Dorian limped ahead, cradling his broken arm. Gretta trailed close behind, dagger in hand.

  Rowan wasn’t sure if Dorian was leading them into a trap or just dumb enough to stumble into one.

  Rowan had wrapped as much leftover food as he could in spare bedsheets. Gretta had muttered something about sanitation, but after hearing Dorian’s tale of starvation, Rowan wasn’t about to waste anything.

  Meg had agreed and torn the wool blankets into makeshift slings. Each of them now wore a bundled pack slung across their shoulder, crammed with bread and dried fruit.

  “Dorian, how did you escape Thadius?” Rowan asked.

  “Unlike you, fairy magic works on him,” Dorian replied. “At least long enough to get a head start.”

  Rowan arched a brow. “Interesting. If that were true, why did the Summer Queen fall for his little mind trick?”

  Dorian glanced back. “I don’t know.”

  “But you’ve got a theory,” Meg said, voice dry.

  Dorian nodded. “His magic works on Fae. I don’t know the full story, but the queen… she’s strong, but she’s got compassion. Maybe she gave him a chance to speak—and looking at him was all it took.”

  Rowan frowned. “If my brother can enthrall people, why didn’t he use it on me during our fight?”

  “Because,” Dorian said with a sigh, “you don’t strike me as someone burdened by subtlety. Maybe that makes you harder to manipulate.”

  Rowan blinked.

  He caught the glance between Gretta and Meg—Meg gave a half-shrug like she wasn’t arguing.

  “Mental acuity has never been your strong suit,” Gretta said with a sigh. “Dorian, you’re lucky. We’ll let that one slide. Keep future insults above the belt.”

  Rowan squinted at Dorian. He didn’t mind being underestimated, but maybe not by that much.

  “Fair,” Dorian said.

  “What’s that?” Meg asked.

  They froze. Rowan followed her gaze to a side path where thick, black tar was oozing from a jagged crack in the wall. It pulsed like something alive.

  “It’s growing,” Dorian whispered. “You can see for yourself. Thadius will soon consume all of Fairy.”

  “Bit dramatic,” Rowan said. “We met her. She didn’t seem great, but I wouldn’t say she was dissolving.”

  “Thadius’s corruption is of the mind,” Dorian replied. “Once he takes root, he spreads.”

  “That’s probably not good,” Meg muttered.

  Rowan stepped forward. The others instinctively stepped back.

  “That’s definitely not safe,” Meg added.

  “Hang on,” Rowan said. “I’m activating my mental acuity.”

  “That’s really not good,” Meg whispered.

  “Still heard you,” Rowan muttered, nose wrinkling as the smell hit him.

  Rotten eggs. Familiar, in a way that made his stomach twist. He’d eaten worse back when he was a coyote, but not by much.

  The crack widened as he followed the trail of ooze. He kept going, turning corners, deeper and deeper—until the others’ voices faded completely.

  And then he saw her.

  A girl, standing in the path, waiting.

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  “God of fate,” the girl said.

  “Why do they call you Fairy?” Rowan asked.

  “You’ve met your predecessor. I can see her mark on you.” Her voice was calm, almost fond. “She didn’t tell you who preceded her?”

  “The weaver?” Rowan asked. “What does that have to do with your name?”

  “Everything.” She smiled faintly. “Fata. Fee. Fae. Fairy. Fate. All the same root, all the same legacy.”

  Rowan blinked. “Fairy means Fate?”

  “You are smarter than your companions give you credit for.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Not the same as calling me smart.”

  “Indeed.”

  She coughed, wet and sharp. When she pulled her hand away, she flung off a string of black ooze.

  “I don’t have much time,” she said. “So I’m giving you what you need. Send the elf to the winter lands with a warning. My vassal must strike while she still has strength.”

  “That’s not going to go over well,” Rowan muttered.

  The girl’s smile returned. “I know.”

  “Why me?” he asked. “You’re—you’re literally Fairy. I’m just…” He hesitated. “You’re stronger.”

  “And you are more than the god of fate,” she said.

  And just like that—she was gone.

  Rowan stood alone. Her absence rang louder than her presence ever had.

  The air smelled of rot and iron.

  A weight shifted against his spine, sudden and unfamiliar.

  Rowan froze. Reached back. His fingers brushed something slick—scales.

  The snakeskin pack.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

  He hadn’t been wearing it before. Not here. Not in this realm. But now… it was strapped across his back like it had always been.

  “Right. You said you were giving me what I needed.”

  He eased one strap forward, just far enough to glimpse the glistening black leather—glossy, alive, too light for its size.

  A gift from Fairy herself.

  There wasn’t time to check it. Not now.

  But whatever she’d meant to return… it was in there.

  “Let’s hope you’re the useful kind of cursed,” he muttered, sliding the strap back into place.

  The crystal corridors didn’t look the same.

  The glowing lines that once lit the floor now throbbed like a dying pulse, irregular and twitching. Jagged cracks spidered across the glassy walls, black ooze leaking from every seam.

  Rowan ran. No magic. Just adrenaline and sore legs.

  He rounded a corner—then another—until the others came into view. Meg and Gretta were on edge, blades ready. Dorian looked annoyed, somehow. The tar still pulsed along the edge of the path.

  “What did you do?” Gretta snapped.

  Rowan skidded to a stop. “Nothing! Just had a quick chat with the metaphysical embodiment of fate and now the world’s falling apart. Totally normal.”

  Behind them, the walls shimmered—then cracked. Fractures spread like veins of lightning through glass.

  “We need to move,” Meg said.

  “Where?” Gretta asked, scanning frantically.

  Then—light.

  A glow ahead, soft and blue, rippling like water. It seeped through a crack in the corridor, casting shifting reflections across the crystal floor.

  “That,” Rowan said, pointing. “That’s new.”

  “It looks wet,” Dorian said flatly.

  “Then hold your breath,” Meg said.

  Rowan bolted. The others followed.

  The glow pulsed faster—like a heartbeat rising in panic.

  Cracks spread around them. Chunks of crystal fell, shattering on impact. The air itself seemed to vibrate.

  And then they hit the light.

  It swallowed them sideways—like falling in the wrong direction. The world stretched, snapped—

  —and they tumbled out into open air, landing in a field of poppies under a sky that shimmered like silk.

  Gretta rolled to her feet first. Meg landed in a crouch. Dorian hit the ground with a grunt.

  Rowan landed last—flat on his back, wheezing.

  “Ow,” he muttered.

  He sat up—

  —and everyone stared.

  Black tendrils of smoke curled across his chest and shoulders, slithering like ink in water. They moved on their own, writhing, coiling tighter.

  Like chains.

  Rowan looked down and groaned. “Oh, come on.”

  They didn’t hurt. Not yet. But they radiated magic—demonic, sharp, wrong. He could feel them feeding off him, pulling at his magic like leeches at a vein.

  “Rowan…” Gretta’s voice was low. Controlled.

  “I know.”

  And then—

  The poppies shifted.

  Not from wind. Not from roots.

  Something below the surface moved.

  The ground rippled, subtle and slow. Like a breath held too long.

  Gretta crouched, dagger drawn. Meg’s eyes gleamed cold blue.

  “Something’s down there,” Rowan whispered. “And I don’t think it’s happy to see us.”

  “I’m not with them,” Dorian called out quickly, clutching his broken arm and curling into the grass.