January 2026

The Enchanted Forest Gazette

Footsteps and Mrs. Briggs' Hot Chocolate

On the lower road, Mrs. Briggs’ boarding house took on traffic enough to polish the threshold. Boots pressed grit into the grain. Snowmelt traced a map from the door to the hearth, where the stones drank it in and darkened.

Mrs. Briggs kept the kettle moving. The pot’s weight bent her wrist; she set it down on the slab where the edge chipped years ago and had grown smoother. Guests drew chairs close to the hearth. Hands cupped the warmth of the cocoa.

When the front door opened again, the kettle did not whistle. Rather, it gave off a low, granular murmur, as if the iron had begun grinding its teeth against an old thought. Mrs. Briggs paused, listening. The boarding house knew when something old had crossed the tree line.

She scooped a cup of ground chocolate into the warm milk as the yew spoon traced a slow figure-eight.

The traveler loosened his gloves finger by finger. His hands were steady now. His boots rested near the door.

Mrs. Briggs did not ask where he had come from.

“You’ll want something warm,” she said.

He nodded. “Yes. I think I will.”

She poured the chocolate. Handing him the mug, offering him a seat.

He wrapped his hands around the cup and closed his eyes. 

“I didn’t plan to speak of it,” he said. “But it followed me as far as the footbridge.”

Mrs. Briggs leaned her hip against the counter. “Where did you leave it?”

He opened his eyes. “In the ravine. Where the watchtower sank.”

“You didn’t cross it,” she said.

“No.” A pause. “The ground changed before I reached it. My weight stopped belonging to me; I had to turn away.”

She nodded and waited.

“It stood,” he said. “Tall. Taller than the old markers. Its skin looked like ash. And there were seams—clean, intentional. Down the neck, along the arms, like metal had once flowed and then… regretted it.”

The fire shifted.

Outside, there was movement without sound.

“My pack clasp rang,” he went on. “Not loud. Just enough to tell me it remembered. The nails in the tower did the same. Even the coins in my pocket warmed and sang.”

Mrs. Briggs crossed to the table and sat. The chair did not creak. “An Ironwake,” she said. Not gently.

“It didn’t look at me,” he said quickly. “Not properly. There was no hunger... Nor was there mercy.”

“There never is,” she replied. “They were built before mercy mattered.”

He drank. The chocolate grounded him, anchoring him. “When it moved,” he said, “the ground kept the cold, colder than it is now. The footprints froze so cold they scorched.”

Mrs. Briggs lifted her own cup and did not drink. 

Guests near the hearth became quiet, listening to the hushed conversation.

“Will it come here?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I don't think so.”

A draft slipped in below the doorway.

He finished his cup. Set it down carefully. “Then why does the metal on my boots still sing?”

Mrs. Briggs rose and took the kettle off the heat. “Because iron remembers being answered,” she said. “And because you stood long enough to be noticed.”

Beyond the boarding house, too edged to be thunder and too deliberate to be wind, iron answered iron. Low and Patient.

Turcom the raven tapped the glass.

“Go upstairs,” Mrs. Briggs said. “Second door on the left. Don’t open the window.”

“And the Ironwake?” he asked.

She looked toward the forest, where the trees had stilled. “The cold is a ledger,” she said. “It will help keep watch.”