“You might not be much in a fight, but at least you keep the trip interesting,” Meg said. She nudged Rowan with her foot. “Think you could wish me up some more dinner?”

  Rowan, still kneeling by the fire, handed the massive tome to Gretta and held the magic bag toward Meg.

  “I wish I had dessert,” Meg said.

  Nothing.

  “Think we used it up,” she muttered, and passed it back.

  “I wish I had dinner,” Rowan tried.

  Still nothing.

  He let out a defeated sigh. “Figures it would run out of food before I even got a bite.”

  “Maybe it needs a rest,” Gretta said. She didn’t look up, just shifted the book toward the firelight. “You can have what’s left on my plate.”

  She didn’t mention it was her second helping.

  Rowan crawled over and sank down beside her. It wasn’t graceful. More like gravity was winning. He scooped up her untouched leftovers like they were treasure.

  She was worried about Rowan. The demon corruption had been growing worse since their return from the heart of Fairy, and she didn’t think he had much time left.

  They needed a god—yes. Someone strong enough to face a demon lord, someone who could survive the fight. But it wasn’t just that.

  She needed him to make it.

  Not just to save magic, or her goddess, or even to get her back to Earth. She needed him beside her.

  After twenty-five years, she’d started to think of the Green Rook as home. And for all its warmth, its safety, its stubborn rhythms—

  —the only thing it had ever been missing was Rowan.

  Gretta flipped through the book. The pages were ancient and brittle, scrawled in a dialect of elven she barely recognized. Maybe one word in four made sense—just enough to guess at the rest, like trying to read Beowulf with a modern dictionary.

  “I think this book’s for artificers,” she muttered. “If it weren’t for the diagrams of weapons and tools, I’d think it was an ancient cookbook.”

  Meg leaned over her shoulder. “Crafting the Blade of Annihilation,” she read aloud. “One iron sword quenched in the River of Tears. One phoenix feather from the Land of Spring. Twelve drops of blood from a fairy king. And a thousand beads of essence.”

  “What’s it do?” Rowan asked, still eating.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Meg said flatly. “It’s impossible to make.”

  Gretta arched a brow. “Why?”

  “How many kings are left in Fairy?” Meg asked. “The Land of Spring doesn’t exist. No one knows where the River of Tears is. And I’ve never seen a bead of essence. I don’t even know what they are.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Hypothetically,” Rowan said, “if we did have those things…?”

  “The sword always hits its target,” Meg said. “Nothing can block it.”

  “Fancy,” Rowan said, unbothered.

  “Useless if your enemy’s got a bow and shoots you from fifty yards,” Gretta said.

  Rowan grinned. “Guy who designed that sword clearly never saw a gun.”

  Gretta gave a small nod, eyes distant. “Guns were scary.”

  She kept turning pages, scanning the sketches more than the text now.

  “What are you looking for?” Meg asked.

  “The book appeared because Rowan wished for a way for me to return home,” Gretta said, still flipping. “I figure one of these artifacts might be the answer.”

  “And you’ll know it when you see it?”

  She shrugged. “This book’s old. Most of this stuff’s probably been made at least once, right?”

  “Except for the impossible-to-make sword that loses to a bow?” Meg said dryly. “Maybe.”

  “The bag was a gift from Fairy. She gave it to Rowan to help him. If it’s working against us now, that’s a bigger problem—for Fairy, not just us.”

  Rowan let himself flop down on his side, drained from the effort of eating.

  “You mean the Fairy who showed up as a giggling child?” he mumbled.

  “Or the one coughing up demon rot?” Meg added.

  Gretta nodded once. “Yeah. I know. We’ve got reason to doubt her. But second-guessing the source doesn’t help right now.”

  She stopped flipping. One sketch had caught her eye.

  “That looks like the blue pendant you wear,” Rowan said.

  “Wyrdwin,” Gretta said quietly.

  “It means fate-bound,” Meg said.

  “Of course it does,” Rowan muttered. “We’re really leaning into the theme now.”

  Gretta didn’t smile. She angled the book toward the firelight, studying the lines of the drawing again.

  “It’s not just symbolic, is it?” Gretta asked. “Wyrdwin. It does more than bind.”

  Meg hesitated. “It might. Depends on how it was made. Best case? It links you to Fairy. Lets you shape magic like an alchemist or an artificer—crafting instead of casting.”

  She glanced toward the fire. “Worst case? It turns you into a servitor. Just a power source. No will. No way out. Back then, I figured I could keep you safe even if that happened.”

  Rowan sat up. “That’s not a tool, that’s a cage.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Meg said. “It’s why I gave it to you back when it didn’t look like you’d ever leave. I thought it might help you heal—bring back your youth, your strength. But it’s already happening. Your goddess is waking up inside you. You don’t need the pendant anymore. You don’t need to stay.”

  Gretta didn’t speak. Her hand drifted to the pendant beneath her coat, resting there like a question.

  “I’m not power-hungry,” she said softly. “Never have been.”

  She took a breath. “But what if we need that power? What if it’s the only way to stop Thadius? To free my mother? To keep Rowan alive?”

  Rowan’s voice cut through the dark. “If that thing traps you here—if it steals your choice—I don’t care what it might do. I’d rather be erased than watch you become a prisoner.”

  Gretta turned to him—not startled, not angry. Just steady. “I’m not deciding anything tonight. So don’t panic.”

  He didn’t look away. “Too late.”

  Meg let out a low sigh, more growl than breath. “You’ve been my best friend, Gretta. If you take that thing—if you give up your freedom—I’ll still love you. Always. But I’d rather see you walk away. Live the life you deserve.”

  Gretta didn’t answer. Didn’t trust herself to.

  She closed the book with care, her fingers trailing across the brittle paper like it might vanish. Then she tucked it into Rowan’s pack and nudged it gently back toward him.

  The fire popped as if in protest. Rowan reached for the bag, and the pack visibly deflated at his touch—like it, too, was exhausted.

  Meg leaned back on her hands, watching the stars as if they might offer answers.

  Gretta sat beside the fire, unmoving, the pendant a silent weight against her chest.

  For so long, she’d known exactly where home was.

  Now?

  She wasn’t sure anymore.