Rowan drifted in the Void. The Void—home of the gods and an expanse of nothingness—lay between realities, adjacent to Purgatory. Unlike the others, Rowan could travel it freely. The rest of the gods? They needed avatars to cross these boundaries. Thadius, Rowan’s brother, and a legion of demons had broken out of Purgatory thanks to a rend in reality made by Marcus, the god of power, and while Rowan had tried to stuff those demons back into Purgatory, he was incapable of mending the barrier between them perfectly.

  Now, as he surveyed the void, he could see the rent leading to Purgatory had reopened, but there were no demons swarming the gods. The other gods, realities unto themselves, usually looked like bright stars in the void. Now, they were weak and flickering. Abby, the Wild Mother, held the strongest presence, though her green light was dim, struggling. Nadia’s purple glow was nearly invisible, like a dying ember. And Ellie—once a beacon of unwavering white—had been reduced to a pale flicker, no brighter than a distant star.

  Rowan himself was blue energy here, and he was more translucent and ragged than ever before. He had a wispy human appearance, and he still held the walking stick from Tocatl. The artifact felt like a part of him, and he could feel the pull of each other god here, knowing where they were by merely thinking about them. He shifted to his raven form, absorbing the walking stick into himself. Then dove toward Purgatory.

  Abby had asked him to fix magic months ago, and it was clear he needed to act now, while she still survived.

  He braced for the gut-wrenching collapse, the sensation of being shredded and reassembled on the other side. Instead—nothing. No pain. No resistance. Just an effortless slide between worlds, like slipping through an open door. Wrong. It was too easy, like the universe had stopped caring about keeping its boundaries intact. A flicker of realization settled in as he clutched the walking stick. It had led him here.

  What had been a wound in the fabric between places was more of an open tunnel now. The rules of Purgatory that prevented him from shapeshifting must have prevented him from maintaining his Raven form because he found himself with a body and was falling.

  Purgatory had changed. The last time he had been here, the place was a vast cavern filled with demons—demons he had brought there. Now, it was a narrow patch of stone with no walls or ceiling. All around the ground was crumbling into gray nothing, but this path that led from the tear to the Void made a direct route to an iron throne. The air crackled with something more than magic—like the bones of a dying world groaning under its own weight. The path ahead was the only solid thing left, and even that felt... temporary. Beyond that, the ground continues a short way to a brilliant white light—the way to the heart of magic and the source of all power. That light cast the place in an ethereal glow.

  The moment his feet hit stone, the current seized him. Magic tore through him like wildfire, blistering against his skin, his bones, his mind. He was the conduit, the bridge between the source of magic and gods, and the sheer weight of it pressed against his consciousness like a thousand voices screaming at once.

  He was the god of chaos, and as a conduit, the magic interacted wildly with his nature. Through his mind’s eye, he could almost see the magic flowing through him: the greens of the wild, the purple of knowledge, the white of order, and the red of power. Those colors shifted erratically as they passed through him, becoming new colors.

  “You took your time,” an old man said.

  Rowan blinked, trying to see past the dizzying colors flowing through his mind.

  “Here, let me help with that.” The man waved his hand, and a wave of green magic danced and played through the air before wrapping Rowan in a comforting shell.

  He could still feel the magic moving through him, but he could think more clearly. “Who are you?”

  Bits of newly formed ground solidified from the mist and attached to the current stone ground. Purgatory was rebuilding itself while he was here, but it was wrong—rather than parts that fit together, random bits of stone, glass, lava, wood, and other material were congealing in erratic patterns.

  The old man studied Rowan for a moment. “She gave you a gift I wouldn’t have expected her to give. It was so remarkable, that I had to wonder why.”

  Rowan squinted at the old man. “I take it that your sister is the one handing out sticks.”

  The old man chuckled. “It looks like a stick to you?” He laughed even harder. “Ah, my sister is funny. Well, maybe there’s more to the story, but I don’t want to spoil her fun. Did she tell you why she gave it to you?”

  Rowan shrugged. “She said that I tripped a lot.”

  The old man laughed again, deep and rich. “My sister is always tinkering with fate. I think it amuses her.” He let out a sigh, and started turning toward the way to the heart of magic.

  “Wait,” Rowan said. “Who are you?”

  The man paused. “I think it might be a little soon for you to know who I am. You remind me of my younger self, though. We likely won’t meet again, but if we do, you may call me the Pathfinder.”

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  “That’s really what you want me to call you?” The man started to turn again, and Rowan spoke again. “Do you know what’s happening to this place?”

  The man started walking. “At the moment, you are making a mess,” he gestured around to the patchwork of different materials stitched together, “but this path is fading and there will be nothing here after you fail.” He paused again, right at the edge of the portal to the heart of magic. “Without demons, you won’t be able to fix it.”

  “Do you know where everybody went?”

  “The mad one is playing in the pools of power, and the demons… You have what you need to find them.” The man was gone.

  Rowan considered following, but he had come here to save Abby and the other gods. He looked at the throne. It felt integral to this place, like it was all that held together the remaining threads of this space.

  Rowan’s very nature was that of freedom, and being trapped here forever to hold open magic was against that very nature, but he was not going to give up because some mysterious old guy told him he couldn’t fix this.

  As he walked forward toward the throne, he felt the protective magic from the old man start to fade. Already, the full force of the flowing magic through him was starting to overwhelm him. He had the urge to run and survive.

  Instead, he hurried toward the iron throne. In a few steps, he was in front of it, and the magic protecting his mind was gone. He was lost to the flow of magic for a time—minutes or hours, he couldn’t be sure—before he finally found the will to reach out for the throne.

  The instant his fingers brushed the iron, something slammed through him—a crushing weight of dominion, raw and overwhelming. His breath hitched, every bone in his body screaming rejection. This was not his seat. He was not welcome. Rowan could feel it, and he knew that to take the throne, it would be a contest of will power. Instinctively, he also knew that the throne would give him command over the weaker willed demons. This was the throne for the demon lord.

  He was not a demon and could not challenge the reigning demon lord for the title. He forced himself to grab the throne again—he felt Thadius’s will surge, but more, he felt the throne reject him. There was an explosion of force and Rowan went sailing into the mist.

  He was falling. Not just the usual gut-wrenching plummet through space and time—this was worse. This time, there was no pull, no hand of fate setting him down where he needed to be. There was just emptiness. For a second, his stomach clenched. What if he didn’t land anywhere at all?

  Then—he felt it. The faintest thread of direction. He latched onto it, stretching his magic outward. Not random. Not chaotic. Deliberate.

  For the first time, he wasn’t a coin tossed by fate. He wasn’t a stray ember in the wind. He was reaching—aiming. And fate wasn’t dragging him. The realization settled like a slow-burning ember in his chest. His landings had always been chaotic but convenient. Somewhere deep in his magic, there had been a pattern.

  But now? Now, he was aiming.

  This time, he wasn’t being flung. He wasn’t a stray coin tossed by fate. He was reaching. Choosing.

  The image of Sofia and Lucia sharpened in his mind. The world twisted, magic stretching—deliberate. Controlled. His.

  And then—reality snapped.

  He hit the ground hard—not onto stone, not into the ashes of Purgatory.

  Something snapped beneath him. Plastic. A kiosk? Tiny jewelry boxes clattered, earrings skidding across sterile tile.

  Fluorescent lights burned overhead. A stunned ear-piercing technician gawked at him, piercing gun frozen mid-air.

  Sofia and Lucia stood beside her.

  Sofia’s jaw dropped. Lucia rubbed her temples, exhaling slowly like she was trying to summon the patience of a saint.

  Rowan groaned and shifted into a sitting position. His whole body ached, the leftover weight of magic still humming beneath his skin.

  "Sir—uh—are you okay?" the technician asked hesitantly.

  Rowan blinked up at her, then at Sofia, then at Lucia. He lifted a hand and shot Sofia finger guns. “Hey, kiddo.”

  Sofia beamed. Lucia, however, crossed her arms. "You owe me an explanation."

  The technician, still hovering nervously nearby, cleared her throat. "Uh… are you getting a piercing?"

  Rowan considered. Then grinned. "Actually? Yeah. Make it two."

  He walked over to a chair and sat back, suppressing a wince as the piercing gun pressed against his ear.

  "Ready?" the technician asked.

  "No," he said flatly.

  She pierced it anyway. A sharp click. A pinch of pain. And just like that, he had a tiny, sparkling stud in his left ear.

  Sofia clapped excitedly, already sporting her own gold earrings. “You match!”

  Rowan wiggled his eyebrows. “Obviously. We’re trendsetters.”

  Lucia sighed. “You’re both menaces.”

  The technician—still a little wary of Rowan’s sudden crash-landing—handed them each a mirror. Rowan tilted his head, studying his reflection. Not bad. He’d had worse accessories.

  Lucia’s frown deepened. Her fingers twitched against the mirror’s edge, as if she could physically grasp the strange sensation that had just passed through the air. “That wasn’t normal.”

  Rowan felt it before she even spoke. A hum in the air. Magic.

  Lucia exhaled slowly. “Do you feel that?”

  Rowan kept his expression neutral. “Feel what?”

  Lucia’s sharp eyes flicked to him, calculating. “Magic. It feels stronger.”

  His stomach knotted, but he shrugged. “Probably just the mall air conditioning finally kicking in.”

  Lucia didn’t look convinced. Sofia, still admiring her earrings, was oblivious.

  Rowan glanced at his reflection again. Not because he cared about the earring, but because it gave him something to focus on while he steadied his pulse. Lucia was right. Magic felt stronger, and a little more wild.

  Rowan clenched his jaw and set the mirror down. Not thinking about that right now. He flashed Lucia his most unbothered smirk. “Anyway, who’s buying dinner?”

  Lucia stared at him, unimpressed.