The ripple broke the surface with a hiss of escaping gas. Then the water bulged upward—slowly at first, then all at once—as something massive rose from the depths. The rank smell of the swamp thickened.

  A forty-foot snake with fangs the size of swords makes a lasting impression. Smooth black skin glistened in the eerie swamp-green fae lights. Brilliant white fangs dripped with black venom from a gaping mouth high overhead. Its glowing amber slit eyes locked on them. Scars crisscrossed its underbelly—marks left by those who fought instead of fleeing. A glowing ruby the size of a fist was set high into one fang.

  Gretta drew her obsidian dagger.

  “So, uh…” Rowan began. “I think I lost my shoe in the muck.”

  Meg drew her gleaming bronze sword. “Bigger problems.”

  “Do we run?” Gretta asked.

  “Yessssss,” the snake whispered. “Runnnnn!”

  “It speaks,” Rowan said, stunned.

  The snake focused on Rowan. “And what are you?” Its head swayed slightly as water slid down its exposed upper body. “You smell bad.”

  “I told you,” Gretta whispered to Rowan. “It’s time for a bath.”

  “Nydra,” Meg said.

  The massive snake shifted its attention to her. “Progeny of Dark.”

  Gretta blinked. “Progeny of Dark?” she mouthed at Meg, but the troll woman didn’t look away from the snake.

  “Sibilant stench,” Meg retorted.

  “Sybil!” Rowan said brightly as he stepped forward. “Good to meet you.” He lowered his voice. “Run, I got this.”

  Rowan’s eyes flooded with shadow, wisps of smoke rising from his sockets.

  “It’s another proxy,” Meg said. “We can’t leave her land without her permission.”

  “Then it’s time to extract it,” Gretta said.

  The Nydra hissed in what might have been laughter. “Do you think I kept you talking for your benefit?”

  A roar from the sky announced a new arrival—a massive golden monster with bat-like wings, a velociraptor-like head, and taloned feet.

  Rowan stood perfectly still, staring upward. “A goddamn flying dinosaur?”

  “Wyvern,” Meg corrected. “A second proxy.”

  “If they’re proxies, they have magic items giving them strength,” Gretta whispered.

  “Meet Aurex,” the snake said. “Ssssssurrender!”

  Rowan started marching calmly toward her. “Sure, why not. I surrender.”

  “He really needs a weapon,” Meg muttered.

  Sybil’s eyes narrowed, and she lunged.

  “We’re all safer if he sticks to sporks,” Gretta said.

  Rowan moved in a dreamlike blur—unhurried, precise—slipping just far enough aside as she crashed into the swamp with a tremendous splash. Before the water settled, he leapt onto her slick, rising back.

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  Aurex screamed overhead, unleashing a torrent of fire that boiled the very spot Rowan had just vacated. But Rowan was already airborne—barefoot on Sybil one moment, then launching off her rearing spine the next.

  He rose like a spark in the wind and snagged the leading edge of Aurex’s wing as the wyvern swooped beneath him.

  The sudden weight disrupted Aurex’s flight. With a furious screech, the golden beast veered sideways, crashing full-force into a towering willow. The impact echoed like thunder. Branches snapped. The tree groaned—then collapsed into the swamp.

  Both Rowan and Aurex vanished into the murky water.

  “It’s all magic. Nobody masters a sword anymore,” Meg muttered.

  Gretta barely had time to glance over before Sybil wheeled back around, fangs bared. She yanked on her magic mid-run and shifted—feathers, claws, wings—griffin form unfolding in a leap.

  Her wing was still broken from the hill giant fight, but two tons of griffin led by beak and talons could still do plenty of damage.

  Sybil wasn’t ready. The eagle-like beak clamped down. Talons raked across her slick body. She twisted and writhed, hissing as Gretta tore in. A sword might’ve bounced off a one-ton nydra—but Gretta sliced through scale like it was pudding.

  Then, Sybil wrapped around her and dragged her under.

  Darkness swallowed them. Cold, silty water filled Gretta’s ears, her lungs, her eyes. She bit harder. Her front talons and back claws raked deep, thrashing as Sybil spun and dragged her deeper.

  Her broken wing screamed with every roll, every twist. The wing joint was now dislocated, adding to the pain of the break. But she held on.

  The water exploded as Gretta broke the surface with a gasp, her feathers matted and wings trailing ribbons of blood. Sybil’s massive body went still beneath the swamp, drifting downward into the murk.

  Gretta dragged herself onto the bank, half-limping, half-crawling, coughing up swamp water. She glanced around, her heart still hammering. She shifted back to human.

  Meg stood beside the fallen willow, bronze sword dripping with blood. Aurex lay pinned beneath shattered branches, his golden wings twitching weakly.

  “We’re clear,” Meg said. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were locked on something beneath the wreckage.

  Gretta followed her gaze—and felt it.

  A pull. Deep and dangerous. Like the hum of a storm behind her ribs.

  The wyvern had a gold band about its leg that gleamed even in the absence of light. And the fist-sized ruby in Sybil's fang fell loose, making a dull thud to the mud. Both pulsed faintly with power, their call impossible to ignore.

  Gretta’s hand twitched. Meg’s jaw tightened.

  They didn’t speak.

  The ruby pulsed again—heat bleeding into the air around it, the scent of ozone thickening.

  Gretta felt it echo in her chest, sharp and hot and hungry. Power. Not borrowed, not cast. Owned. Held. Hers, if she just—

  She took a step toward it.

  “Gretta,” Meg said, low and steady—using her real name.

  Gretta didn’t answer. Her feet sank slightly into the mud as she moved forward, eyes locked on the jewel lodged in the earth. It glowed like a promise.

  One more step.

  “You don’t want it,” Meg said.

  Her voice wasn’t pleading. It was rooted—like a stone beneath tide. Certain in the way the ocean knew where the shoreline ended.

  Gretta blinked, but her legs kept moving. “We need it,” she murmured. “If Rowan—there will be more proxies to fight, we’ll need all the power we can—”

  Meg stepped in front of her, not raising her sword, not threatening—just standing between Gretta and the ruby.

  “We’re not proxies,” Meg said.

  Gretta’s fists clenched. Her body shook, not with anger, but with effort—like every bone was screaming to take it. “You don’t feel it?” she asked.

  “I do.” Meg’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’m just older than you.”

  Gretta let out a rough breath. The world felt sharp-edged and trembling. The pull was still there, just behind her ribs, thrumming like a second heartbeat. She looked down—realized her hand was half-raised, fingers twitching.

  She lowered it.

  Meg stepped aside only when Gretta stepped back.

  They both turned toward the swamp, silent. The air was thick with steam and magic and blood.

  From the water, a ripple.

  Then a hand.

  Dripping, barefoot, and looking entirely unimpressed, Rowan surfaced. His eyes looked normal again. His shirt was torn from him, and his chest was a mass of twisting shadow veins.

  Meg exhaled. Gretta just stared, unsure if she was seeing things.

  As if sensing him nearby, the gold band on the wyvern hinged open and fell off. Rowan bent down and picked it up.

  “You two okay?” he asked casually. “More garbage jewelry?”