinations. 

And on the side, she drew more mechanical brooms. And as she revised them over and over, eventually, they began to look more and more like zeppelins. 

And so she began her work on a real one. As the year went on, she constructed it with scrap she found in storage closets, or anything she found around the grounds. An old propeller, a bicycle seat and wheel, a parachute with holes in it. 

And under cover of moonlight, she slowly taught herself to ride it. 

—

Soon it was near summer- the time when school let out. And Hilda was barely passing any of her classes. It was alright though- for Hilda’s horoscope had prophesied an event that would change her life for the better. 

It was the day of the Annual Flight Showcase- a ceremony of grace and aerial mastery. The entire school was gathered on the athletic field, showing off their skills. 

Hilda’s name was never called, but she stepped forward anyway, her “broom” in hand. Gasps could be heard throughout the field.

“What is that?” someone muttered. “She’s going to kill herself.” 

Steiner scowled as Hilda mounted the contraption. 

Pedaling to lift herself, Hilda rose into the air. For the first half of the course, she shattered targets with precision as she wove through the hoops and illusions. 

But then something happened.

Maybe the pedal jammed, or the propeller stopped working. Whatever it was, Hilda never found out.

The broom-zeppelin caught smoke and dropped from the sky like a shot bird. 

Hilda careened towards earth. 

But before she could strike the ground, Steiner caught her with a hovering spell and slowly brought her down before the crowd. For a moment, Hilda looked up at the woman with hope in her tear-filled eyes. 

“This isn’t magic,” said Steiner coldly. "It’s machinery. You’ve defied tradition, risked lives, and insulted the integrity of the magical arts. You are hereby expelled. Pack up your things.” 

Hilda stood in stunned silence, her contraption broken in pieces beside her. Nobody defended her. Even the teachers looked relieved. 

Later that night, after packing the small amount of items she had in her satchel and a knapsack, she returned to the observatory for the last time. She stared once more through the telescope, saying goodbye to the stars she’d come to know so intimately. 

—

Hilda was soon on the train on her way home. She sat alone in her compartment, watching the scenery go by, contemplating her next move. She was going to be ostracized for the rest of her life. She couldn’t just go home. 

Hilda shuffled through her satchel, and her hand passed across the spine of a familiar book. Advanced Methods of the Divining Arts. She’d forgotten to return it. Carefully, Hilda brushed through the delicate pages of the tome. The letters of the Tarot chapter were still scrambled and unreadable, but as she flipped through a single card slipped from between the pages. A card she hadn’t seen before. 

A grinning man with a white beard, cloaked in purple robes, sat on a throne of ice. 

The Hierophant, the caption read.

Hilda had an odd feeling looking at the card, almost like a deep foreboding. 

Some hours later, the train hissed into the station with a lurch, as the last light of twilight filtered through the windows of the compartment. Hilda stepped off with her satchel slung over her shoulder.

By the time she arrived at her family’s crooked hilltop house, the stars had begun to peer through the evening clouds. As she raised her hand to knock, the front door flew open. 

Her mother stood there, arms crossed.

“So,” she spat. “You’ve come home.”

Hilda stepped inside wordlessly. The door slammed shut behind her.

“Expelled. Expelled from Hexenwerks, of all places. Do you have any idea what this will do to our name?”

Hilda dropped her bag by the stairs. “It wasn’t fair—”

“You embarrassed this family!” her mother snapped. “You humiliated your lineage, your grandmother’s legacy—do you think she clawed her way to the top of that school so her granddaughter could be kicked out for building toys?”

“They’re not toys,” Hilda growled, feeling her throat tighten. “I was flying better than anyone else! It’s not my fault they hate anything different!”

They stood in silence. Then Hilda said, very quietly, “Maybe I don’t belong.”

Her mother blinked. “What?”

“Maybe I’m just like—” Hilda’s voice caught. “Just like him.”

Her mother stiffened.

“Grandmother. Everyone talks about her like she was a saint,” Hilda continued. “But no one ever mentions her husband. My grandfather. Why is that?”

Something cracked in her mother’s expression. She looked away, lips trembling slightly before she forced her voice steady.

“Because it’s better that way.”

“Why?” Hilda pressed. “Because if I’m a failure like him, I’m not even worth remembering?”

Her mother didn’t respond at first. Then, sighing deeply, she turned toward the attic stairs. “Come with me.”

The attic, heavy with the smell of dust, was bathed in the cold blue light of the moon. 

Her mother reached into a wooden trunk buried beneath ancient spellbooks and she pulled out a thick, leather-bound photo album.

“I swore I’d never show you this,” she said, brushing off the dust. “But maybe it’s time.”

Hilda sat beside her on the floorboards, heart thudding.

The album creaked open to a black-and-white photograph. In it, a younger Hildegarde Berg stood smiling- in a purple cloak pulled over her curly brown hair, much like Hilda’s- and she stood next to a man. The man had a blonde mustache and beard, and glasses, a long pointed nose, and a tall wizard hat that matches his purple robes. He had one hand around her shoulders.

“That’s your grandfather,” her mother said. “Mortimer Freeze.”

Hilda stared. “They look... happy.”

“He was a charmer,” her mother said, almost begrudgingly. “He ran a... group. Of witches and wizards who shared your grandmother’s love of astrology and alternative magical practices.”

“A group,” Hilda echoed, “or... a cult ?”

Her mother didn’t answer. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“They called themselves The Children of Snow,” she said at last. “Your grandmother thought they were brilliant. She followed Mortimer to the ends of the earth.”

Hilda flipped to the next page.

There was a note tucked between the photographs. The ink had faded, but the handwriting was elegant. 

My love—when the stars call to you again, find me in my sanctum of ice. Inkwell Isle IV awaits.

“Your grandmother left him when she was pregnant with me,” her mother said quietly. “She became headmistress of Hexenwerks and swore to bury the past. No one was to know. Especially not you.”

“Why?” Hilda asked. “What did Mortimer do that was so terrible?”

Her mother stood and closed the album with a soft thud.

“He’s a disgrace to magic. A manipulator. He uses divination like a stage trick, tells people what they want to hear so he can control them. He built his little empire on lies. Nobody who joins the Snow Cult ever leaves—except your grandmother. And even she paid a price.”

Hilda looked down at the note again. Her heart beat harder. 

“I read the stars a few nights ago,” she murmured. “They said a great turning point was coming in my life. That my life was going to change for the better. I thought it was talking about the Flight Showcase…” 

She touched the note.

“Maybe this is it.”

—

Hilda stood on the docks with only the essentials packed in her satchel: Advanced Methods of the Divining Arts, her notebook, her wand, and, slung over her back- her broom-zeppelin, freshly repaired. 

She paid a ferryman who guided a narrow boat across the waves. As they crossed the bay, the jagged silhouette of Inkwell Isle 4 emerged. Hilda sat near the prow, hugging her knees, eyes fixed on the distant mountains veiled in mist. 

“Excuse me?” she asked the ferryman. “Do you know where I can find Mortimer Freeze?”

The man didn’t hesitate. “The eastern point of the island. You’ll need to cross the tundra.” He pointed to the white horizon beyond the hills. “Look for the ice palace. Can’t miss it.”  

Hilda’s thoughts were racing. What kind of person was Mortimer? Was he really as bad as everyone said? And how would he react to her? Did he even know he had a granddaughter? 

The boat touched shore and Hilda disembarked. The town at the edge of Inkwell Isle 4 was quiet.

With a deep breath, Hilda mounted her broom-zeppelin, kicked the foot pedals, and lifted into the air. Villagers gasped and pointed from below as her strange contraption whirled upward. 

She drew high into the sky, the island passing beneath her. A pine forest followed by rolling meadows and mountain ranges.

An hour passed. Then another.

The air grew colder and her fingers stiffened on the controls as barren, frozen tundra rolled below. 

And then, in the distance, a massive palace of ice rose out of the snow, reflecting in the pale sun. “That must be it,” Hilda whispered. “Mortimer’s sanctum of ice.” 

She descended carefully, landing in a drift of snow just outside the colossal doors.Gathering her courage, she approached and knocked.

The doors creaked open.

A smiling snowperson peered out. “Welcome to the Children of Snow,” he said. “What brings you to our sanctum?”

“I need to speak with Mortimer Freeze,” Hilda said.

The snowperson frowned. “Father Mortimer does not just see anyone. May I ask the nature of your visit?” 

Hilda hesitated. “It’s… about Hildegarde.” 

The snowperson turned and disappeared behind the doors. For a moment there was only silence. Then, muffled arguing. Raised voices. A thump. The echo of someone saying: “You’re sure?”

The doors burst open. 

“Oh, Hildegarde, it’s been sixty years, but you’ve finally come back!” a portly old man with a purple wizard hat and a white beard of ice bounced out. “I thought my frozen heart would thaw from loneliness!” 

“I’m not Hildegarde… I’m Hilda,” Hilda said, flustered.

“Huh…so you are.” The wizard squinted, and he drew away. “Hilda…why does that name sound familiar?”

There was murmuring from the other side of the door as an awkward silence stretched.

Hilda swallowed hard. “I’m your granddaughter.” 

Mortimer blinked. “Granddaughter-?” he echoed softly.

Then he laughed, deep and jolly. “Well, I suppose when you’ve lived as long as I have that shouldn't come as a surprise!” 

He clapped his hands. “Tell me Hilda, why come all this way?”

“I found your note,” Hilda said. “The one to my grandmother in her old album. The stars…they called to me.” 

Mortimer stared at her a moment longer, then he gave a loud, thoughtful hum. “Well, then, Hilda. Come in out from the cold.” 

The inside was a massive, dome shaped stadium made of frost, highlighted by a throne of solid ice. The walls were decorated with celestial sculptures. 

Hilda walked beside Mortimer, her footsteps echoing on the polished ice floor. His presence was larger than life- booming, joyful, dramatic.

“I hope you don’t call me Grandfather,” he joked lightly. “It makes me sound so old.” 

Hilda smiled, already liking him. She carried her satchel over one shoulder and her broom-zeppelin in the other hand, and Mortimer caught sight of it.

“Now this,” he said, pausing to look over at Hilda’s broom-zeppelin in wonder, “is a fascinating little doohickey. May I?” 

“Oh-of course,” said Hilda, handing it over.

“You made this yourself?” he asked, running a clawlike finger along the propeller. 

“Y-yeah,” Hilda said, shifting her weight nervously. “It’s still not perfect-”

Mortimer held up a hand and shook his head, impressed. “Don’t undersell it. This is ingenuity, my girl. Real vision. You’ve got a talent here, Hilda.”

He handed the contraption back.

Hilda swallowed. The compliment hit harder than she expected — mostly because she rarely got them.

“Well… I’m not exactly good at magic ,” she admitted, eyes flicking to the ground. And before she could stop herself, the words came tumbling out: “I got expelled from Hexenwerks.”

Mortimer blinked, then snorted. “Bah! Hexenwerks.” He waved a hand dismissively. “A bunch of stuffed shirts and wand-polishers. Your grandmother was the only decent one to ever teach at that place.”

Hilda perked up. “How well did you know her?”

Mortimer’s expression softened. “Oh, I knew Hildegarde very well,” he said, voice quieter now — gentler. “I was going to ask her to marry me, back when the Children of Snow were just starting out. We were young, idealistic — obsessed with the stars, the future. We’d sit up in the tower, talking about what magic could become.”

A small, fond smile played on his lips.

“But then she left,” he added, more soberly. “Said she had a… greater responsibility. Took a job offer, vanished overnight. I didn’t find out she was carrying your mother until years later. Never even met her.”

He looked at Hilda for a long moment, then asked softly, “How is Hildegarde, by the way?”

Hilda’s chest tightened. She hesitated. “Um… she’s passed. A long time ago.”

Mortimer’s smile faltered. The twinkle in his eye dimmed just slightly. His shoulders sank in a way that made him seem heavier, older.

“Oh,” he said.

There was a pause — just long enough for Hilda to feel its weight — before Mortimer straightened again, smoothing his beard with a puffed-out breath.

“Well,” he said briskly, plastering on that familiar grin again. “This’ll be your room while you stay with us. Good view of the stars from the east window, and the walls are enchanted for warmth — no frostbite, promise.”

He opened the carved ice door with a little flourish. Inside was a modest but beautiful chamber with an arched ceiling.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Mortimer said, turning back toward the hall. “Holler if you need anything. Dinner’s at eight sharp.”

And with that, he left, his footsteps echoing away.

Inside her small quarters was a tray of warm drinks made from snowberry and honeyroot. 

“Is this for me?” Hilda asked.

“Of course,” said a snowperson, who was finishing up making her bed. “You are a guest of Father Mortimer.” 

And then she was left alone with her thoughts.

—

Later that night, Hilda was guided to the dining hall by two cult members. It was a long vaulted chamber where frosted chandeliers hung from above, and a long, ice-slicked banquet table stretched from one end of the room to the other, laden with steamy soups, roasted root vegetables, and unfamiliar frozen delicacies. Everything shimmered like it had been prepared by magic- which, judging by the lack of ovens, it probably had. 

Hilda entered the room cautiously, and the moment she stepped through the arched doorway, every head turned toward her.

“There she is!!” came Mortimer’s booming voice from the head of the table. “A toast to my granddaughter! ”

A smattering of cheers and claps rose from the assembled guests. 

Hilda gave a tight smile and waved back awkwardly.

She took an empty seat that had been prepared for her next to Mortimer, who clapped her on the back. 

At her other side, a snowwoman leaned toward her and whispered, “It’s a great honor to be related to Father Mortimer. Did you know his breath can freeze reality itself?”

“Um… no,” Hilda replied.

The woman nodded solemnly. “He once froze a man mid-sentence. For blaspheming against winter. The poor lad called it unpleasant. Can you believe the nerve?”

Hilda gave a polite laugh, but her grip on her fork tightened. She glanced toward Mortimer, who was chatting merrily with a cluster of robed snowpeople.

Another snowperson beside her prodded her on the shoulder. “Have you been initiated yet?” he asked in a hush.

Hilda shook her head slowly. “I’m just visiting, actually.”

He smiled too widely. “Aren’t we all, at first?”

Hilda gave a tight smile, trying not to look visibly unnerved.

Then a chant began.

It started softly — just a low hum from the people around her — but it grew in intensity until the whole room was vibrating with it. The chant wasn’t in any language Hilda recognized, but the melody was hypnotic, rising and falling like a snowfall in wind. 

Mortimer stood up at the head of the table. In his hands he now held a crystal orb, glowing with soft light. The room darkened magically, until the only light came from the ball itself.

In a voice that carried across the stillness, Mortimer spoke.

“To the frost!” he intoned. “May it reveal the truth.”

“To the frost!” the followers echoed in unison.

Hilda murmured it with them, not wanting to stand out.

He held the orb high, and with his other hand, Mortimer drew from his sleeve a deck of tarot cards. 

He turned over the first card, revealing The Sun. 

“Joy and promise,” Mortimer said, his tone laced with gravity. “But beware: The sun can burn as much as it warms.” 

Then he turned over the second. The Moon. “Ah…illusions. Secrets in shadow.” His voice dropped an octave. “The moon is powerful, but her light bends the truth. Even we-her chosen- must take care not to be misled.”

Finally, the third card. The Three of Swords.

“Pain,” Mortimer said simply. “Loss. But even pain can carve a path forward.” He paused, then slowly turned the card reversed. “Or it dooms us to repeat it.”

A cold wind stirred through the hall, and Hilda shivered. Around her, everyone’s eyes were downcast, reverent. 

Then Mortimer placed the cards back into the deck and the orb went dark. The chandelier lights bloomed back to life.

Afterward, conversation resumed. Everyone was smiling, laughing, trading stories. 

It was hard to tell what was genuine and what was ritual. 

Eventually, Mortimer made his way over and plopped down beside Hilda with a contented sigh. “They’re a bit dramatic, but they mean well,” he said.

“Do they… worship ice?” Hilda asked hesitantly.

Mortimer shrugged. “They revere what’s pure, unchanging. Ice preserves. Fire destroys. Cold brings stillness — and in stillness, we see. ” He tapped his temple. “It’s all metaphor. Mostly.”

Hilda nodded, still absorbing the sheer oddness of it all.

“But don’t worry,” Mortimer added cheerily, ladling more stew into her bowl. “No one’s going to turn you into a snowman. Unless you ask nicely.”

He gave her a wink, and she laughed in spite of herself.

—

The Children of Snow were polite but distant. They bowed when she passed. They called her “Mistress Hilda”. But there were rules. 

She was not to enter the Inner Sanctum. She was not to disturb the Ice Scribes. And she was not to speak during the nightly chantings unless invited.

She wandered when she could.

At night, she climbed a spiral staircase to a castle tower where she could look at the aurora borealis flowing like ink across the stars. 

Here, she was at peace. And yet…she felt watched.

Mortimer came to her on the third night.

“Haha! This night’s sermon got quite a chilly reception! ” Mortimer joked, polishing a magic crystal ball with his robe.

Hilda smiled. “Maybe you’ll let me sit in next time.” 

Mortimer didn’t reply. Instead, he looked up at the sky. 

“Do you know why I made this place?” he asked suddenly. 

Hilda shook her head.

“Because the rest of the magical world dismissed me and my vision. So I found others who wanted to believe. Who wanted magic that felt…cosmic. Like we mattered in the scope of the stars. Like there was meaning beyond the next potion or spell.”

“That sounds beautiful,” Hilda admitted.

“It is,” Mortimer said. Then he turned to her. “Which is why I won’t let you join.” 

Hilda blinked. “Wait-what?” 

“You’re young. Brilliant. Not yet broken by the world.” His voice lowered. “I made this for those who were already lost. Who needed something to believe in .”

He looked her in the eye.

“You still have a future. Don’t give it up to be someone’s follower — not even mine.” He smiled a crooked smile. 

Hilda protested. “That’s not fair!”

“Girlie, it’ll be a hot December before I let you be a member.”

“Some future!” Hilda scoffed, rising to her feet. “I can’t live up to Grandma’s reputation because I can’t do magic, and my mom won’t let me chart stars in peace. No matter what I try to be, it’s always the wrong thing!”

Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, her eyes burning.

“I don’t belong at school, I don’t belong at home, and I definitely don’t belong here! Where do you want me to go, Mortimer?”

She turned on her heel, storming toward the door.

“Hilda—wait—”

But she didn’t. She burst through the icy corridors, past wide-eyed cultists.

Her breath fogged in the air as she reached the heavy front doors, yanked them open, and stepped into the biting wind.

Snow howled around her, stinging her cheeks. She didn’t care.

Not waiting for anyone to stop her, Hilda ripped open her satchel and unpacked her broom-zeppelin. She mounted the seat and began pedaling, tears freezing on her cheeks.

Within seconds, the machine lifted from the ground and she soared into the night sky, away from the palace, away from Mortimer, and away from everything that had let her down. 

She didn’t know where she was going. And she didn’t care.

Hours passed. 

Clouds gathered below her, and her body ached from pedaling, but she pressed on. Somewhere, far below, waves crashed against distant shores.

Then, around dawn, as the sun peeked over the horizon, something caught her eye.

Through a break in the clouds, she saw it- another island, and rising from it, a cracked observatory dome.

Hilda felt her heart leap. She spiraled downward, slowing her flight and landing with a thump.

She approached the observatory’s door, hanging crooked on its rusty hinges. With a soft creak she pushed it open. Inside, the remains of a forgotten world waited: broken orreries, collapsed bookshelves, torn star charts strewn across the floor. 

And Hilda knew right then and there what she’d been brought there to do.

—

The days passed.

Hilda worked tirelessly. She cleared the shattered glass from the broken dome and used scrap metal and bolts to piece together a new retractable roof. 

She created a small area to sleep with a hammock suspended off the bookshelves covered in blankets. Her new bed. She pinned her drawings and star charts across the walls and angled ceiling. 

When she needed food and supplies, Hilda would make a short journey into the nearest town on Inkwell Isle One. She kept a low profile.

The coins her mother had given her on the day of her expulsion—intended for “finding somewhere to land”—were spent sparingly. A loaf of bread. A spool of thread. New gears. Old books.

Weeks passed in quiet routine—repairs by day, studying at night. One evening, she was looking through the telescope, when she saw a streak of fire tearing across the sky. 

A shooting star. 

She leapt to her feet, and ran to the observatory platform. The star was brighter than anything she had ever seen. It arced lower than any shooting star she’d read about, almost brushing the treetops of the forest, and then-

Boom. 

There was an impact far off.

Hilda’s breath caught. “A fallen star…” she whispered. “A real one.”

Hilda ran, grabbing her wand. Her notebook. Her broom-zeppelin. And then she hopped on, pedaling down into the forest.

—-

The forest loomed before her- dense, unfamiliar. Hilda stood at the edge, hesitating.

The shooting star had vanished behind these trees, and yet…

Her magic felt useless in this place. Her hands were trembling.

But curiosity burned brighter than fear.

With a deep breath, Hilda stepped forward.

Minutes passed. Ten. Maybe more.

The deeper she wandered, the darker it became, and the denser the trees got together. 

She scowled, brushing away a low branch. “Brilliant, Hilda. Chase a cosmic phenomenon into a creepy forest, very professional.”

Suddenly she stumbled through a dense thicket, branches snapping and twigs scraping her arms.

“Ugh!” Hilda groaned, picking leaves out of her hair. She looked up, searching the skies.

The star was gone. Her shoulders sagged. “Perfect, I lost it.”

Frustrated, she began circling the clearing, scanning the sky for any sign.

Then she looked down and something caught her eye. A faint shimmer on the forest floor.

She crouched.

A trail of blue slime.

Eyes narrowing, she knelt to touch it, rubbing the viscous substance between her fingers. 

Curiosity piqued again, she followed the trail through the grass—until she found it.

Curled up beneath a fern, trembling slightly, was a small, luminous blue slime.

Her jaw dropped. “No way…”

She gasped in awe, reaching out to gently scoop him into her palms. His surface pulsed like jelly.

Some of the professors at Hexenwerks would lose their minds over this … she thought, eyes wide with scientific hunger.

She marveled at him.

Then suddenly—

The slime yelled.

Hilda screamed and nearly dropped him. “Jumpin’ Jupiter! You’re alive!”

She stared in shock. The slime… had a face.

Two wide eyes blinked up at her. A nose. A mouth.

He was trembling, shrinking into himself in fear.

The slime babbled something in terrified French. “Please, don’t eat me!” 

“Eat you?!” Hilda echoed, stunned. 

She dropped to her knees, voice softening. 

“It’s just… I’ve never seen a live slime before…”

The little creature’s eyes grew even wider. “ What?! ” 

Realizing her mistake, Hilda winced. She laughed nervously. "No, no, I mean...never mind! Do you...live here?"

The slime didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted, and Hilda finally noticed the small cuts and scrapes covering his body. Little bruises formed beneath his jelly-like skin.

Her smile fell. “You're hurt!” 

Slowly and gently, she put her hand on his body, and it trembled under her touch.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said quickly and quietly, meeting his gaze. “My name’s Hilda. Hilda Berg! World’s greatest astrologist!”

There was a long pause.

Then, in a timid voice, he whispered, “I-I’m…”

He faltered.

Hilda smiled softly. “Well, you're a goopy little fella. Do you mind if I just call you Goopy?”

He blinked at her.

“Goopy.” he repeated.

Hilda chuckled softly. “Wow…the stars sure didn’t predict this.”

She leaned closer, examining his injuries. "Goopy, you have to let me treat these wounds. If you come with me, I can help you. How 'bout it?"

Goopy hesitated. “Okay…”

“Great!” Hilda grinned and rose up, gingerly picking Goopy up and carrying him. “My place isn’t too far…” Her voice trailed off as she realized that she had no way of knowing how to get out of the forest and return home. 

“I think… it was this way,” Hilda muttered, her voice low, uncertain.

She felt ridiculous—fumbling through the woods like an amateur. She cast a quick glance down at Goopy, cradled gently in her arms. His round eyes blinked up at her, curious and trusting, which only made her cheeks burn hotter with embarrassment.

She tilted her head back, searching the sky for guidance. The thick canopy overhead swallowed most of the starlight, leaving only the light of the moon filtering down between the branches.

She couldn’t read the constellations.

She was flying blind.

Greatest astrologist in the Inkwell Isles… lost in the woods. Just brilliant.

“Where are we going?” Goopy asked, his voice small and inquisitive.

“My place,” Hilda replied, brushing a low branch out of the way with a grunt. “Or… we would be.” she bit her lip, hesitating. 

She sighed in exasperation. “If we can get out of the forest.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, suddenly, Goopy said, “I think I know the way.”

Hilda blinked. “You do?”

He nodded. “Uh-huh! This way!”

He pointed a white-gloved finger, confidently gesturing towards the southwest. 

Hilda frowned. She’d never have guessed that direction. But… she had nothing better to go on.

So she went. 

The woods gradually thinned as they walked. And then, suddenly, they broke free of the trees. 

Hilda stepped out into the open and gasped quietly. The first rays of sunlight were streaming over the horizon. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been in there, wandering- was it nearly morning already?

Hilda knew the rest of the way back. Up the steps, down the path, across the bridge. And there, her observatory sat. 

“That’s where I live!” she said to Goopy, and she carried him inside. 

It was more than just her pet project now. It was her home.

—

The two of them soon sparked a deep friendship unlike any Hilda had ever had. Sure, she’d had acquaintances before, classmates and passing faces who offered up shallow conversations, but Goopy was different.

Around him, she didn’t feel the need to perform or prove herself. 

He listened when she rambled about constellations for hours. He marveled at the inner workings of her machines.  He looked at the sky with her and saw not just stars, but stories.

Goopy liked the things no one else ever had.

He liked her—exactly as she was.

One night they were sitting on top of the roof of the observatory together. 

“How high do stars have to bounce to get stuck in the sky?” Goopy asked innocently. 

It was always questions like these. They were fascinating in their own way.

“That’s…not how it works.” Hilda resisted a giggle. She pointed upward. “See that one? That’s Orion. He was a famous hunter from hundreds of years ago. Strong, brave, and handsome!” She smirked. “Just like you.”

“Oh, come on!” Goopy groaned. “You always tease me!”

Hilda couldn’t help it- the laughter just escaped her. “HA!”

“Who else is up there?”

Hilda pointed to another constellation. “Well, there’s the Big Dipper…and there’s Cassiopeia." A thought came to her and she smiled. “But I think the one you’ll like is Hercules.”

“Who’s that?”

Hilda beamed at him. “He was the world’s greatest hero! He was selfless and brave, and he protected everyone.”

“Wow, a hero!” Goopy’s eyes shone in the starlight. “And so he lives in the sky now?”

Hilda’s sides split. She laughed so hard her eyes watered. Breathing heavily, she wiped away a tear. “No, but the stars mark his legacy up there forever. Just like all the constellations up there. They may be gone, but they’ll never be forgotten.”

“Wow!”

Then there was a long pause of silence.

Hilda looked up at the moon, full and glowing a soft milky glow.

“The moon sure is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” Hilda asked, more to herself than anyone else. 

“Yeah, beautiful…” Goopy quietly agreed. There was another silence.

Hilda rolled over. “Is something bothering you, Goopy?” 

But Goopy shook his head.

“You know,” Hilda went back to her laying position, arms resting behind her head. “They say you can learn the future from the moon and stars.” She smiled. “I was always pretty good at it.” 

“I think you’re brilliant!” Goopy exclaimed.

Hilda turned bright red. She was used to Goopy’s enthusiasm, but still wasn’t quite used to receiving compliments. 

Hilda grinned. "Well, I can tell you one thing.” She winked at Goopy. "The two of us are going to be friends forever."

—

It happened on a quiet afternoon, a few years after Goopy had entered her life. 

Hilda, now sixteen, was alone in her observatory, lost in star charts, her pen scratching across parchment. The light of late day filtered through the domed ceiling, and the gears of her telescope whirred softly behind her.

Then suddenly, there was a knock.

She blinked.

Strange. She hadn’t been expecting anyone. For a heartbeat, she thought it might be Goopy—back from his aimless forest wanderings with something curious to show her.

But when she opened the door, it wasn’t Goopy at all.

A tall, lean man stood there, dressed in flamboyant carnival garb: a deep plum tailcoat, a bowtie, and a glossy, curling mustache. His eyes were sharp, his smile sharper.

Hilda was uneasy. “Can I help you?”

“Madam Berg!” He greeted. “A pleasure most profound. I’m but a humble traveling merchant of rare magical wares from realms far beyond this Isle.. Sugarland… the Great Desert… even beyond the sea—if you can believe it.”

With a magician’s flair, he swept a stack of star charts from up his sleeve—maps etched with glittering constellations Hilda had never seen before. Some twinkled faintly in the light. Others seemed to move ever so slightly on the page.

Her breath caught. “What stars are these?”

“Ah-ah!” he tutted, snapping the scrolls shut just before her fingers touched them. “No free previews, I’m afraid. Limited stock.”

His eyes gleamed. “But perhaps I have something even greater to offer you.”

Hilda’s brow furrowed. “Greater than those charts?”

He leaned in closer, voice low, as though sharing a secret..

“How would you like to command the stars themselves?”
He straightened, spreading his arms wide.
“To not just read the heavens—but to rule them?”

Hilda stared, uncertain whether to laugh or scoff. But something in his tone stopped her.

“What… exactly are you selling?”

“A gift,” the man whispered. “Power. Wonder. A new destiny. All I ask for is… a signature.”

She hesitated. “That’s it?”

He flicked his wrist, and a parchment appeared in a puff of black smoke. A quill hovered beside it, suspended in the air. The ink in the inkwell shimmered blue, sizzling.

The parchment bore a strange symbol—one Hilda didn’t recognize.

But those charts…

She took the quill and, with practiced grace, signed her name:
Hilda Berg.

The moment the final stroke curled, the ink shimmered and the parchment rolled itself up with a sharp hiss. A sudden gust of wind swirled around her.

The man clapped his hands with a grin too wide.
“Why, thank you! Enjoy the night.”

Before Hilda could respond, he vanished in a burst of black smoke that reeked of sulfur and scorched metal. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face.

“Weirdo,” she muttered.

But then—something was different.

She blinked.
She looked down and gasped.

Around both of her wrists glowed twin silver bracelets, glowing like slivers of moonlight. They seemed to pulse with some ancient magic.

“What the…”

She reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face—only to freeze.

Her headband was gone.

In its place sat a miniature weathervane, balanced neatly atop her head. It spun gently even without wind, creaking softly. She touched it, startled. It was real.

The stars outside were still where they had always been—but now they shimmered like they were watching her.

She swallowed, her heart thudding.

Maybe the salesman hadn’t been full of hot air after all. 

Hilda climbed onto the roof of the observatory. 

A low cloud drifted across the roof. Right at her level.

Hilda stepped forward instinctively—and gasped.

She didn’t fall. Her foot landed on the cloud. It held her weight.

Heart pounding, she took another step, and another, until she was standing on the cloud completely. She laughed in amazement, scooping up tufts of cloud like snow and throwing them into the air.

Then she lay back, stretched her arms and inhaled.  

The cloud entered her lungs like air- and her body began to change.

Hilda began to panic. Her shape ballooned and her dress fluttered as metal wings burst from her sides. 

Hilda was now a strange hybrid of woman and airship. She flailed in the air, then steadied herself, pedaling instinctively like the contraption she’d once tried to build.

“I’m- I’m flying!” She soared higher.

She whooped in astonishment, dipping and looping through the open air, trailing clouds  in her wake.

That bizarre man hadn’t been lying.

And the magic hadn’t stopped there.

She waggled her fingers.

Stars spilled out, forming glowing constellations in miniature.
She gasped. “Taurus?”

At once, her form changed again—her body swelling, twisting into a bull-shaped mass of cloud and starlight, horns curling above her head, cosmic fury in her eyes.

She charged through the air, laughing wildly.

Then—Gemini.
She split in two: graceful twin women cradling an orb of solar fire.

Sagittarius.
A centaur now—complete with bow- she fired blazing arrows into the sky.

She transformed through each of the zodiacs, dancing across the heavens.

When night finally fell, she collapsed atop a cloud, breathless, giddy.

She felt limitless.

—

The next morning, Hilda could barely contain her excitement.

She waited high above the treetops, perched on a soft, white cloud as dawn spilled across the sky. Her heart fluttered at the thought of showing Goopy what had happened—what she had become.

Then, there he was.

Hilda descended down from her cloud in a flurry and in a few moment’s time, had explained the whole ordeal to her wide-eyed friend.

“Come on up!” she offered, pulling him up onto a cloud and holding him there with her newfound magic. 

“Up we go!" she exclaimed. The cloud lifted, steady and smooth, rising over the treetops.

Goopy shivered in fear, clinging to her. “It’s so high up!” He trembled like jelly.

Hilda pulled him close with a gentle laugh and wrapped her arms around him. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “You’re safe with me.”

The cloud crested above the canopy, and the forest unfolded beneath them.

“Goopy, look!” Hilda said softly.

Goopy hesitated, then peeked open one eye.

His jaw dropped.

“Whoa…”

They drifted over winding streams and sleepy cottages, past a riverboat puffing along the riverbank. They sailed past acres of farmland and meadows of flowers.

“That’s Inkwell Isle Two,” Hilda pointed ahead, as the cloud soared across the bay. Below them, the world came alive—jubilant music floated up from a traveling carnival. Children laughed from a roller coaster as it climbed a loop, and Goopy waved.

Further still, a vast crystalline pool glistened like glass, reflecting their cloud in perfect mirror. And beyond that, perched a towering castle wrapped in a slumbering dragon, which lazily blew a perfect ring of smoke into the air as they floated past.

Dusk was falling as they approached a third isle, this one humming with the buzz of life. A seaside city, alive with the glow of neon signs, the cry of gulls, the sounds of jazz echoing from rooftops. Goopy stared, wide-eyed, watching ships bob at the docks and distant fireworks bloom in the deepening sky.

He turned to Hilda, almost breathless. “It’s all so… big.”

She smiled. “There’s a lot more out there than just the forest.”

Goopy’s eyelids had started to droop. He leaned against her without a word.

“I guess we’ll save the rest for another day,” Hilda whispered.

She turned the cloud homeward, soaring back over the familiar forests of Inkwell Isle One. The stars were out now, glittering quietly above them.

By the time they descended, Goopy was fast asleep in her arms.

Hilda landed just outside the observatory and stepped off the cloud as it gently settled on the ground, cradling him with care.

She looked down at the little blue slime, curled peacefully against her.

With a soft smile she carried him inside.

—

For a little while, everything was perfect.

But perfection doesn’t last.

One night, while charting the constellations from the observatory tower, Hilda’s hand froze over the parchment.

Her pulse quickened as she traced the stars again and again, heart sinking with each pass.

The alignment was unmistakable.

Because of you, a great tragedy will befall someone you care about…

The stars never lied.

That night, the dreams began.

Witches often received prophetic visions, though Hilda had never known them herself—not until now.

In her dream, she stood in the forest.

But it wasn’t the familiar forest of Inkwell Isle.

Above her, the moon hung enormous and full—blood red, casting everything in an eerie crimson hue.

Suddenly—

"HILDA!"

Goopy's voice, shrill and terrified, pierced the silence.

She turned.

Smoke exploded in front of her—a blinding, choking puff of black—and when it cleared... he was gone.

All that remained was a grave.

A jagged, weathered headstone jutted from the cracked soil like a broken tooth. A crude cross stood at the top, crooked and splintered.

She stumbled forward, heart pounding in her ears.

R.I.P.

Here Lies Goopy Le Grande.

“No—no, no, no—” Hilda fell to her knees and began clawing at the earth, her nails breaking, mud caking her hands. 

“GOOPY!” she sobbed. “GOOPY!”

The ground was burning hot—too hot, scalding her fingers, turning her skin raw and blistered—but she didn’t stop. She kept digging. Deeper. Faster.

Then—a face.

Not Goopy’s.

The carnival man .

Half-buried, his grin stretched far too wide for his face. His eyes flared open—bright and yellow and inhuman.

“Your soul is mine,” he rasped, voice oozing like tar. “And his will burn with yours… forever in Hell. ”

Then he laughed.

The grave opened beneath her feet, and she was falling.

—

Hilda sat bolt upright in bed, gasping.

Her nightgown clung to her skin, drenched with sweat. Her heart was racing, her limbs trembling.

It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

But no… not with that prophecy.

Not with the stars' warning still fresh in her mind.

She stared out the window at the moon—now pale and quiet—and wrapped her arms around herself.

Deep down, she knew the truth.

The man who gave her magic…It had been the Devil.

And she had signed her name.

Hilda’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers trembled.

She couldn’t tell him.
Not yet.
It would only terrify him, and there were still too many unknowns.

She’d find answers.

The stars had shown her this much—maybe they had more to offer. A warning. A path forward.

But one thing was certain:

She wasn’t going to let that nightmare come true.

Not without a fight.

—

Weeks slipped by.

Hilda buried herself in her research, surrounded by towers of dusty tomes and scattered star charts. Her once joyful stargazing became obsessive. She scoured every text in her observatory and even made extra trips into town, combing through the old library’s restricted sections in search of anything— anything —about undoing a deal with the Devil.

But there was nothing.

Nothing about breaking a pact.

Only horror stories of those who tried.

Page after page painted him the same: a master manipulator, a collector of souls, feeding on desperation like a vulture. He gave people what they wanted—only to take what mattered most.

And the prophecy still echoed in her mind.

Hilda tried to push Goopy away. Every time he bounced up the path to the observatory, she found a reason not to see him. It killed her inside, but if keeping her distance meant keeping him safe, she’d do it.

He didn’t understand. He looked so confused each time. So hurt.

Then, one late afternoon, just as she was dozing on a drifting cloud, she heard him.

“Hilda!”

There was something different in his tone. Not only was it deeper, but it was more urgent. 

She blinked and sat up, squinting over the cloud’s edge.

Down below stood Goopy—but not as she remembered him.

He was taller now. Bulkier. His arms were wrapped in bright red boxing gloves, and a self-assured grin stretched across his face.

Hilda’s stomach dropped.

 “Goopy, what happened to you?!” 

“I’ll tell you!” he said. “But not here.”

He held out his hand.

She hesitated. Her instincts screamed. But her heart…

She missed him.

So, for just a few minutes, she let herself believe nothing was wrong. She took his hand.

Goopy led her down the path, beaming with pride, until they arrived at the riverbank and its crown jewel: the riverfront club, The Flytrap.

“Ta-Da!” Goopy announced. 

Hilda gawked.. “The Flytrap? Goopy…”

Goopy gave her a smile and tipped the top of his head like a hat. “Ladies first.”

Two frog waiters in tuxedos opened the door with a flourish.

“Welcome to The Flytrap!”

Inside, the air was rich with candlelight and piano jazz.

“Table for two, please,” Goopy said, the words blurring as Hilda’s head buzzed. “By the window, if it’s open.”

“Yes, sir, of course!”

 Hilda followed silently, trying to calm the dread rising in her chest.

They both slid into a table across from one another at the window, with a beautiful view of the river. Normally, Hilda would have taken the time to appreciate it. But not now. 

Goopy looked calm. Too calm.

She never even opened her menu.

"Goopy, you need to tell me what's going on!" Hilda said sharply. “What happened to you?"

He chuckled—a low, velvety sound she didn’t recognize.

“Can’t we just have a toast first?” he asked. “Celebrate, y’know? I’ve been waiting to bring you here forever.”

“I don’t want a toast,” she said,growing more worried by the minute. “I want answers.”

He folded his hands on the table and gave her a sheepish smile.

“You remember that traveling salesman you once mentioned?” he began.. “Said he could grant anything?” 

Her blood ran cold. “Goopy…what did you do?”

Goopy offered her a weak smile. One that tugged at Hilda’s heartstrings. “Let’s just say I made my own deal.”

My own deal. 

“You what ?” she choked out. “No—no, Goopy, tell me you didn’t.”

Her hands clenched, nails digging into her skin as she bites down so hard on her lip. This was exactly what the stars and her dreams had foretold.

“And there’s… one more thing,” Goopy was still talking. “I’ve wanted to say this for a while, and now I think I’m finally brave enough to say—”

But Hilda didn’t hear any of it.

She couldn’t believe it.

"You idiot!” Hilda yelled. “What were you thinking?!”

Goopy jumped ten feet in the air.

Hilda breathed hard, ragged. She could feel all eyes on them, but she didn’t care. Her eyes were welling up with hot tears.

"But-but Hilda-!" 

She stood up abruptly and the chair toppled over.

"You sold your soul, Goopy!" Hilda exploded. She slammed her hands on the table. “Don’t you get it?” That man- he was the Devil!”

Goopy’s eyes went wide with shock. “What?...No. No, he never said that.”

“He doesn’t have to! That’s how he gets you!” Hilda yelled. 

She slammed her hands on the table again. She could feel the tears freely flowing now.

“You didn’t get stronger. You just got tricked. And now—”

He owed his eternal soul. 

Goopy reached out a hand. “I did it for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to!” she wailed, jerking back. 

He looked at her, face pleading. 

“I didn’t want this,” she said, voice barely a whisper now. “Not like this.”

She stormed towards the door.

“Please, Hilda, wait!” she heard Goopy cry out after her.

Blinded by tears, she spun around. “Don’t follow me. Goodbye, Goopy.” 

Then she turned on her heel and slammed the door. 

And she ran.

By the time she reached the observatory, her eyes were swollen, her chest heaving with sobs. She collapsed into her hammock, burying her face in her hands.

She hated what she said to him.

Who she was really angry at was The Devil. It hadn't been enough to take her soul, but to take her very best friends' as well. 

But worse—she knew she had to say it.

She had brought that misfortune on him. If staying away from him would keep him out of further harm's way, then she'd do it. Even if it broke both their hearts. 

—-

Months bled into years, but Hilda never stopped searching. Each day she pushed herself further, scouring libraries from the edge of Inkwell Isle One to the misty docks of Isle Three, chasing whispers of forgotten rites and lost spells — anything that could undo a deal with the Devil. But the pages offered no answers. One evening, descending from the clouds, she nearly missed a crumpled edition of the Inkwell Blotter caught in the wind. She snatched it out of the air and froze.

There, on the front page, was Goopy. Larger than life, mid-pose, fists raised in triumph.
FIGHTING STAR WINS CHAMPIONSHIP, the headline read.

A flicker of pride sparked in her chest — unexpected, warm, and a little painful. She lingered only a moment before folding the paper and continuing on.

“Well, that’s your problem!” Cuphead scoffed. “You were lookin’ for your answer in a book!” 

Hilda stood, hands on her hips.

“Fine.” she declared. “The stars told me a storm was coming. Might as well be in the eye of it.”

She took a deep inhale, and her body inflated into a bright red shining zeppelin form. 

“So… is that a yes?” Cuphead asked. 

“That’s a hell yes.” 

"Alright!" Cuphead cheered.

“Now stop wasting time and get going!” Hilda barked. "Who's next on your list?"

Cuphead tried to remember. "Ribby and Croaks from The Flytrap." 

Hilda looked surprised to hear those names.

"Well, if you're looking for The Flytrap, about this time of day, it's probably all the way upriver."