Rowan held a fist-sized ruby in one hand and a large, thick gold band in the other. Both were artifacts of the Summer Queen—dangerous, radiant things that had already tried to twist Meg and Gretta’s minds. Leaving them out in the open was a risk they couldn’t afford.

  “These aren’t going to fit in my pocket,” Rowan said.

  Gretta leaned against a tree, eyes shut, breathing shallow. “Don’t put them down. I’m not sure I can go another round with one, let alone both.”

  “What you need is a bag,” a small, dark-haired child said. She sat on a dry patch of grass—possibly the only dry patch in the entire swamp. Her innocent smile and chipper tone were a jarring contrast to the murk around them.

  Meg’s grip on her sword tightened. She didn’t raise it—but her body tensed.

  The girl smirked at the troll.

  “Greetings, little one,” Meg said.

  “Am I little?” the girl mused. “Funny. I forget, sometimes.”

  The child’s calm unnerved him.

  They were standing in one of the most hazardous places he’d ever been, and she was perfectly at ease.

  The longer he watched the girl, the more he felt like a fish hypnotized by an anglerfish’s lure—aware of danger, too mesmerized to move.

  “A bag would be helpful,” Rowan mused as he looked from the girl to the artifacts.

  Gretta stepped away from the tree, watching the child in silence.

  “Why not use that one?” She gestured to a bag hanging from a tree branch—directly above the place where Sybil had died.

  Rowan stared at the murky water beneath it, watching for movement.

  The snake was gone. It had vanished while he’d been watching the girl—no sound, no ripple, no warning.

  “That’s handy,” Rowan said, stepping toward the bag.

  “Wait,” Meg said sharply. Then, to the girl: “Is that your bag?”

  The child shrugged. “No one knows.”

  Rowan blinked.

  No bugs. No birds. No wind.

  The swamp had gone utterly still.

  Meg’s eyes narrowed. “Not even you?”

  The girl smiled. “I can see why your mother fears you.”

  Rowan walked closer. The bag was black snakeskin—eerily like Sybil’s.

  “This is definitely a terrible idea,” he muttered. “But I really do need a bag.”

  “You do,” the girl agreed. “You can’t just walk around with the Summer Queen’s Essence Seeds out in the open. You’ll attract all sorts of attention.”

  “You recognize them,” Meg said—not a question. “Do you serve the Queen?”

  The girl laughed. A high, tinkling sound that bent through the air and scraped along Rowan’s thoughts. It twisted into his soul like smoke.

  He dropped to his knees, vision swimming.

  When he blinked back the haze, Meg was also staggering upright.

  “You amuse me, Anathina,” the girl said.

  The name hit Meg like a slap. She flinched and stumbled back a step, a breath catching hard in her throat.

  “I’ve always loved you the most of the lost.”

  “Who are you?” Meg whispered.

  The girl turned. “What of you, fair Gretta? You’ve been quiet.”

  Gretta took a slow breath. “I thank you for recognizing me—but we must decline your offer. Such a fair gift would be beyond what we could repay.”

  Rowan froze, fingers inches from the strap. “We’re turning it down? We can’t take it?”

  “The bag is for the god of fate,” the girl said lightly. “No payment needed. A gift… in return for the services he’ll provide me.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “It’s no trouble at all.”

  Gretta nodded. “You are very generous.”

  Rowan noticed she didn’t thank the girl.

  He felt a chill creep down his spine. Whatever this child was, it wasn’t human. And it sure as hell wasn’t safe.

  “You seem tired,” the girl said. “Especially your ragged god. There’s a safe place through the trees where you can recover.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Rowan glanced at Gretta. Meg was already shaking her head.

  “We have nothing to offer in return,” Gretta said.

  “Always so cautious,” the girl said. “Your Wild Mother must be proud.”

  Her eyes flicked to Meg. “You and An—”

  Meg flinched.

  The girl smiled sweetly. “—Meg, have already given me plenty of entertainment. This is just me… balancing the scales.”

  “Who are you?” Rowan asked.

  She smiled. “Who are any of us?”

  Her gaze flicked to his walking stick. “Walk a few more paths with that thing, and maybe you’ll start to remember who you are.”

  Something in her eyes sparkled.

  Rowan shivered. She was looking straight through him—into his soul, into the Astral. Deep enough that it hurt.

  “You probably should’ve tucked those Essence Seeds away before the demons showed up,” the girl said, still smiling. She pointed toward the trees.

  Three demons floated toward them.

  Not the lesser shadows Rowan had driven off before—these wore cloaks and wings, the kind that frayed your mind just by being seen.

  “Don’t look them in the eyes,” Gretta warned.

  Rowan glanced back.

  The dry patch was gone. Just water—flat, still, and empty.

  Rowan swore under his breath and slung the snakeskin bag over his shoulder. It curled slightly, too soft, too light—like it was breathing.

  “Please don’t hiss at me,” he muttered, tightening the strap.

  The air thickened—humid, heavy, clinging to their skin.

  The demons didn’t rush. They drifted forward with glacial calm, wings stirring the mist like breath through cobwebs.

  “I’ve handled worse,” Rowan muttered.

  He reached inside himself, willing the nearest demon to be pulled into into him like the shadows had.

  The instant his magic touched it—something slammed back like a wall of razors.

  He hit the ground hard, pain slicing through his chest as if the magic itself had turned on him. Air left his lungs in a wheeze. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  Rowan coughed. “Playing hard to get?”

  The lead demon turned. Its hood tipped, just enough.

  He still couldn’t see its face—but he felt it.

  Like his mind was trying to crawl out the back of his skull to get away.

  Meg stepped forward, sword raised.

  “Don’t,” Rowan rasped. “You can’t hit them. They’re not… solid.”

  She swung anyway.

  Her blade passed through the demon—catching only mist and bark.

  Gretta moved to cover Rowan—

  —and a demon veered, too fast, too close. It was suddenly in front of her.

  She froze.

  She hadn’t looked it in the eyes. Not directly. Just… enough.

  Her jaw tightened. She tried to move—shoulders twitching, hand flexing—but her body refused. Her breath caught, trapped between defiance and dread.

  “Gretta—”

  Her magic surged outward in a raw, chaotic pulse—wild and reactive, like a snare snapping open.

  But she didn’t move.

  The demon floated closer.

  Silent.

  Its hood began to rise.

  Meg didn’t hesitate.

  She barreled through the mud, grabbed Gretta around the waist with one arm, and hauled Rowan up by the collar with the other.

  Then she ran.

  The demons followed.

  Slowly.

  Surely.

  The trees bent inward like closing ribs.

  Paths vanished.

  Roots writhed beneath their feet.

  Rowan slipped again, boots skidding in the moss. Meg didn’t slow—just dragged him like a sack of potatoes.

  “We can’t outrun them,” he gasped. “They don’t move like—”

  “Shut up,” Meg snapped. “Look at the mushrooms.”

  Rowan blinked. Tiny blue mushrooms clung to tree roots—always on the left when the ground shifted, always in pairs when the path held true.

  “Oh, great. We’re trusting our lives to fungus. That’s comforting.”

  “They’re smarter than you.”

  A whisper trailed behind them.

  Gretta whimpered in Meg’s arms, her voice breaking—muttering something in a language Rowan didn’t know.

  The mist thickened. The world narrowed to a tunnel of fog.

  Ahead: a sheer rock wall and a waterfall of light, glowing and unnatural—liquid crystal spilling down the stone.

  “They can’t follow there,” Meg said. “I hope.”

  Rowan didn’t argue.

  Meg charged the last few steps and jumped.

  Light swallowed them whole.

  They hit the ground hard, skidding across smooth stone.

  The air changed—no swamp stench, no wind, no sound. Just silence.

  Rowan groaned. Meg and Gretta had landed on either side of him, pinning him like a weighted blanket from hell.

  “Ow,” he muttered. “Everything hurts. And I think your shoulder is in my lung.”

  Meg grunted and rolled off him, laying Gretta down with surprising care.

  Gretta’s face was pale, her eyes unfocused.

  Rowan sat up slowly. The floor was a seamless sheet of polished crystal—faintly warm, and pulsing with a steady hum he felt more than heard.

  Light came from everywhere—and nowhere.

  The walls weren’t really walls. Just spires of angled glass rising around them, catching glints of gold and green from above.

  Ceiling or sky—it was impossible to tell.

  “Is this… real?” Rowan asked.

  “More than real,” Meg said quietly. “This is Fairy.”

  Gretta stirred with a groan, turning her face from the light. Her voice rasped, dry and raw. “Did we make it?”

  “We did,” Meg said. “The demons didn’t.”

  Rowan turned, expecting to see the waterfall behind them.

  Nothing. Just more endless crystal—stretching out behind them, mirroring his own stunned expression back at him.

  “No portal,” he muttered.

  Meg said nothing.

  Rowan stood and turned in a slow circle, scanning for any seam—any crack in the terrain, a flaw, an exit.

  There was nothing.

  “No path back,” he whispered. “No shadows. No sound. No smell. Not even magic.”

  Gretta sat up, rubbing at her eyes. “So… we’re safe?”

  Rowan didn’t answer right away.

  He looked around again.

  “Sure,” he muttered.

  A faint laugh echoed across the crystal.

  Tinkling. Familiar.