Rowan woke up sore, stiff, and confused. The straw mattress scratched through the wool blanket, and the air reeked of smoke and stew—definitely a tavern. He reached up, fingers probing his scalp. No gash. No blood. Just skin.

  “Morning,” said a woman the size of a boulder, her skin a mossy green.

  She leaned against the far wall, legs crossed, a massive silhouette half-lost in shadow. Even seated, she’d be nearly eye-level with him standing. Her dark hair was knotted loosely behind her head, and thick tusks gleamed faintly in the light.

  A strange deck of cards lay fanned in front of her—something like solitaire, but the suits were unfamiliar. Rowan squinted at the room. Too quiet for a tavern. No laughter, no clatter. Just the faint, stubborn scent of stew.

  “This is awkward,” he muttered, lifting the blanket. “I don’t remember your name.”

  She chuckled. “Name’s Meg.”

  Rowan gave a lopsided smirk, rubbing his neck. “Meg, huh? Any chance you know where my clothes wandered off to?”

  “You’re not supposed to get up until Dew says you can.” She didn’t look up, just slid another card into place.

  He tried anyway. The moment he sat up, the room tilted violently. He toppled back into the straw with a grunt.

  “Maybe I’ll lie here forever,” he muttered.

  “Good lad,” Meg said, almost fond. “You’ve taken enough of a beating for one day.”

  “Who’s Dew?” Rowan asked.

  “Before you say something stupid,” Meg said, “just know that giving someone your true name in Fairy is risky. Might land you in a bargain you don’t want.”

  “So, maybe I shouldn’t have told you I’m Rowan?”

  “Exactly.” She laid down a card without looking at him. “That’d be real dumb. Someone nasty could twist that name into a leash.”

  Rowan shrugged, processing that. “And Dew?”

  “Miss Dew runs this place. Been here twenty-five years,” Meg said. “She’s human. Like you.”

  She looked him over again—slower this time. “Not like you. You feel… wrong.”

  “I’ve had people say that about me,” he said. He hesitated, then added, “She has my friend’s necklace. And I’m going to need that back.”

  “You’ll have to take that up with her,” Meg said, smirking as she reshuffled the deck.

  Rowan opened his mouth to argue—then winced as a cramp twisted through his gut. His bladder added its own urgent opinion.

  “I will,” he muttered. “Right after I pee.”

  “She saved your life,” Meg said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not planning to do that in her bed, are you?”

  Rowan grimaced. “I really hope not.”

  “There’s a pot under the bed. You can stand for that. Dew would allow it.”

  “Great. Um… could I get a little privacy?”

  “Nope.” She didn’t even look up from her cards. “I said I’d watch you. I keep my promises.”

  “Do you have to… watch me?”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve seen,” Meg said.

  Rowan sighed, yanked the blanket around his shoulders like a makeshift robe, and rolled off the bed with a solid thump.

  “Looked like that hurt,” Meg said, sliding a card into place.

  “It did,” Rowan muttered, wobbling upright and hobbling toward the edge of the bed, every joint protesting.

  He’d barely started peeing when a voice barked from the doorway.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Rowan had to pee,” Meg said.

  “I can see that,” the voice replied—sharp, female. “Is he peeing on my bed?”

  “I hope he’s using the pot,” Meg said, unbothered.

  “Shh,” Rowan said. “I’m focusing.”

  “It takes focus?” Dew asked, bewildered.

  Metal scraped on wood as Rowan shoved the pot back under the bed. He collapsed onto the straw with a groan.

  “Appreciate the hospitality,” he muttered.

  Dew smirked. Something in it twisted in his chest—sharp and familiar, like a memory surfacing too fast.

  That was Gretta’s smirk.

  But older. Weathered. She looked like she could’ve been Gretta’s mother—until she tilted her head just so, and he knew.

  “I wasn’t going to leave you to the dwarves,” she said.

  “Wait.” Rowan squinted. “Are you…?”

  Meg slapped a card down with a whump. “We just talked about names.”

  “You have to forgive him,” Dew said. “He’s dense, not malicious.”

  Rowan stared at the necklace, barely visible beneath her collar. “You’re wearing it.”

  She tugged her shirt down, revealing a shifting tattoo of ink and magic. “Figuring it out?”

  “Gretta?” His voice was barely a whisper.

  Meg smacked another card. “Say her name again and she’s going to end up somebody’s pet.”

  “You’re going to break the floor if you put down the cards any harder,” Rowan said, but he hadn’t looked away from Gretta. “Twenty-five years. Damn. You look way better than I did at that age.”

  “That’s not a compliment,” Gretta replied.

  “Let me clarify—you look great.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I’m old.”

  “Fifty’s not old,” he said. “And maybe a little magic will help smooth the edges.”

  “Maybe.” She flexed her fingers. “Most of my strength is going into healing the griffin. But the worst of the joint pain’s fading. The aches might ease up eventually. I’ll probably be stuck with the gray hair and wrinkles, though.”

  Rowan shrugged. “No big deal. Just weird—yesterday you looked like a kid, and now we’re the same age.”

  “You don’t look the same age,” Meg said.

  “I die a lot,” Rowan offered.

  “Makes sense.” Meg nodded, slid her last card down with satisfaction, and started shuffling the deck again.

  “Do you know what happened to my clothes?” Rowan asked.

  “Burned them,” Gretta said without looking up. “Too much blood. Didn’t want someone using it for a spell.”

  Rowan glanced down at the blanket cocooned around him. “Fair,” he muttered. “Still rude.”

  He paused, squinting toward the edge of the room. “Is it just me, or did it get darker in here?”

  A chill crawled across his spine.

  “Been getting colder, too,” Meg said quietly.

  Gretta stood, crossed the room, and yanked the curtain aside.

  Outside was pitch black—no moon, no stars, just thick, unnatural dark.

  “It’s the middle of the day,” she said.

  “Do you hear that?” Meg asked suddenly.

  Rowan froze. “Hear what?”

  The tavern beyond the door had gone silent—no dishes, no voices. Just an unnatural stillness, as if the entire world were holding its breath.

  Gretta moved to the back door, opened it a crack, and winced.

  Darkness swallowed everything, and from within came whispering—layered voices, overlapping, too many to count.

  Hungry.

  Her grip tightened on the doorframe.

  She shut the door. “I know those voices.”

  Rowan’s chest tightened. “Purgatory.”

  Meg rose, leaving the cards behind. She crossed the room, grabbed a thick cudgel from the corner, and planted her feet. “Don’t care where they’re from. This is my home.”

  “Don’t look directly at them,” Gretta whispered.

  “Ain’t nothing to look at,” Meg muttered, scanning the corners.

  The shadows thickened, curling like smoke. The whispers pressed in.

  “They’re here,” Gretta said.

  Rowan swallowed. “I feel them too.” He didn’t take his eyes off the shadows. “They remember me.”

  The room held its breath. Something in the dark exhaled.