Rowan collapsed in exhaustion, half-eaten sandwich in hand. He lay in a forest of massive trees and drifting motes of glowing fluff—a truly magical place—and all he could do was pant on his back, too drained to care.

  He’d bounced between realities, the Astral, and the Void more times than he could track, shapeshifted mid-chase, fought an elf with a chair, and wrangled fate magic until his brain fried.

  The tree beside him had a rough scar. Was that a C? Or maybe a G? It looked years old, the shape distorted by other damage.

  He was thirsty. Between dry sandwiches and too much time in Tucson, he needed water. He scanned the clearing for a stream or lake but saw only trees and uneven ground.

  Typical.

  Magic felt distant here. With rest, he might be able to pull on it again—but right now, he was running on fumes. There was a strange insulation between him and the rest of his soul, muting even his Astral forms. Shifting would take more effort than he had left to give.

  There was a pressure behind his eyes, like a storm trying to break through glass. If he pushed too hard, something in him might crack. He didn’t know what happened to gods who overextended. Maybe they burned out. Maybe they unraveled. He didn’t want to find out here.

  He watched the glowing motes a little longer while finishing the last of his sandwich. Maybe he should start packing a canteen. Sure, Miguel had taught Gretta a water spell, and she’d passed it on to him—but when you’d just crossed three planes of existence and barely slept, a bottle of water sounded like a better plan.

  Rowan pushed himself to his feet and reached out to touch the tree. Nothing. No magic.

  He had come through into this reality, but he couldn’t feel the path. Maybe from the Astral, with the walking stick in hand, he could trace it. On Earth, the path between worlds felt strong—tangible. Here? He felt nothing.

  He scanned the area and spotted a pile of rocks and old, gray sticks—some kind of primitive marker. A faint trail led away—the kind that only forms when someone returns to the same spot over and over. Maybe someone who knew how to use the tree.

  Rowan looked in every direction and saw nothing but more trees. The path seemed as likely a way to find Gretta as any other.

  Dorian hadn’t looked exactly human—and there might be more pointy-eared people like him here. The enchantments he’d used were powerful but delicate, undone the moment they touched Rowan’s chaotic aura. Gretta wouldn’t have had that protection. Maybe that’s how Dorian had taken her.

  Rowan patted his jeans, confirming the weight of Gretta’s necklace—Abby’s soul—still tucked safely in his pocket.

  He set off down the path, humming one of his favorite songs from the early nineties, the tune a little off-key, but determined.

  An hour or more passed, and his thirst only worsened. At last, he held out his cupped hands and whispered, “Nalqesh,” trying to pull water from the air. Nothing happened. He didn’t have enough juice left to spark the spell. The barrier between him and the source was just too thick.

  He trudged on, following the path through thick undergrowth and out onto a dirt road. To the right, it curved around a bend. To the left, he spotted three horse-drawn wagons approaching, their wheels rumbling over the packed earth.

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  He put on his most affable smile and stepped into the road with an entirely non-threatening posture.

  That’s when the bandits attacked.

  Stout bearded folks burst from the underbrush with hammers raised. They stood only a few feet tall, but their biceps were bigger than Rowan’s legs. Wild red eyes. Mad grins.

  Rowan blinked. Dwarves? Evil dwarves? Angry gym gnomes? He wasn’t sure, but they didn’t look like the friendly, mining-song types.

  Some of the wagon riders were clearly guards—they drew strange swords, vaguely reminiscent of something Rowan had seen at a Renaissance festival. But these weren’t steel replicas. They were bronze, etched with flowing runes that shimmered with magic.

  The guards were slightly shorter and leaner than typical humans, but clearly not human. Their skin had a faint olive cast that might have passed for Mediterranean on Earth—if not for the pointed ears and subtle fangs.

  Rowan squinted. They looked like elves, if elves were unionized and mildly annoyed. He really wished someone had handed him a program.

  He had dodged spells, bullets, and angry gods. Getting hit by an arrow felt like an insult.

  So when he felt an arrow sprout from his thigh, he stared at it like it had violated a sacred rule.

  “Hand over your purse, or I’ll aim a little higher and to the left,” a gruff voice called from the roadside.

  “My left or yours?” Rowan asked.

  A second arrow thudded into his other thigh. He dropped to one knee, blinking at it like it might vanish if he stared long enough.

  “Might take a few shots,” the voice muttered irritably.

  Rowan’s eyes adjusted to the underbrush. Three of the squat bandits were crouched in the bushes—two with bows, one looking rather embarrassed.

  “Well?” the archer growled. “You handing over your money, or do we have to kill you to take it?”

  The sound of pounding hooves pulled Rowan’s attention away from the archers. He turned just in time to see the wagons barreling toward him.

  What was meant to be a graceful roll became a painful flop backward—followed by an even more painful slide down the gravel shoulder and into the ditch.

  The thunder of hooves gave way to the clash of bronze and shouting voices.

  Somewhere in the mess of motion, the second arrow had snapped off in his leg. Both thighs were bleeding freely now.

  “Of course it’s both legs,” Rowan muttered, dragging himself toward the treeline with all the dignity of a flattened squirrel.

  The wagon guards retreated, limping after the caravan with their wounded—but no dead.

  The bandits, on the other hand, had taken a beating—and were starting to realize the guards weren’t worth the trouble.

  That left him.

  “Well,” said the little archer with poor aim, stepping closer, “guess we’ll have to take our payment out of you.”

  “Predictable,” Rowan said.

  One of the larger bandits stepped in without a word and kicked Rowan hard in the ribs. He wheezed, curling instinctively. A second dwarf smacked him across the face with the flat of a hammer—more insult than injury.

  “Still breathing,” one muttered.

  “Barely,” another snorted.

  Rowan spat blood and coughed. “You boys always need four-on-one to feel tough?”

  “It’s not about feelin’ tough,” the hammer-wielder growled. “It’s about winning.” He stepped forward, hefting the weapon like a judge passing sentence. “Doesn’t matter how.”

  Rowan blinked up at him, dazed but still upright.

  “No flair,” he muttered. “No banter. No dramatic one-liners?” He gave a weak, bloody laugh. “I grew up on movies where the villain at least tried to be interesting.”

  The dwarf just stared, stone-faced.

  Rowan exhaled.

  “Tryhard.”

  The hammer swung.