Pjo cyoa new

by Dextrode

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3. 3 (to chap 23)

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Sacrificial hero blessed by primordial luck (PJO/ Celestial Grimoire SI)

Thread starter Magus explorator Start date Apr 2, 2025 Tags celestial grimoire (cyoa) percy jackson and the olympians self insert

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Threadmarks Chapter 21- The Dog. New

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Magus explorator

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Apr 16, 2025

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I was still catching my breath, still feeling the touch of the swamp on my skin, when I heard it. CAW. Loud. Angry. I looked up. The crow was perched on a low, twisted branch not ten feet away—black feathers puffed, wings half-spread like it had something to say and wasn't feeling polite about it.

"Yeah," I muttered, standing up slowly, my insides still feeling cold. "Nice to see you, too."

It cawed again—louder this time—wings flapping once like it was trying to shake off the entire last hour. Then it turned, hopped down the branch, and flew off. Not up into the sky. Deeper into the woods.

Sif growled under her breath. Thalien stepped to my side, one eyebrow raised. "I believe we're being summoned."

"Yeah," I said. "And judging by the tone, Its rather impatient."

The crow didn't look back. We moved deeper into the forest. The air felt heavier the farther we walked, like every step added weight to our backs. The trees closed in, their trunks thicker, bark cracked and dark like old scars. Light barely filtered through the canopy now, and what did was weak, like it was coming from a sun too tired to keep shining.

Shapes moved between the trees—nothing clear, just outlines. Tall. Thin. They didn't come close. They didn't need to. You could feel them just behind your shoulder, waiting for you to turn your head.

Sif stayed tight to my side, ears flicking, nose twitching at every shift in the underbrush. Her body was tense, every step cautious, but she didn't growl. Whatever was out there, even she didn't want to challenge it.

Then the crows started showing up. At first, a few in the branches above. Then more. Dozens. Hundreds. Black feathers lined the trees like someone had decorated the forest. They didn't move, didn't caw, just watched. Too many eyes. Too much silence.

I kept walking. And then it happened. There was no sound, no obvious moment, just a feeling. A step too far. The air shifted, like walking through a wall you didn't know was there. Behind me, the forest still looked like daylight—muted and gold, Faewild glow. But ahead, everything was wrong. The sky had turned black. The air was cold. The trees looked the same, but the colors had drained out of them. It was night here, deep and unnatural.

I took another step, and the world behind me didn't follow. Sif let out a low whine. Thalien's expression tightened.

"We crossed a threshold," he said. "You may not have seen it, but it was old. And very real."

"Great. Threshold to what?"

He didn't answer. Up ahead, past the trees, a dim orange glow flickered through the fog. We followed it, footsteps soft on ground that no longer sounded like earth. It wasn't far. Just beyond a narrow bend in the trail stood a cabin. Wooden. Small. The shingles were mismatched, the walls bowed outward slightly, and the chimney leaned hard to one side, spitting thin trails of smoke into the dead sky.

No path led to it. No footprints surrounded it. It just sat there. Waiting. I stopped at the edge of the clearing. Thalien came up beside me, face unreadable.

Before I could say anything, the door creaked open. No wind. No movement behind it. Just the door. Wide enough to be an invitation. Or a warning. I glanced at Thalien. "This shit might be haunted."

He said nothing. The crows above shifted, rustling just once. The door stayed open. I took one step forward. Sif followed. Whatever this place was, we were in it now. And there was only one way to find out why.

Gone was the crooked cabin exterior. Inside, it was nothing short of regal. Mahogany floors so polished they reflected the ceiling. Walls carved with ancient knotwork that pulsed softly with green-gold light. Heavy curtains framed tall windows that opened onto a night sky full of stars that didn't belong to any constellation I recognized. The air smelled of peat smoke, leather-bound books, and blood under very cheap perfume.

A harp played by itself in the corner, slow and low like it was waiting for a funeral. In the center of the room, perched on the armrest of an emerald-stitched chair, sat a crow. It blinked at me once. Then it shifted. One second: bird. The next: a woman. Beautiful. Terribly beautiful. Red hair tumbled down her shoulders in braids. Her dress shimmered in layers of deep green and black, as if shadow and forest had decided to fall in love and become fabric. Her face was too perfect to feel safe—high cheekbones, steel-colored eyes, and a faint smirk.

Power radiated off her. Cold and absolute. Sif didn't growl. She just lowered herself to the ground, ears flat. I stayed standing, because I didn't trust my knees. Then Thalien breathed her name.

"The Morrigan…"

It wasn't reverence. It was fear. The woman's gaze flicked to him, then back to me, and she spoke—clear, sharp, velvet-edged.

"You are late," she said, voice like a blade sliding from its sheath.

I opened my mouth, but she didn't let me speak. "You were not supposed to be late. I saw you, mortal. I scried the moment you would cross into the Faewylds, even before that. You were meant to pass the swamp without struggle. You were to arrive three weeks ago, untouched."

Her voice rose—not shouting, but cracking like thunder behind glass.

"Instead, I felt nothing. Your thread vanished from the tapestry, the strands of fate rippled with absence. Do you know what that means?"

I swallowed. She advanced one more step.

"It means either fate lied—or you did the impossible."

Her fingers curled, and the harp behind her stopped playing mid-note. "I am a goddess of fate, boy. My dominion is certainty. I do not guess. I do not miss."

She stopped in front of me, inches away. Her presence loomed, not with size, but with weight—the crushing gravity of being watched by something that sees every ending at once.

"And yet you slipped through my sight."

She looked down at me, her eyes scanning like she was reading something written beneath my skin.

"You are wrong. Not cursed. Not blessed. Wrong."

Behind me, Thalien hadn't moved. He stood frozen, as if turning his head might invite death. Sif growled softly, but didn't rise.

The Morrigan exhaled once through her nose, slow and controlled. "I will ask you once, mortal. What happened in the swamp?"

I met her stare, pulse thudding in my ears, and said the only thing I could say. "I don't know what happened."

The words came out flat. Honest. Because they were. The swamp grabbed me, chewed me up, tried to make me forget who I was, and something deep inside me—something I didn't understand—played a few notes and got us out.

Morrigan didn't move for a second. Then, slowly, she turned away from me and sank into the velvet chair like a queen resuming court. She crossed one leg over the other, looked up at the ceiling, and took a long breath. Another. Then she dropped it all.

"All right. Since subtlety's clearly dead and buried, let's put the truth on the table."

Her eyes flicked to me, hard as iron again.

"You were supposed to be my ticket. The usurper—Sorrel," she spat the name like poison, "stole something from me. A bracelet. Not just a trinket—an artifact of influence. Old. Powerful. Mine. I used it to… guide the will of others. Sway hearts. Turn heads. Push little nudges into fate when needed."

Her fingers drummed once on the armrest. "She has it. She's used it."

I stayed silent. "You, Lucas, were the wrench in her gears. I saw it perfectly. Clearly. You would arrive in the Faewylds, rally allies by accident, destroy the army still loyal to her cause, break the enchantment binding Queen Aurelina, retrieve my bracelet, and leave through the Summer paths with half the Courts singing your name."

She leaned forward slightly, that cool fury still simmering behind her voice. "Everything neat. Tidy. Controlled."

Her expression darkened. "But then… you vanished."

She sat back, jaw clenched. "You were gone from fate. Erased. The swamp should've been a footnote in your path, not a issue. Now—gods help us all—it's been too long. The mind control rooted. The Queen may no longer know she was ever someone else. My sight—my power—is frayed. I can no longer see where the strings pull."

Her hands balled into fists against the arms of her throne. "And more importantly… we are royally, fucked—if you'll pardon my Gaelic."

Sif's ears twitched. Thalien didn't move. Morrigan's eyes bored into mine.

"Her coronation is soon. Within the week. The monarchs of the Season Courts will be there in person after she killed all the diplomats. And worse—Oberon himself is expected to attend."

She leaned forward again, and now her voice dropped. "There is no plan for that. No backup. No twist. Because none was supposed to be necessary. You were it. And now—"

She exhaled sharply through her nose. "Now I am angry."

I stared at her. The weight of her words settled on me like a stone slab. My hands hung loose by my sides, still buzzing from everything—swamp, near-death by memory overload—and now this?

"Right," I said, voice low. "So just to be clear… I was your plan. You knew Sorrel stole something powerful, used it to hijack the old Queen's mind, and you sent me to come waltzing in, break the spell, grab the prize, and solve your political nightmare."

Morrigan didn't answer. I took a breath.

"But now, because I got stuck in your psychic swamp pit for five extra minutes, you're angry?"

She turned her eyes on me. Not glowing. Not burning. Just cold. Absolute.

"Yes," she said. And the temperature in the room dropped again.

She stepped closer, slow and measured, like every inch she took made the air heavier.

"I am angry, mortal," she said.

She stopped a few feet from me, her expression hardening into steel. "Sorrel should never have had it. She should never have understood how to use it. But now she has it, and she used it to turn Aurelina into her puppet. And you were supposed to stop her before it went further."

Her gaze sharpened like a blade's edge against my chest. "If Sorrel controls the other Queens—if she uses my artifact to influence Titania, Mab, Verdanas—and gods forbid, Oberon…"

She trailed off. Not because she didn't know what to say. But because the next words were too dangerous to speak out loud. Thalien said them for her.

"She'd control everything, enough power to bind the other gods of the Faewylds to her whim."

Morrigan nodded once. Not slow. Not dramatic. Just final.

"All four Courts. Every realm. Every law. If she gets them under her spell, she doesn't just take Autumn. She takes everything. The Courts fall under one will. Her will. And the Faewilds… cease to be what they are."

My throat felt tight. I didn't know much about fae politics, but I knew what it meant when someone started rewriting the rules.

"What about Oberon?" I asked. "Wouldn't he—"

"She cannot touch him directly," Morrigan said. "He is old. Older than crowns, older than me. But if he is present… if he speaks words of unity while under her influence… the Courts will bind themselves to her by law and oath."

"And no one would realize he's not in control?"

She shook her head. "If the bracelet works on him—even for a heartbeat—it is done. Fate itself bends to what he says."

She let out a slow breath and looked at me again. "I sent you to stop that from happening before it began. Now we are days from coronation. The bracelet's influence is deep. Aurelina may already be beyond saving. And my powers of foresight are silent. You are an echo where a certainty once stood."

Then, finally, she frowned. "Do you understand now why I am angry?"

I nodded once, a little scared. I looked her dead in the eye, voice steady despite the knot tightening in my gut.

"So what's plan B?"

For a second, the silence stretched too long. Then Morrigan laughed. It wasn't loud. It wasn't even mad. It was sharp. Dry. Hollow. The kind of laugh you hear from someone reading their own obituary and finding a typo.

She turned without another word, walked across the room to a tall black cabinet carved with old Irish knots and battle scenes, and pulled open the doors. Inside was nothing but bottles. Dozens of them. She grabbed one—dark green glass with no label—and poured three fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass with a chipped rim. She downed it in one long swallow, closed her eyes, and let the silence breathe.

Meanwhile, beside me, Thalien was breaking. Not visibly—not loudly—but I could feel it. The tension in his posture, the way his hands had gone from elegant to clenched white fists at his sides, the barely-controlled hitch in his breath. His court-trained mask was slipping by the second.

"Thalien," I said under my breath. He didn't respond. Just kept staring at Morrigan like his entire world had come undone.

She poured a second glass. Didn't offer it to either of us. Didn't speak until the rim touched her lips again.

"This isn't the kind of mess that gets a second plan," she said finally, voice quieter now. "There's no army waiting to rally. No grand prophecy to ride in on. No sword in the stone. I had a strategy. You were it. And now?"

She shrugged. "I'm improvising."

I folded my arms, watching her carefully. "So what do you call this, then?"

She looked at me over the rim of her glass. "I call this the part where we pour a drink, take a breath, and accept we're already inside the fire."

Thalien made a soft noise—something between a laugh and a gasp—and finally sat down on the nearest couch like his legs had stopped working.

"I don't believe this," he muttered, voice fraying. "She'll enthrall the courts, the gods, every plant or animal in the wylds. She'll control the ley lines. The entire realm could fall—should not fall—and you're both just drinking?"

"I've seen what panic accomplishes," Morrigan said coldly. "Nothing. Let me grieve my broken fate in peace."

I looked at the glass in her hand. Then at Thalien. Then back at her.

"…So when you're done grieving, we're doing what, exactly?"

Her eyes met mine again, slower this time. Assessing. "Then? Then we get very stupid. And we pray the luck of the Irish holds true."

Morrigan set the glass down with a quiet clink, her fingers lingering on the rim. "You want the plan? Here it is."

She didn't look at me at first. Just stared into the hearth like it owed her answers. "Aurelina is lost. She's been under the bracelet's influence for too long. Whatever she once was has been buried. The spell has soaked into her bones. She's hers now—body, crown, will."

Thalien inhaled sharply beside me. He didn't speak. Morrigan finally turned her gaze to me.

"But the others… they're not bound yet. Not fully. Titania, Mab, Verdanas… even Oberon. If the bracelet's reach has touched them, it hasn't rooted. Yet. And that gives us one chance."

I folded my arms. "Let me guess. Somehow, I get in. Somehow, I shake them up. Somehow, that fixes everything."

She didn't blink. "Correct."

I waited for a grin. Some smug divine smirk. There wasn't one. "This isn't about subtlety anymore," she continued. "Not politics. Not trickery. This is about disruption. Break the spell before it settles. Hit them with something real enough—strong enough—that it shatters Sorrel's illusion before it becomes truth."

"What kind of something?"

"Emotion. Raw, violent, pure. Grief. Rage. Desperation. Love. Something so human it slices through glamour like a blade."

Her voice lowered. "If you can snap even one of them out of it, the rest will follow. The Courts aren't puppets, but they watch. They mirror. If one monarch sees the truth…"

I exhaled. "And that's what we're calling the plan."

"No," she said. "That's what I'm calling hope."

She walked past me, stopping at the edge of the firelight, her shadow stretching long across the velvet carpet. "This wasn't supposed to happen. Fate was written. And yet you, mortal, arrived late to the one moment you were meant to be on time for. You walked through Namarenth wrong, and lived. You broke my sight."

She turned back to me. "That means you're the last unknown on the board."

Her tone sharpened. "So take that chaos you carry like a curse… and use it like a weapon."

Morrigan stared into the fire a moment longer, then turned back to face me. "Well," she said dryly, "as insane as it is to say this out loud... stealth is off the table."

She took a long swig straight from the bottle. No glass this time.

"Those fortifications around the Autumn Court?" she continued, lowering the bottle. "They're not walls. They're statements, literally. Enchanted to unravel illusion, burn away glamours, and unravel even changelings down to their marrow. No sneaking in. No tricks."

She set the bottle down hard enough to make the table jump. "That means only one thing remains."

Her eyes met mine. "A direct assault."

Thalien inhaled sharply. I didn't bother reacting. Of course it was.

"You're not getting in alone," Morrigan went on. "That's not a strategy, it's suicide. You need noise. Distraction. Chaos. And not just any chaos—chaos they can't ignore."

She snapped her fingers. With a shimmer, the polished table to our left lit up—not with light, but with a surface that shifted. A map. But not any map I'd ever seen. The terrain moved and breathed—trees swaying, rivers glittering in unnatural rhythm. The land was cut cleanly into four distinct sections, each bearing the colors of a season. Autumn's quadrant pulsed with a slow, red-gold heartbeat.

She walked over to the map, lifted her hand, and tapped the Summer quadrant. "The Dog," she said.

With a little pop, a game piece appeared—shaped like a dog, like the kind from Monopoly, silver and sharp-toothed.

"He's where he always is. Hot-blooded and loyal to death."

She tapped the Autumn quadrant. "The Knight."

Another piece appeared—a horse, dark green, armored, noble. Heavy with weight even as a symbol.

She moved to Spring. "The Priest."

This time it was a cane. Not simple. Ornate. Worn.

Finally, Winter. "The Sorceress."

A tiny silver cauldron shimmered into place. It glowed faintly, pulsing like it was aware we were watching it.

Morrigan took a step back, folding her arms as the four pieces sat motionless across the land. "That's your team," she said. "Assuming they'll even come. Assuming they're willing. Assuming they're still themselves."

I raised a brow. "You're just glossing over that like it's not the most terrifying part of all this."

She smiled—not kindly. "They've been in the Faewylds for a long time, Lucas. They've seen wars, worlds, and worse. They each owe me, in one way or another. But you? You'll need to remind them. Convince them. Or drag them by the scruff of their metaphysical necks if it comes to that."

She looked at me again, the smile gone now, replaced with something harder. "This is not a plan. This is a storm. But if you can get them to march... maybe we break her hold. Maybe we stop a coronation. Maybe we save what's left."

The map pulsed once more, and the silver pieces gleamed.

Four legends. Four corners. And me. Right in the middle.

"Any questions?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

I looked at the board. And I smiled. "Yeah," I said. "Where do I start?"

Morrigan circled the map again, slower now, her eyes glinting with that sharp, calculating focus of someone laying out the last pieces on a hail Mary play.

She tapped the silver dog. "The Dog will be the easiest. He's not hiding—he's looking for something to fight. Give him a worthy cause, a real enemy, and he'll tear through armies just to reach it. He won't need convincing so much as direction."

Her fingers drifted to the cane. "The Priest," she said, softer this time. "He'll welcome you. He still believes in kindness. In purpose. You'll find sanctuary with him. But he's not naive—he's seen too many wars start with soft words. You'll need to give him something real."

She glanced between the two tokens and sighed. "They don't get along. The Dog and the Priest. Fire and scripture. One believes in fighting. The other in forgiving. They'll argue. Loudly. Possibly with weapons."

She moved on to the horse. "The Knight… That's a harder road. He's rooted in Autumn, old Autumn. Bound to the oaths of another queen. He won't be easily turned. You'll need to prove the usurper is a lie—and that might mean bleeding for it."

Finally, her hand hovered over the cauldron. "The Sorceress," she said flatly. "Will not welcome you. Her name and contract was bought by a noble of winter, manage to break that and she is yours."

Morrigan took a step back, crossing her arms. "Convince them, and you'll have your party. But know this—when they're together, they'll clash. The Dog and Priest never stop arguing. The Knight and the Sorceress… have a history. One steeped in blood."

Her gaze turned to me. "They aren't a team. They're old. Broken weapons. Scars with legs. And if you can unite them for one cause—just once—you might shake the whole Court to its roots."

I stared at the glowing pieces again. "Where do I start?"

Morrigan didn't wait for a thank you. She stepped back from the table, eyes sweeping the glowing quadrants one last time, and then turned to me with a hard finality in her voice.

"I'll weave what I can," she said. "Bend the paths, twist the roots, knot time around your steps. With any luck, you'll reach each of them just before the final bell tolls."

"Wait," I said. "So we'll get there on time?"

She gave a dry snort. "You'll arrive the moment the coronation begins. No sooner. That's the best I can offer. The Court's already tightening its borders. The deeper Sorrel's power sinks in, the more she shapes the Faewylds in her image. Travel will get harder the longer you wait."

"So we're on a clock."

"A burning one," she said. "And there's no pausing it."

I nodded slowly. Thalien still hadn't spoken since the map appeared. He just stared at the four tokens like they might come to life and bite him. Sif, beside me, let out a low growl, almost like she knew we were heading toward fire.

Morrigan raised one hand. The map pulsed, glowed, then folded in on itself—collapsing into a sliver of silver light that drifted toward me and sank into my chest like a thread into cloth.

"You'll feel it when it's time to move," she said. "The land will bend. Doors will open."

I adjusted the strap of my Bass-Axe. "Summer first."

She gave a curt nod. "Find the Dog. Wake him. Point him toward a fight. He'll do the rest."

"And after?"

She smiled. Not kindly. "After that? You run. And you don't stop running until the Courts are bleeding, the bracelet's broken, or everything burns."

The room dimmed. The air shifted. A soft shimmer rolled beneath my boots, like the ground itself had inhaled. Time, in the Faewylds, had just started counting down.

"Move fast, Lucas," Morrigan said, her voice sharp now, tight with something almost like regret. "Because if you're even one breath late…"

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.

The room folded around me. And Summer called.

The world folded inside out—and spat me into hell. Heat crashed into me like a brick wall. The ground cracked beneath my boots, dry and burning. The sky above was red and swollen, a sun like an open wound hanging motionless over a battlefield alive with motion.

Screams. Snarls. War cries that weren't human. All around me, fae creatures clashed—antlered warriors in bone armor, beastkin wreathed in flame, half rotting dryads with bark-split skin and glowing green eyes. Smoke-wolves loped between the carnage, tearing into anything that moved. Giant stags with burning hooves trampled over shattered ruins that may have once been temples, or homes, or dreams.

And in the middle of it all, a shape moved. No—carved. Cut the war apart like a blade. The Dog. Tall. Wild. His bare chest smeared with blood and Gaelic runes, some of it his. Long red hair whipping behind him. A grin wide enough to show too many teeth. A red bronze spear in one hand—no elegance, just killing power.

He didn't fight like a man. He fought like a fever. He roared as he buried his spear into the neck of something that was might have been once a satyr, now covered in red fungus and screaming in seven voices. The spear burst out the other side, taking half the creature's face with it.

He ripped it free, turned—and saw me. I didn't get a warning. He charged. Not at the enemies. At me. I barely raised my Bass-Axe in time as he came at me like a thunderclap, teeth bared, spear slashing wide. It scraped off the haft of my weapon, knocking me back two steps.

Sif barked, lunged—and he kicked her aside without even looking, sending her flying through the air with a yelp and a cloud of dust. I snarled.

"You son of a—"

Another strike. No time to talk. I ducked. Rolled. My claws popped out—gleaming like chrome. My fingers found the strings of my Bass-Axe.

Strum. Static crackled. He grinned wider. "Nice music little skald," he growled, voice like gravel and fire. "Play harder."

I did. Shatter. A burst of raw sound cracked the earth between us. He laughed as it hit him, laughed, spinning with the blow and using the momentum to slam his fist into my ribs. I hit the ground hard.

Before I could breathe, he was on me—spear tip at my throat, those wild eyes burning. "No words," he snarled. "Only war."

I spat blood and smiled. "Then I guess we're speaking the same language."

I grabbed his wrist, rolled, twisted, bit—venom flooding from my mouth onto his arm. He howled, yanked back, but not before I slashed across his chest with my claws—three glowing lines that hissed and sizzled.

He staggered. I stood. Both of us bleeding. Both of us smiling. Finally, he barked out a laugh. "Not bad, bard. You fight like an animal. I like that."

He raised his spear again, twirling it once. "Let's see if you can finish like one."

We crashed together like two gods that the world forgot to name. My claws flashed, slicing wide across his chest—deep, but not fatal. I could've aimed higher. Gone for the throat. I didn't. I wasn't here to kill him. But he didn't know that. Or didn't care.

He wanted blood. He needed it. His spear slashed down across my ribs. The wound didn't just bleed—it tore. The barbs inside it wriggled like they were trying to carve me from the inside out. I bit down on a scream, twisted under his next swing, and rammed my shoulder into his gut, driving him back two steps. He dropped low, swept my legs, and I hit the ground like a sack of shit.

Before I could get up, his boot slammed into my side. Again. Again. I rolled, coughing blood. Sif lunged—only for him to kick her away once more, snarling like a wolf with too many teeth.

"You holding back, bard?" he shouted, sweat and blood dripping from his jaw. "Or are you just not enough?"

I sprang up, claws gleaming, and slashed. Left arm. Right leg. Across his chest. My strikes were surgical, controlled, fast. He took every hit and answered with brute force—backhanding me across the face, elbowing me in the jaw, slamming his fist into my skull, pretty sure that one hurt him more them me.

My vision flickered. My instincts roared. Still not killing him. Still trying to end this. He lunged again, and this time I caught the shaft of his spear in both hands. His grin widened.

"Do it," he rasped. "End it."

"I'm not here to kill you," I snapped.

He spat blood. "Then you're wasting my time."

He headbutted me so hard the world went sideways. I stumbled back, knees threatening to give, claws dragging long furrows in the ground to stay upright. He charged me with a bleeding head. I didn't move. I met him.

Our bodies collided with a sound like thunder. My claws raked across his back, his spear stabbed through my thigh. We grappled, teeth bared, breathing hard enough to shake the dust beneath us. He threw me down. I kicked up, slammed both feet into his gut, and sent him flying into a boulder with a crack. He rolled to his feet like it didn't even phase him.

He was bleeding everywhere. So was I. Neither of us cared. He charged again—and I didn't dodge. I caught him, claws punching into his sides, and used his momentum to slam him into the ground. He bounced, rolled, came back up with a spinning slash that clipped my cheek wide open.

Warm blood poured down my face. I howled. He laughed. I punched him in the ribs—twice, three times—felt a crack then swept his legs and drove my elbow into his spine as he hit the dirt. He groaned, grunted, kept laughing through a mouth full of blood and broken teeth.

"Getting tired, boy?" he gasped. "Because I am not."

"Good," I growled. "Because I've got more."

He rose again. So did I. He charged again, roaring like a war god, and I met him—no dodging, no finesse. I slammed into him with all my weight, claws punching into his gut, ripping sideways. I felt ribs crack. I felt something give.

He didn't scream. He grinned. His forehead slammed into my nose with a sickening crunch. My vision exploded with white. I staggered, blood flooding down my lips. He swept low, shoulder into my ribs, lifted me and drove me through a shattered column. Stone exploded around us. I coughed blood, swung with my right, claws slicing across his jaw, cutting through skin and tendon and half his cheek.

Still laughing. His eyes were wild. Glowing. He wanted more. So I gave him more. I screamed and slammed both fists into his collarbones, knocking him down to one knee. He dropped his spear. I kicked it away. He lunged up, fingers like claws of his own, gouging at my face, my throat. We tumbled across the ash-choked ground, biting, punching, clawing. I grabbed his head and slammed it into the dirt. Again. Again.

He flipped me, drove his elbow into my throat, trying to crush my windpipe. I kicked him in the knee so hard his leg bent wrong, then gutted him with a backhand slash from my claws—blood sprayed across my face, hot and stinging. He choked. Still moving. Still swinging.

I was faster. He threw a fist—I caught it, twisted, and drove my claws through the meat of his forearm. His eyes widened. That got a grunt. But he didn't pull back. He pushed forward, forcing the wound deeper, blood pouring down his arm, until his free hand caught my throat.

"You bleed like a man," he growled, face inches from mine. "But you're like me, aren't you little half blood."

I slammed my forehead into his, then drove my claws into his side and twisted. He roared, finally dropping. I straddled him, claws to his throat, both of us soaked in blood, breathing like wounded beasts. His eyes met mine, wide and wild and filled with fire.

Then slowly—he laughed.

"…You win."

His voice was a rasp, thick with blood. "You don't talk like a son of the isles," he said, breath catching, "but you fight like one."

I stayed there, claws pressed to his throat. He didn't flinch. I looked at him—at this towering, maddened, blood-slick monster—and I saw it: he wasn't testing me to kill me. He was testing me to belong.

I pulled my claws back. Let the steel slide home. "Then get up," I said. "We've got a Court to burn."

He grinned wider. "Finally."

The dust finally settled. I stood over the Dog, both of us soaked in blood—his, mine, some mix of the two. The battlefield around us had quieted. The fae beasts that once raged through the heat and smoke were gone, scattered, or dead.

I pulled back, breathing hard, heart thundering like it still hadn't caught up to the moment. My claws hissed back into my forearms with a sharp snkt. My hands were shaking from exhaustion. The Dog pushed himself up with a grunt, face split by a grin that probably hurt as much as it looked like it should've killed him.

"Damn," he muttered, looking at his blood-soaked side. "I missed that. Been too long since someone made me bleed like they meant it."

He stood tall, cracking his neck once, then his shoulders, then every vertebrae in his spine like it was nothing. "Not bad, skald."

Before I could answer—

"I was gone for ten minutes," said a very tight, very done voice from the ridge.

I turned. Thalien stood at the edge of the battlefield, pale as snow, blinking slowly like his brain was still buffering the scene. His eyes scanned the smoking ruins, the carnage, the shattered columns and scorched ground.

Then he looked at me. Then at the Dog. Then back at me. "I left you alone for ten minutes."

Sif trotted up beside me, tail wagging like she hadn't been kicked across the field twice. I wiped blood off my chin with the back of my hand. "Technically," I said, "you left me unsupervised."

Thalien stared. The Dog chuckled, reaching down to retrieve his spear. "You bring all your friends into battle dressed like that?" he asked, glancing at Thalien's perfect, somehow still-unsmudged tunic.

Thalien's eyes narrowed. "I am not—was not—expecting battle."

"Well, you're in one now," I said, brushing soot off my shirt. "Might want to adjust expectations."

The Dog stood beside me, still bleeding from a dozen wounds and smiling like he'd just finished a good meal. Thalien, still processing, gave him the kind of cautious nod you usually reserve for unpredictable animals and gods in a bad mood.

"Do you have a name—or just a title?" he asked carefully.

The Dog turned toward him, eyes still blazing with the fading rush of battle. Then, for the first time, he straightened.

"Aye," he said. "Lost it on my time here, but it's still worth something."

He planted Gáe Bulg in the earth beside him and stood tall beneath the blazing Summer sky.

"I am Sétanta till, Cú Chulainn," he said, voice steady. "The Hound of Ulster. Champion of the Red Branch. Slayer of armies. Son of Lugh."

The name rang through the air like a war horn. The heat around us seemed to still for a heartbeat. Even the ground felt like it heard him. Thalien went very still. Sif let out a low chuff, ears flicking back. I raised an eyebrow, wiping blood off my jaw.

"Huh."

He looked at me. Smiled, teeth still red. "You earned the Dog," he said. "But now you know what it means."

I held his stare for a second longer. Then I nodded. "I'm still calling you Dog."

He laughed, loud and sharp. "Fine by me, bard."

Cú Chulainn adjusted the Gáe Bulg across his back, his torso half-covered in ragged, torn flesh and dried blood. He stood tall, but I could see the slow wobble in his legs, the tension in his shoulder, the way his ribs rose unevenly with every breath.

He wouldn't ask. So I didn't wait. I slung the Bass-Axe around, rested it on my knee, and ran my fingers across the strings. A low, calm melody rippled out—soft and simple, a single phrase hummed through old wood and war-hardened metal. Healing Word. The static that lived in my blood pulsed once, bright and steady. Golden threadlike strands of sound curled around Cú's chest and side, knitting torn flesh, slowing the bleeding, patching the worst of it.

He blinked. Grunted. "Didn't think you could heal, rare talent," he said.

"You pick things up from time to time," I muttered. He didn't thank me. Didn't need to. He rolled his shoulder once. Nodded. And we walked.

Just soft grass winding through an endless stretch of gently rolling hills, peppered with wildflowers that shifted color when you blinked too long. The sun overhead was softer now—still warm, but no longer angry. It smelled like rain that hadn't fallen yet. Sif trotted ahead, nose twitching. Every now and then, she paused to sniff a floating dandelion or side-eye a rabbit with antlers.

No one spoke for a while. The silence between battles has its own kind of gravity. But eventually, Cú broke it.

"So," he said, rolling his shoulder with a wet crunch. "What's a bard with the sun in his blood doing in the land of the Fae?"

I shrugged. "Just got tossed in halfway through."

He glanced at me sideways. "You fight like it's personal."

I didn't answer right away. Then: "Feels that way now."

He barked a laugh. "Good. That's the best kind."

Thalien cleared his throat. "It's reckless. You nearly died."

"Nearly dying builds character," Cú said.

"Character doesn't keep you breathing."

Cú smirked. "Neither does hiding in the back line."

Thalien narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. I ran a thumb over the strings of the Bass-Axe slung across my back, just to keep my fingers busy.

"You always like that?" I asked. "The fighting. The pain."

Cú looked at the horizon. "No. Not always. Once it was duty. Honor. Oaths, but honestly... I like it, keeps things simple, specially here"

Thalien flinched at that, but said nothing. I studied the side of Cú's face—still bruised, still blood-slicked, still smiling like he didn't regret a single swing.

"You here by choice?" I asked him. "In the Faewylds?"

He didn't answer for a while. Then he said, "You don't always end up in Faerie because of a choice. Sometimes the old world forgets you, sometimes a Fae kidnaps you. And you drift."

He kicked a rock off the path, watching it bounce down into the flower-filled valley.

"I woke up one day, and the sun here looked more real than the one I knew. And that was that."

We walked a little longer.

"Do you trust the Priest?" I asked finally.

Thalien answered this time. "I trust his intentions. His restraint. His… conviction."

"So no."

"I trust he won't stab us," he said. "Unless we deserve it."

Cú snorted. "He'll hate me."

"You represent everything he fought to end," Thalien muttered.

"Good," Cú said with a grin. "Can't wait to test his patience."

"You guys know him?" I asked

"Oh yeah, pretty famous guy that one, I would be surprised if you didn't" Said Cú.

"You going to tell me who he is?" I asked again.

"No" Cú.

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Magus explorator

Apr 16, 2025

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Apr 17, 2025

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The air changed.

It was subtle at first — birdsong faded, wind died. The light dimmed.

Even Cú Chulainn, who'd barely flinched when I tried to rip his guts out, held his spear a little tighter.

Then came the sounds. Slithering. Wet. Like trees dragging themselves across mud. Then—crash. Something massive moving through the brush. Trees snapping. Ground shaking. The distinct, bone-deep wrongness of scales on bark.

Then… the tongues. Hissing. Clicking. Whispering things that weren't language, but still understood on some ancient level. Sounds that slithered through your ears and tried to wrap around your brainstem.

Then—HONK.

I stopped in my tracks.

Sif froze beside me, ears flat, fur bristling.

We crested a rise and saw it. A clearing, cut into the forest like someone had dug reality out with a spoon. At the center: a church. Small. Stone. Humble. A single steeple. Whitewashed walls. Ivy creeping up the sides, but not wild. Tamed. The door was wooden, painted red. The windows glowed soft yellow, and from inside, I heard the faintest echo of a hymn being hummed.

It was a Christian church. And it was perfectly normal. Thalien stopped beside me, expression unreadable.

Even Cú tilted his head. "This place stinks," he muttered.

I didn't say anything. Just… stared. The building was clean. Intact. Untouched by the Faewylds' nonsense. And that was wrong. So, so wrong.

But what stood around it was worse. A perfect circle of salt surrounded the church—maybe twenty yards out, traced like someone had poured it grain by grain. And just outside that line?

Hell.

Serpents the size of ships coiled and hissed, throwing themselves against the barrier, only to recoil with angry shrieks. No two were alike—one had feathers, another had dozens of eyes. One was made of thorned vines, one looked like polished obsidian and smoke. And beside them—a goose. Except it wasn't a goose. It was a thing with eight necks, each ending in a furious honking beak, black feathers soaked in oil, wings too long for its body, eyes like burning coals. It honked again, and the sound rattled my teeth.

Beside it, other fae monstrosities circled the church, unable to cross the line. One of them looked like a praying mantis made of broken mirrors. Another was tall and twisted, its face made of books with screaming mouths stitched into the pages. Something hunched in the trees with a thousand jointed legs and no visible body, just laughter that never stopped.

They circled. But they couldn't pass. The golden light from the church held them at bay. A quiet, soft radiance. Like an old memory of morning. Thalien whispered, "They've been here a long time. Trying."

"And failing," I said.

Cú exhaled slowly. "I take back what I said. This might be worse than the battlefield."

Sif growled low, ears pinned. I looked at the church again. Still glowing. Still calm. Still... welcoming. I felt my heart pound once in my chest.

"…Let's go meet the Priest."

There was no warning. The eight-headed goose screamed—a sound somewhere between a trumpet and a death rattle—and the rest of the creatures charged. The line of salt was only fifty yards away. Might as well have been a mile.

"MOVE!" I shouted, already running.

Thalien followed instantly, robes snapping behind him. Cú Chulainn roared something in a language that might've been Irish, might've been war itself, and charged beside me, Gáe Bulg twirling into a battle-ready blur.

Sif bounded ahead of us, snarling, leaping through the tall grass like a streak of fur. The first serpent lunged. It was massive, like a living redwood covered in moss and eyes. Its jaws opened wide enough to swallow all four of us whole.

I ducked left—Cú leapt right and punched the damn thing in the eye with the butt of his spear. It reeled back with a sound like a collapsing building. The goose-creature came next. It flapped its wings—thunderclap—and sent a wave of pressure crashing through the clearing. Thalien stumbled. I grabbed him by the cloak and yanked him forward. Sif latched onto one of the goose's necks, shaking violently before being flung off like a chew toy.

"Twenty yards!" I shouted.

Another creature dove from the trees—a long, mantis-limbed thing made of torn parchment and skin, legs snapping like wet branches. I strummed a chord as I ran—Thunderwave—and blasted it sideways into a tree that cracked on impact.

Five more came from the right—snake-things, bone wolves, and a spider with the head of a weeping woman. Cú spun, driving his spear through two at once, then roared as another latched onto his leg. He ripped it off and hurled it like a shot put.

Something lunged at me—a beast made of feathers and blades—and I barely ducked under its strike before gutting it mid-sprint with a flash of adamantium claws. The line of salt came into view—glowing, impossibly bright. Ten feet. Then five. Something shrieked from above. I looked up. A massive serpent was falling from the sky like a divine punishment. I grabbed Thalien by the collar and threw him across the salt line. Sif dove through. Cú followed, blood running from a gash in his side.

The serpent crashed down just as I dove—FWASH. The moment I crossed the salt line, the world changed. No more crashing trees. No more screaming beasts. No more thunderclap wings or serpent jaws. Just peace.

The golden light settled over me like a warm blanket pulled tight against winter. The barrier shimmered in my peripheral vision—a line no nightmare dared cross. Behind me, the forest roared and hissed and howled. Claws scraped invisible walls. Teeth gnashed in frustration. The now seven-headed goose bellowed one final honk of fury, shaking the trees. But it couldn't reach us. None of them could.

Inside the circle, the world was still. The doors to the church creaked open. And he stepped out.

The Priest.

He wasn't radiant. He wasn't regal. He was... normal. An old man, tall and lean, with white hair combed back, a face weathered like worn stone, and eyes that had seen too much. He wore the robes of an old Christian priest—black, modest, precise—but the edges were tinged with green. Mossy trim embroidered into the hems. Vines stitched subtly into the cuffs and a shamrock on his vest. The collar was faded gold.

His shoes were muddy. His hands were calloused. He smiled. A kind of smile you get from a sermon.

"Welcome," he said, voice quiet, steady. "I've been expecting you."

Thalien was the first to speak. He stepped forward carefully, cloak torn and blood-specked, but his posture straightened like he was back in some court hall made of vines and secrets. He gave a low, respectful nod.

"We seek refuge," he said, voice even. "And… your help, if you'll offer it."

The priest—if you could still call him that—dipped his head in return. "I offer both, for as long as I can," he replied.

Cú Chulainn squinted at him from behind me, spear still bloody.

"You're the one keeping the beasts out?" he asked.

The priest glanced toward the still-open door, where the golden light shimmered against the howling, slithering chaos just outside.

"Yes."

"You don't look like much."

He smiled faintly. "The things that truly hold back darkness rarely do."

I stepped forward last. His gaze shifted to me—calm, measured, not curious exactly, but cautious. Like he couldn't quite place me. I didn't offer a name. Neither did he. Just a nod. Sif padded beside me, sniffing the floor cautiously before circling a pew and flopping down with a low grunt.

"Come," the priest said, turning toward the sanctuary. "You've earned a moment of peace."

We followed him into the church. Inside, the air shifted. It wasn't just cooler. It was clean. The candle at the altar flickered gently, casting long shapes across worn pews and sun-faded rugs. It was… normal. And that felt wrong.

Just a church. Wood, stone, silence. He turned at the altar, resting a hand gently on the lone candle there.

"You've walked far," he said. "Survived great perils."

He looked at us—at the blood, the bruises, the weight. "You're not to just pray, aren't you?"

Then his eyes settled on me.

"So speak," he said. "Tell me what it is you've brought to my door."

I told him everything. About Sorrel. The stolen bracelet. The Wild Hunt being raised to strike the mortal world—New York, no less. And the fragile plan we were building: gathering warriors to break her hold and stop the coronation before it bound the Courts forever.

He listened without interruption. Only once I finished did he speak, calm and measured. "It is a righteous cause," the priest said. "One that must be done. But righteousness alone is not enough."

He walked slowly to the altar, laying his hand on the candle as though drawing strength from it. "I have remained here beyond the years a man should walk the world. I have stood vigil in a place that was never meant for my kind, to keep the old serpents at bay. I have endured."

He turned, facing us again, his voice steady as scripture. "But I will not go with you for nothing."

Thalien raised his chin. "What do you ask?"

The priest looked to the floor, then back at us. There was nothing cruel in his eyes. Only conviction. "When your task is done—if we succeed—I ask to be freed. To return to the land of men. And from there, to pass on. To see my Lord again. My time has come and gone. I am ready."

Thalien glanced at me. I nodded. "If we succeed, the Courts will owe us everything. I'll make sure they hear it."

The priest gave a solemn nod. Then he stepped forward, closer now. And his gaze fixed directly on me.

"I ask one more thing."

I tensed a little. "…Alright."

"I would see your soul baptized."

The words struck with quiet weight. He didn't flinch. Didn't soften. "You have walked this world surrounded by pagan gods and false powers, but you have not known God. I have lived in this wilderness long enough to see how easily it consumes the lost. And you—" his voice firmed "—you walk straight into the jaws of devils and call it purpose."

He took another step forward, until he was looking me in the eyes like he could read every corner of my spirit. "I will fight with you. I will stand in defiance of this false queen and the sorcery that binds her court. But I will not do so for a soul half-given to shadows."

He folded his hands. "Let me mark you in truth. Let me wash you clean, even if only once. Let me give you the protection of His name before you go where His light grows dim."

His voice never rose. But it didn't need to. He spoke like stone. Like gospel. Like a man who had stared into Faerie and never lost sight of Heaven. I didn't answer right away. The church was quiet. Too quiet. The golden light still glowed, soft and still. The monsters outside still hissed. Still clawed.

I shifted my weight. Opened my mouth. Then closed it.

"I…" I started, then stopped again. The priest didn't press. He just stood there, waiting. Calm. Certain.

"You know I'm not exactly…" I made a vague circle with my hand. "The church type."

He nodded once. "That's why it must mean something."

I looked away. "Where I come from," I said slowly, "I already have to deal with gods breathing down my neck. Greek ones. And they're not exactly cool with declarations of loyalty to anything else."

Thalien glanced at me sharply, but said nothing. Cú just snorted. "Good. Let 'em get mad."

I ignored him. "Point is," I said, looking back at the priest, "if I let you do this—if I go through with it—I'm not just taking a dip in some old river and calling it a day. This could be seen as… a move. A choice."

The priest's gaze didn't waver. "It is a choice."

"That's what worries me."

He stepped closer. "You're walking into the fire with monsters. With lost legends and broken gods. If there's any moment to know where you stand with yourself—it's now."

"I need you," I said. "For this quest. I'm not sure what the gods will think. I don't know what I'll think after this is done."

I paused. "But if it gets us one step closer to saving the world from Sorrel and her damn court…"

I exhaled through my nose. "…Then pour the water."

The priest gave no smile. No nod. He simply turned. He walked to a stone basin near the front of the church, one I hadn't noticed before. It was unadorned, half-sunk into the floor like it had grown there. The water inside didn't shimmer or glow—just still.

"Come," he said. I stepped forward. Sif huffed softly behind me, but didn't move. Cú and Thalien stood quiet, watching—one curious, the other solemn. I stopped in front of the basin. The priest looked me in the eyes once more.

"You'll speak your name," he said quietly. "And I will mark it with the sign of the Cross. You do not have to know Him. You do not have to understand. But you will show respect. For this is no magic. This is faith."

I gave a shallow nod. "Understood."

He dipped his fingers into the basin and lifted the water slowly. It dripped from his hand like rain over stone. "Speak."

"…Lucas Walker," I said. The water touched my forehead. Cold. Shockingly cold. But not painful. Not even uncomfortable. Just—sharp.

"In the name of the Father," he said, fingers moving gently. The water touched the center of my chest. "And of the Son." Then each shoulder. "And of the Holy Spirit."

He stepped back, fingers still damp. The water clung to my skin for a moment longer than it should have. Then it sank in. A silence followed. Then the priest said, simply: "Amen."

I opened my eyes, looking to see what happened, but nothing, just the same old me. Outside, the beasts still howled. But it sounded a little farther away. Inside, the light still burned. But it felt a little steadier. The priest turned and walked back to the candle at the altar.

"You may not understand what you carry," he said softly. "But it will carry you to victory."

He paused. Then, without looking back: "Let us speak of war."

I barely had time to sit before he turned back from the altar. "So," he said, "you're following the path laid by the Raven Queen."

His tone was even. Controlled. But I didn't miss the tightening of his jaw when he said her name. "The Morrigan," Thalien confirmed. "She gave us a map. Or—what passes for one here. She believes we must gather four allies to breach Autumn directly."

The priest crossed his arms, expression unreadable. "That's not usually her style, I would have bet on trickery."

"She called it a gamble," I said. "A last shot."

He nodded once. "Be wary of pagans," he said flatly. "Their nature is shifty and mercurial. One day loyal, the next treacherous. They are ruled by oaths and riddles, not truth. And worse, many don't know the difference."

Cú Chulainn scoffed softly behind me. But the priest continued. "That said… her instinct is correct. An assault alone would fail. The Autumn Court was never made to fall to one blade. You'll need force. Faith."

He stepped toward the center of the sanctuary and finally drew himself up to full height. "The four she chose were not random. They are powers of old—too old for even the Faewylds to consume."

He paused. "I am one of them."

He met my eyes again. "My name is Patrick. Once a slave. Then a servant. Then a saint. I bound the serpents of Éire with holy salt and prayer. And when the Faewylds came to me, I did not flinch."

He gestured to the salt circle burning outside. "I have held this line for centuries. I will not abandon it lightly."

He looked back to us. "But if what you say is true—if Sorrel truly seeks to enthrall the Courts themselves—then I can no longer stand idle."

Another pause. "You have my hand. My staff. And the blessings of the lord."

He bowed his head. "And I will walk with you until the serpent is cast down."

We stepped out of the church. The air hit different now. The monsters hadn't left. If anything, there were more—crowding the edge of the salt circle, eyes gleaming with hunger and rage. Serpents the size of trains coiled around tree trunks, snapping jaws that couldn't cross. The seven-headed goose screeched at us like it was promising damnation. The other horrors—the mantis-thing of mirrors, the legged laughter shadow, the book-faced beast—all paced, snarled, hissed.

But they did not step forward. The golden light still held. But I wasn't in a rush. I stepped to the edge of the salt.

"Wait here," I said, dropping my pack.

Thalien blinked. "What are you doing?"

"Something loud."

I slung the Bass-Axe forward, resting it against my hip. The Thunderbird feather tied to the headstock pulsed once, catching the light like a match being struck. I strummed once. The air cracked. The strings vibrated with static, the charge building fast. Each note carried weight—not magic, but momentum. The wind stirred. The sky darkened.

The monsters hissed, backed up slightly, uncertain. Then I played. Fast. Sharp. The Thunderbird feather ignited—a streak of crackling gold arcing down the strings, pouring into the bass like liquid lightning. And the skies answered.

BOOM.

A bolt dropped from the sky and obliterated a serpent just outside the barrier. It writhed, screaming, then vanished in a burst of flame and black smoke. Another chord. CRACK. A lightning strike took the mantis-thing through the chest, its mirrored limbs shattering into molten glass. The goose honked and tried to flee—too late.

KA-BOOM.

Two of its heads exploded mid-honk. The rest screamed. I kept playing, fingers flying across the strings. The sound echoed through the clearing, through the forest, through the Faewylds themselves. This wasn't a spell. This was a declaration.

You don't corner a storm and expect silence.

The monsters scattered, breaking into a frenzy of fear, tripping over each other as they fled into the trees. The skies kept punishing them as they ran—bolt after bolt slamming into the woods, lighting the horizon like a strobe light of divine fury. I played harder. The final chord rang out like a war horn. Then silence. Ash drifted in the wind. The salt circle still burned, untouched. And me? I slung the Bass-Axe back over my shoulder, sparks still dancing down the strings. Behind me, Cú laughed low and slow. "You weren't kidding."

Patrick stood at the doorway, watching, unmoved. "You call that lightning? Seen worse," he said.

The forest changed the moment we left the salt circle. Just trees—tall and dark, their trunks gnarled like twisted limbs. The ground beneath us softened, leaves crunching wetly underfoot, not dry… but rotted.

Cú Chulainn walked ahead, spear in hand, still grinning faintly like the lightning show was dessert. Thalien followed behind me, quieter than usual, eyes scanning the treeline with every step.

Patrick walked last. He didn't speak.

We were heading for Autumn. The Morrigan's map—if you could call her bird-shaped flash of magic a map—had pointed us this way. We weren't far. But distance didn't matter in the Faewylds. What did matter was the feeling. And right now? The air was heavy. Thick with rot and the scent of smoke. Leaves fell without wind, tumbling from branches like they were trying to escape the trees. Sif growled low in her throat.

I slowed my steps, letting my hand rest lightly on the Bass-Axe. "Anyone else feel like we're being watched?" I muttered.

"You're not being watched," Patrick said from behind me. "You're being paranoid."

That's when we heard it. A slow, rhythmic clank. From the mist ahead, something moved. A shadow tall and broad, its shape more suggestion than detail. Then it stepped into the light.

A Knight.

Armor green with tarnish and moss, but whole. Towering, wrapped in faded banners of red and gold, cloak trailing dead leaves behind him. His helm was shaped like a deer skull, antlers curling upward. In one hand, he held a greatsword as long as I was tall. In the other… a branch. Still blooming.

He looked at us—no, through us. And he said, voice deep and hollow behind the helm: "Who seeks the green justice beneath the fallen canopy?"

Cú Chulainn raised his spear. "I seek a fight."

Patrick raised a brow but said nothing. I stepped forward. "We're here for you. You know why."

The Knight tilted his head. Then slowly—almost imperceptibly—he raised the branch in his hand. The Knight didn't move. The wind rustled dead leaves around his feet, and the antlers on his helm seemed to scrape the air itself.

"You would ask me to betray my court," he said. "To defy my oaths . Such a request demands trial."

I stood my ground. "Name it."

He slowly lifted his greatsword and pointed it north—the blade humming low, like iron remembering blood. "To the north lies Thornhollow, a dead glade once kept sacred by warriors of Autumn."

He lowered the sword. "No longer."

His voice dropped, heavier now. "A beast has come. Not fae. Not mortal. A devourer of champions. Six hunts have been called to cull it, you will be the seventh."

He stepped forward once. The earth bent beneath his step. "If you wish my blade… you will defeat it."

Thalien stepped up. "Then we'll—"

CLANG. The sword dropped between them, inches from Thalien's chest.

The Knight didn't raise his voice. "No."

Cú stepped forward too. "You want a fight? Let me—"

CLANG. The sword shifted again, now angled toward him. "The trial is his."

He turned back to me. "One soul. One blade. That is the way of Autumn."

I stared into the hollow eyes of the deer skull helm. I exhaled slowly. "Where exactly is this glade?"

The Knight raised the branch he carried—and snapped it in two. From the broken wood, a single red leaf drifted down and spiraled into the dirt. A wind picked up. It pulled north. "Follow the leaf," he said. "It will take you where heroes go to die."

And then he stepped aside. Thalien looked at me. "This is madness."

"I'm used to that."

Cú clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. "If it kills you, I'm stealing your guitar."

I smirked. "Then I'll be sure to haunt you."

I slung the Bass-Axe onto my back and looked into the woods. The wind still blew. The leaf still turned.

The wind guided me north. The red leaf spun gently ahead of me, unbothered by the growing wrongness around us. The trees died first—bark turned black and brittle, leaves long since rotted. Then the ground itself changed: grass gave way to ash, then to stone, cracked and scorched as if fire had licked it.

Then I found the pit. A vast crater torn into the earth, its sides gouged by claws bigger than my entire body. Trees lay flattened at the edges. Hills had been swallowed whole. And in the center of that ruin, curled like a mountain that didn't belong, it slept.

Or at least… it had been. The earth trembled. Stone cracked. It wasn't like the myth at all, the head of a lion was bald, with scales grown where flesh once was, the turtle shell now lied cracked, with towering spikes rising to the sky. It moved. A low, grinding sound echoed out as the creature unfolded—limbs like siege towers, muscles shifting beneath natural armor as thick as castle walls. Spines jutted from its back, cruel and serrated.

Its maw opened slowly, revealing rows of jagged teeth large enough to rend buildings. It stood fully now, dwarfing everything. Forty, maybe fifty feet tall, and twice that in length. Its hide shimmered in dull reds and grays, each scale like a slab of iron. Firelight flickered behind its throat as it exhaled—hot, foul. The ground buckled beneath its weight. Every step left a crater.

My knees wanted to give. It was no monster. It was an extinction event. A living engine of destruction. The thing gods send heroes to die trying to distract. I unslung my Bass-Axe, lightning already whispering down its strings, my hands shaking.

It turned its gaze to me. Not curious. Just hungry. And then—

The Tarasque roared.

And the world shook. My feet slid back half a step before I even realized it. The force of the sound hit like a wall. I'd fought monsters. I'd stood toe-to-toe with a labor of Hercules, with creatures that crawled out of Tartarus or slipped through cracks in dreamspace. But this? This was different. This was the kind of thing you read about. The kind that shows up in half-whispered warnings on crumbling scrolls. The kind gods mention with clenched jaws and exit plans.

Its eyes locked on me—massive, dull. Not hateful. Not angry. Just empty. Like I wasn't a threat. Like I wasn't even real. For a second—just one—I couldn't move. I wasn't planning. I wasn't casting. I wasn't fighting. I was afraid. Deep, cold, childlike fear. The kind that doesn't come with logic or reason. The kind that says run before anything else. My hands shook. My breathing came too fast. I could hear my heart beating in my ears—or maybe that was the earth, still rumbling under its feet. Sif wasn't here. Thalien wasn't here. Cú wasn't here. No backup. No clever plan. Just me. And it.

I swallowed. Then looked down at the Bass-Axe slung across my chest. My fingers flexed once over the strings. They were still shaking. Good. Let it shake. Let it burn. I brought the axe up, adjusted the strap, and forced air into my lungs.

"Alright," I whispered to myself, voice raw. "You're scared." The Tarasque took a step forward, and the crater trembled. I closed my eyes. Exhaled. "And you're going to do it anyway."

I strummed hard. Lightning cracked from the sky and slammed into the beast's back. The air burned with ozone and wet heat. The explosion of light momentarily blinded me—a flash so bright it threw its towering frame into silhouette. And it didn't even flinch. The creature reared up on its hind legs, the impact rocking through its body—but it wasn't hurt. Not really. Just annoyed. The scorched patch of flesh on its armored spine sizzled... then healed. Like nothing happened. Like the storm itself was just background noise.

I gritted my teeth, fingers already diving back into the strings. Another chord. Another bolt, another, then more.

CRACK—BOOM. This time it snarled, shaking the trees and flattening the grass in a shockwave of sound. One of its jagged dorsal spikes caught the full brunt of the strike—gleaming, gleaming— And then it reflected. The lightning didn't stop. It bounced. Curved back through the air like a whip and came straight at me.

THOOM.

The world turned white. Pain like nothing I'd ever felt before, just pure agony. The bolt hit me in the chest like a divine hammer. My spine arched. My crocs left the ground. I screamed. The electricity tore through me, and I felt it race through the metal laced through my body—the adamantium. It didn't ground the power. It trapped it. The charge ricocheted through my bones like I was a living conductor. Every nerve lit up in fire. My vision fuzzed. Blood sprayed from my nose, my ears.

I dropped to one knee, then the other. Smoke curled from my jacket. My left hand trembled on the strings. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. The monster was already moving again—slow, thunderous steps that shook the earth. Its eyes locked on me, not with fury or hatred. Just hunger. It had barely noticed. I was nothing to it.

So I pulled myself upright—one trembling hand on the axe, the other raised weakly, fingertips glowing with lingering heat—and screamed up into the sky: "COME ON THEN!" And the monster charged.

It moved like an avalanche. The earth screamed under its weight, every step carving fresh trenches in the blackened soil. Trees cracked like bones in its path.

I dropped the Bass-Axe. No time. No distance. No music fast enough. I roared, dropped low, and popped the claws.

SNKT

I sprinted forward to meet it. Its head lowered, jaws wide enough to swallow a truck. I dropped to the side, slid on one knee, and slashed—The claws caught under the curve of its plated neck, scraping deep between two armored ridges. Sparks flew. And so did blood—thick, hot, steaming. The Tarasque howled—a bone-shaking, guttural explosion of pain—and swung its tail like a wrecking ball. I jumped, barely clearing the ground as the tail obliterated a tree where I'd just been. Bark and dirt flew like shrapnel. It whipped around. I dove again, rolled, and lashed out—CLANG—claws slamming into its side.

The adamantium bit deep. It bled. Not much. I could feel it—the way my claws rattled off its nerves. The way it hesitated, just half a second longer, before turning again. But the wounds healed.

Muscle mended beneath scale. Blood slowed. It was like watching time rewind with skin.

I scrambled back, panting, hands shaking, claws slick with monster blood. My whole body ached from the lightning.

It looked at me again. Not with fear. With interest. Like maybe now it knew I wasn't prey. I wasn't a threat either—not yet. But I hurt it. That earned me another round. I growled, spit blood to the side, and raised my claws again.

"Still here, ugly." It came again. I ducked under another swipe, claws flashing out, catching the soft meat between its plated foreleg and shoulder. It screamed again, staggering—blood splattered across the ground like molten tar. I didn't stop. I couldn't. I slammed a boot into its joint, flipped up off its knee, and dragged both claws across the side of its head.

Sparks. Blood. Another roar. Its tail whipped—I ducked, felt the wind scream past my scalp, close enough to pull strands of hair free. But I was moving, sliding back under its belly, slashing where I could—any weak joint, any unarmored patch. It healed every time. Flesh reknit. Scars vanished. But for a few seconds? I was dancing with it. Bleeding it. And then it stopped. Mid-charge. Its entire body went rigid. Its lungs expanded. And I felt the change. No time. I braced—too late. It roared. Not like before. Not like the animal growls from earlier. This was the roar. A world-ending, mountain-splitting, soul-wrecking sound.

It hit me like a bomb. My ears exploded—literal blood poured down my neck. I screamed, but heard nothing. My vision doubled. My knees gave out. Everything rang, high and sharp and endless. I clutched my head, dropped to the ground. And that's when the tail came.

WHAM

I never saw it. Just felt the impact—a full-body wrecking blow, like being hit by a train made of spite. My body went flying. I was airborne—weightless, broken—until I wasn't.

CRASH.

I slammed through a tree, splintered it in half, then bounced off a boulder hard enough to crack it. Something under my ribs gave way with a wet crunch. I hit the ground. Rolled. Stopped. Face down in the dirt, blinking through blood. Can't move. Can't hear. Can't think. Somewhere far off, the beast stomped closer. And I knew: I was going to die here.

Unless I got up.

Unless I made it hurt worse than I hurt.

I dug my fingers into the dirt and pushed myself up. Eventually, I stood, not because I was ready, but because the beast was still coming. My chest burned with every breath, and my ears still rang from its roar. But my bones were intact, barely.

The Tarasque lumbered toward me.

I clenched my fists, and the claws slid free, gleaming silver in the dim, war-torn glade. The creature's eyes locked onto mine—no fear, no rage, just the same heavy, awful hunger. It stomped once, and I ran. We collided again.

I ducked a claw swipe, sprang to its side, and dragged my claws across its hide. The carapace screamed with sparks as adamantium bit deep. A spray of hot blood burst across my arm. It swung its tail, a glancing hit that sent me skidding across the ash-choked field. I rolled with the impact, came up crouched and panting, still holding.

Another bolt of lightning surged from my Bass-Axe—I'd managed to grab it mid-dodge. The energy crashed into the beast's neck, knocking it sideways. It got up, still breathing. I charged again, sliding beneath its jaws and carving two brutal slashes across its underbelly.

It howled, and the ground cracked. It bit back, jaws snapping inches from my body, and I jumped, raking both claws along its upper jaw and forcing its head away. It stumbled. I stumbled. Neither of us were winning; we were grinding each other down, over and over. Each attack met with another, each wound half-healed, half-ignored.

My muscles burned, my lungs felt like someone had shoved sandpaper into them. But I stood. The Bass-Axe hummed against my back, my claws slick, glowing, twitching with reflex. And then the beast… stopped.

It exhaled, a sound like a collapsing building, and slowly settled back on its haunches. It wasn't done; it was done for now. Chest heaving, shoulders rising and falling like tides, it stared at me. I stared back. Neither of us lowered our guard, but neither of us moved.

It blinked, once, slowly, and then lowered its head, like a creature that had chased something too long and finally… gave up. Not defeated. Not afraid. Just finished.

It didn't move. Neither did I. The beast sat in the center of the shattered field, steam rising off its back in curling tendrils. Its massive chest expanded and contracted, each breath a low, shuddering groan that shook the stones beneath it. And me? I dropped to one knee, not collapsed, not beaten, just… breathing. Heavy. Slow. My hand clenched the dirt. I looked up, eyes locking with the monster's. It stared back. No charge. No roar. No tail swipe. Just silence between us, thick with ash and old pain.

I let my other knee fall, dropped into a crouch, then leaned back, resting on my heels. My chest heaved, my arms ached, every muscle screaming. The lightning in my veins still sparked in little twitches. And the creature just watched me, like it understood.

We stayed there, both of us still, both of us breathing. It snorted once, a plume of hot air curling from its nostrils. I exhaled slowly, forcing air past cracked lips. My eyes burned from sweat and blood. My fingers flexed, not in anger, just to feel that I still could.

The monster blinked again, slow, heavy, unbothered. And I realized… neither of us wanted to keep going. So I stayed there, kneeling in the silence, facing a beast that had no master. And it stared back, as if to say, "That'll do."

We stayed like that for a while, just breathing. The battlefield around us steamed in the aftermath—ash swirling in lazy circles, bones cracked and half-buried in the dirt, trees sheared off at the trunk.

I wasn't thinking; I couldn't. I was spent. And then the sky changed. Not bright, not dark, just… shifted. Above, where clouds once hung in smoldering tatters, one of the black suns appeared. From its center, something dropped. Fast. Straight. And I caught it without meaning to.

My fingers closed around something small, cold, metal. I looked down. It was a compass, but not a normal one. It was old, a little dented. The needle inside spun once, twice, then stilled, but not toward north. Toward something else. Somewhere else.

I frowned and turned slowly, holding it up. The needle moved, spun again, wobbled a little like it couldn't make up its mind, then settled. Not toward the edge of the clearing, not toward the sky. It pointed directly… to the Tarasque.

I stared at it, then at the beast. Still crouched, still breathing, still watching me with those heavy, empty eyes. It didn't growl, didn't shift, didn't dare me. Just waited. And I—maybe stupid, maybe something else—stepped forward. One step. Two. The compass needle never wavered, not once.

I reached its side. Up close, its hide was a fortress—plate after plate of thick, ridged scale. It smelled like smoke and stone, like a mountain that had been awake too long. I looked down at the compass again. It still pointed forward, still pointing to it. I didn't understand, didn't even try to. I just exhaled, let my arms fall to my sides, and leaned forward, resting my head against its side.

Warm, not soft, but solid. It didn't move, didn't tense, just let out a deep, rumbling breath of its own—long and low, like a tired soldier exhaling after a war. And there we stayed, bard and beast, both too stubborn to die.

CP Bank:500cp

Perks earned this chapter: 200cp Magic Compass (Pirates of the Caribbean) [Divination] This magical compass has been imbued with your soul. Not in a bad way, just enough to create a link. The needle always points to whatever you most desire, or the means to get to that which you desire. It can be hard to tell. Anyways, at least you'll always know where your next step is, so long as you know what you want. If you don't know what you really desire, the compass doesn't either.

Milestones: Kaiju battle- Fight the Mutated Tarasque to a draw: 500cp

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Magus explorator

Apr 17, 2025

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The weight of it all caught up to me. The pain the sheer absurdity of what I'd just survived. I slept, right there, my back against the side of a monster that probably could end cities. My head rested just beneath one of its jagged dorsal plates. I didn't remember closing my eyes or letting go. But the world stayed warm, still, and silent.

The sun above never moved. It just hung there—eternal noon—shining through a thin veil of cloud, bathing the scorched earth in gold. For a while, there was no time. Only breath. I woke slowly. My muscles ached, but nothing screamed. My throat was dry, and I could still taste ash. But I was alive.

My hand twitched first. Then my eyes opened. I sat up, blinking against the unchanging sky. The Tarasque still lay beside me, asleep in deep, heavy sleep. Its chest rose and fell like a slow tide. Even its spines barely twitched. I stared at it for a long moment.

A being of ruin. Now curled in the dirt like some ancient dragon finally allowed to rest. The compass still sat in my lap. The needle hadn't moved. Still pointing at it. I slipped it into my jacket and stood. That's when I saw him.

At the edge of the treeline, just where the shadows began. The Green Knight hadn't moved. Not a step. Just stood there—half-wrapped in golden light and green shadow, sword planted in the earth before him, helm reflecting the ever-burning sky. He said nothing. Just watched. Waiting.

I dusted myself off—half-heartedly. There was no point, really. My clothes were scorched, my skin streaked with dried blood and black ash. My hands still trembled faintly, a phantom echo of thunder coiled in my bones. But I stood and I walked. No words. No thoughts, really. The grass crunched beneath my boots, brittle and dry. The air was thick with the smell of burnt trees and exhausted magic. The Tarasque didn't stir behind me. It slept on.

I crossed the threshold where the cracked earth gave way to moss and living root. Where the dead battlefield gave way to forest again. And he was still there. The Green Knight. Tall and still as a statue. Antlered helm watching me through the golden haze. His hands rested on the hilt of his greatsword, tip buried in the dirt. Cloak rippling gently in a wind I couldn't feel.

I stopped a few paces from him. Didn't speak. Didn't bow. Didn't kneel. I just stood there. Silent. He tilted his head. Like he was studying me. Or maybe just letting the weight of it settle. The silence stretched—not awkward. Not tense. Just earned. Then finally, after what felt like forever, his voice rumbled beneath the helm.

"…Well met." His voice was like wind through hollow trees. Deep. Calm. Unmoved. I didn't answer right away. Just stood there, breathing. Watching. He regarded me for a moment longer—still as a statue, sword grounded between us like a border line. Then, slowly, he raised one hand from the hilt. And extended it..

I stepped forward, and took it. His grip was firm. We didn't shake. We just stood there, hands clasped in silence, as the scorched glade stretched behind me and the endless noon sun burned above.

When he finally spoke again, it was quieter—but no less sure. "I will ride." He released my hand. And stepped past me. The trial was done. He didn't look back at the Tarrasque. Neither did I. We walked in silence. The cracked stone and scorched roots of Thornhollow faded behind us, swallowed by the forest. The sun still hung high and heavy in the sky, unmoving, gold and oppressive. Even time itself felt like it was holding its breath.

The Knight strode at my side like a statue set in motion—each step measured, his long cloak dragging broken leaves behind him. He didn't ask questions. Didn't offer praise. Just walked. We passed a dead tree half-folded over a rock, split clean by lightning. After a moment, I spoke.

"…Was I supposed to kill it?"

The Knight didn't stop walking.

"No."

I glanced at him.

"Then what was the point?"

He didn't look at me.

"To stand."

That was all. I let that sit. It wasn't a riddle. It wasn't a metaphor. It was the truth. We walked a little further.

"I didn't win," I said, not sure if it was to him or myself.

"No," he agreed.

"And I didn't lose."

"No."

I rubbed my shoulder, where the lightning still ached.

"So what was it, then?"

He paused, stepping around a tree twisted like a question mark. Then, in that voice that sounded like it had been echoing since before language: "You endured." We said nothing else.

The trees thinned, and light broke through green leaves. I saw them up ahead, waiting. Thalien was pacing. Patrick stood still, leaning on his staff. Cú was tossing a rock in the air, catching it without looking. They turned when they saw me. Stopped cold when they saw who walked beside me.

The Green Knight stepped from the trees like something remembered from an old war ballad. Thalien blinked.

"You're alive."

I nodded.

"It takes a little more to kill little old me."

Patrick gave a slow nod, eyes sharp.

"And your trial?"

I exhaled. Looked back once, toward where Thornhollow lay—smoldering, quiet. Then forward again.

"He's coming with us."

They waited—all of them—watching me like they weren't sure if I was still Lucas or some slightly charred revenant wearing my jacket. I dusted off my hands, flexed my fingers, winced. Then I said it.

"I fought the Tarrasque."

Silence.

Thalien looked confused.

"The what?"

Cú's brow furrowed, tilting his head trying to think if he remember what it was. Patrick, though—Patrick went still. His breath caught. And slowly, reverently, he raised one hand and made the sign of the cross over his chest.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…"

He lowered his hand, eyes locked on mine.

"Saint Martha once calmed the beast with hymns and holy water. Even she did not fight it."

His voice dropped, almost a whisper.

"You faced it."

I nodded once.

"Didn't win. Didn't lose."

Patrick's eyes narrowed slightly. Not judgment. Just awe.

"You stood before the beast. And it let you leave."

I didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Cú let out a low whistle.

"You're mad, you know that?"

Thalien blinked at me.

"That thing still lives?"

"It sleeps," I said quietly. "And it's not mine to wake again."

Patrick gave a small, solemn nod.

"You were tempered. Few ever are."

We walked beneath arching trees, their branches thick with vines and glowing moss, the air damp with enchantment. The path twisted without turning. The sun never moved. Somewhere, a bird sang a song in reverse. No one spoke for a while. Then Thalien, quiet as ever, broke the silence.

"You know none of them picked their names."

I glanced sideways.

"What?"

He looked ahead, his expression unreadable.

"They were given. After they lost the old ones."

Patrick nodded slowly.

"Names carry weight here. Once it's gone, something must fill the space."

Cú scoffed.

"And leave it to the bloody fae to turn that into a joke."

Thalien didn't rise to the jab.

"It's not a joke," he said softly. "It's law. The Faewylds abhor a void. If a name is lost, a new one will be given. And it will fit. Not kindly. Not gently. But truthfully."

I looked at him.

"And you?"

He met my eyes. Calm. Measured.

"I'm fae. I know the rules. I've never given full name away."

Cú flipped the pinecone he'd been tossing and caught it hard.

"Morrigan called me the Dog after I bit a redcap's nose off during a hunt."

"She called me Priest," Patrick said, voice low. "After I failed to convert a spirit and lost it in the process."

Thalien nodded once.

"She doesn't name you out of cruelty. She names you when the realm sees you."

I turned to the Green Knight. He didn't stop walking. Didn't even turn. Just said, quietly:

"…A joust."

One word.

We walked in silence for a moment after that, each step tapping against our own thoughts. None of them had chosen their names. They were claimed. Reflected back at them by a place that never forgets. And for the first time, I felt my own name—Lucas—sit a little heavier in my chest.

The path curved, but not west. Not north. Thalien led now, face tight, eyes narrowed as if trying to read a language written into the trees. The others followed in silence. None of us were eager. Something about walking toward it—knowing we were—made every shadow colder. Every step a little heavier. We passed under a dead archway of thorn-wrapped birch trees. The air changed. Grew thinner. Dryer. Even the Faewylds' ever-present glow dimmed, like someone had turned the brightness down.

Our breath began to fog. Cú wrapped his arms tighter around his chest, muttering something Gaelic under his breath. "Of the four," Thalien said quietly, "she is the most powerful."

"You mean dangerous," I muttered.

"She lost her freedom to Winter," Patrick said behind me. "Danger is redundant."

We stepped past a crumbling statue—frozen in a pose of agony, half-swallowed by frost and time. Its face was smooth. Featureless. Like Winter had taken its identity. And then the forest opened. Ahead of us was a long, sloping plain of black ice, scattered with ruins shaped like bones—towers half-formed, crumbling palaces of frost. And in the far distance? A castle made of dark glass and snow, perched on the edge of what looked like a frozen sea.

"She's there," Thalien said.

"The Sorceress," Patrick added quietly, crossing himself again.

Cú scowled, "I hate this place."

The Green Knight said nothing. Just kept walking forward. And the sky above us dimmed to a dull, endless gray. The castle loomed like a mirage made of black ice and old regrets. Spires like broken spears pierced the sky, etched with twisting runes that shimmered blue beneath the clouds. No banners flew. No warmth bled from the windows. But something watched us from every tower. The doors opened without sound. And we stepped into Winter.

The halls were beautiful. Too beautiful. Stone that looked like polished onyx, impossibly smooth. Chandeliers made of frozen bone and glimmering teeth. Tapestries that shimmered like frozen fire. And everywhere, a heartbeat. Not loud. But there. A pulse beneath the floorboards. A rhythm in the walls. Even the rugs moved slightly—like they were breathing. My hand twitched toward my Bass-Axe more than once. Servants drifted through the halls—pale, beautiful, wrong. Some walked with eerie grace, their eyes glossy and far-off, like puppets waiting for their strings to be pulled. Others were locked in expressions of silent horror—mouths open in screams that never made sound, or panic frozen halfway across their faces.

One passed us with her lips sewn shut. She didn't blink. She didn't breathe. Cú muttered something under his breath. Even he looked uneasy. And at the foot of the grand staircase, waiting like a statue carved from shadow and ice—was her. The high fae. Sidhe of Winter. Elven. Tall. Cruel. Beautiful in the way a frozen lake is beautiful just before it cracks beneath you. Her eyes were the color of storms. Her skin pale as moonlight on a battlefield. Her smile was soft, polite, predatory. She was small barely seem to reach my chest, even with big platform shoes made of Ice. And beside her, kneeling. Head bowed. Chains hidden in silken sleeves. Was Morgan le Fay. The Sorceress. Draped in silver and midnight blue, her long hair falling over one shoulder. Her posture perfect. Her hands folded. And yet—her eyes met mine. Just for a moment. And I saw it. Fury. Not fear. Not pain. Not sorrow. Rage. Banked like coals in a snowdrift.

The high fae gently patted her head—like one might a cat—and turned to greet us.

"Ah," she said, voice like icicles sliding down a blade. "The little sun and his broken knights."

She smiled at Morgan.

"Pet. You didn't tell me they were so ugly."

Morgan didn't flinch. Didn't speak. Didn't move. The sidhe turned her eyes back to us.

"I suppose you're here for something ridiculous."

She stepped closer, heels clicking on the heartbeating floor.

"Well then."

Her smile sharpened.

"Impress me."

I stepped forward. Not fast. Not threatening. Just deliberate. The sidhe's storm-gray eyes narrowed with curiosity—or maybe boredom. It was hard to tell. Everything in this place was frozen just short of real emotion. A smile that never reached the eyes. A blink that lasted too long. Behind her, Morgan la Fey didn't move. But her gaze followed me like a thread pulled tight. The heartbeat in the walls grew louder as I unslung the Bass-Axe from my shoulder. A faint flicker of static danced across the Thunderbird feather. My fingers slid into position. And I played. Not something loud. Not something angry. Just a melody. Simple. Bluesy. A little raw, a little dissonant—like the song itself didn't want to be here either. The sound echoed through the icy chamber, wrapping around the pillars, gliding under the stitched-shut mouths of the servants, drifting up through the black glass balconies like smoke. The sidhe tilted her head. Her smile didn't fade—but it didn't grow either. She was listening. I stepped forward, still playing. Each note a heartbeat of its own. The thunder rolled low under the strings, just enough to vibrate the air.

I let it grow. Layered in a few chords, then twisted the tempo—not wild, not chaotic, but human. Something messy. Something warm. Something Winter couldn't predict. Her eyes narrowed slightly. The floor rippled. One of the tapestries behind her curled, like a spine arching against heat. And still, I played. I let the last note hang. And then, she laughed. The Winter sidhe—the one with a voice like cracked porcelain and eyes like a frozen lake—laughed. It was light. Tinkling. Almost pleasant. But it wasn't. It was the kind of laugh you hear right before a butterfly lands on your arm and you realize it's made of razors.

"Ohhh," she purred, slowly circling the edge of the room like a cat tracing the edge of a mouse's dream. "What a lovely sound. You're charming. I adore charming things." Her dress trailed behind her like frost forming midair, and her fingers drifted lazily across the shoulders of a servant—one frozen in the middle of a silent scream. Glassy-eyed. Still breathing.

"You didn't grovel. You didn't beg. You played. So brave. So unexpected."

Then she turned her gaze on Morgan. Still kneeling. Still silent. But her eyes met mine, and they were burning. The sidhe smiled wider.

"What you my court, hmm?"

Patrick, ever the saint, stepped forward.

"We seek the aid of your… sorceress."

Cú snorted.

"The one kneeling like furniture, yeah. We need her."

The sidhe pouted like a disappointed debutante. She raised a finger to her chin and tapped it.

"You want my pet? My little wild thing? My clever little mage who still dreams of rebellion even after all that correction?"

She twirled. Literally twirled. Her heels clicked with perfect rhythm.

"She's very talented, you know. Even the way she sulks has grace."

Then she was in my face—inches from me, smiling with all her teeth and none of her soul.

"She weeps beautifully."

I didn't say anything. My grip on the Bass-Axe tightened. One more pound and I'd snap the neck. She leaned back, eyes glittering. Then spun, arms wide, and sang the word like it was the climax of a play:

"Fine!"

We blinked.

"You may have her!"

Pause.

"But!"

She snapped, a finger stabbing the air like a wand.

"You must barter."

Her grin curled like a hook. She clapped her hands once—crisp, sharp, like a blade being drawn from velvet.

"Well then," she said, voice lilting. "Let's be civilized, shall we?"

Doors opened without being touched. The hall shifted—not physically, but mood. Like the walls were holding their breath. Like the castle was pleased. She turned on her heel, gliding down a corridor that hadn't been there a moment ago, and we followed. The air grew colder with each step. The floor beneath us seemed to glimmer—not from polish, but frost forming in slow, creeping veins. And then we were in the dining hall. Long. Grand. Wrong. The table ran nearly the length of the room, draped in ice-laced velvet. Platters of steaming meats, shimmering fruits, crystal goblets filled with wine so dark it looked black—it all gleamed under chandeliers made of icicles and candlelight. Too perfect. Too tempting.

Thalien walked close, voice low beside me.

"Don't eat anything. Not a crumb. Not a drop."

"Noted," I muttered.

We took our seats, each one carved like a throne with cushions that felt warm and… breathing. I didn't lean back. And then she stood at the head of the table. And spoke.

"I am Baroness Velowyn, favored daughter of the Winter Court, keeper of the Frosted House, and mistress of these lands."

Her voice filled the space—no shouting, no magic, just authority sharpened to a razor's edge.

She gave us all a smile.

"To be welcomed at my table is an honor. To survive it? That is entirely up to you."

She gestured casually to her side. Morgan remained standing, silent, hands folded, expression blank. Then the Baroness snapped her fingers. A young man crawled forward on hands and knees. Glass collar around his throat. Bare-chested. Eyes hollow. He held a bowl of glistening fruit. Without a word, he raised it to her. She picked a peach slice between her fingers, then paused… and smiled.

"No. You do it."

The pet blinked once, then shakily scooped a piece from the bowl and fed it to her—slow, ritualistic, like it meant something. Like everything here did. She chewed delicately. Then whispered something I couldn't hear. The boy's eyes twitched. Just for a second. Then he crawled backward, disappearing beneath the table. The Baroness turned back to us, dabbing her lips with a napkin that looked a little too red on one corner.

"Now then," she said brightly. "You've come for my little sorceress, haven't you?"

She trailed one cold fingertip down Morgan's arm.

"I suppose we can discuss terms…"

The Baroness leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on the table like she was settling in for a friendly little chat.

"A fair trade," she said, voice purring with honeyed frost. "You want my pet."

She gave Morgan a fond little pat on the head.

"I want your name."

The words dropped like icicles shattering on stone. I didn't move. Didn't blink.

"My name," I said, "is off the table."

She paused mid-sip. Not insulted—curious. Like a child wondering why her toy isn't doing what she wants. Then came the smile. The real one. Thin and wide and utterly false.

"Very well," she said. "Then let's try something simpler. A dream. One you've already forgotten."

It sounded harmless. Hell, poetic. One little dream, already lost to the fog of sleep. What's that worth? But I knew better. A forgotten dream wasn't nothing—it was a loose thread. Pull it, and maybe it unravels a lot more. Memories. Context. Continuity. Maybe I'd start forgetting other things. A face. A date. The names of streets I used to live on. And after enough of those? The name in my mouth wouldn't even feel like mine anymore.

"No."

She pouted.

"So stingy."

She stood, pacing around the table like it was a stage and we were just props.

"Fine. Then your second life."

My chest tightened. She didn't mean reincarnation. Not the hopeful kind. This was service. After death. After I've burned out and the gods have pulled up their chairs to argue over my bones—she wanted what was left. The spirit. The echo. The part of me still wandering, still unfinished. She wanted me when I was too tired to say no.

"No."

Her eyes glinted, like a coin flipped in moonlight.

"Such a waste."

Then, casual as anything:

"Your favorite food, then."

I froze. It sounded dumb. Cheap, even. But I knew that one. Faerie contracts worked like curses. She wouldn't take the food itself. Just the sensation of it. The joy. The grounding. Every meal after that would taste a little less. I'd always feel hungry. Nothing would be right again.

"No."

She didn't bother to look disappointed. Instead:

"Your mother's voice. The one you remember best."

I felt it hit my stomach. Cold and immediate. Because I didn't remember her voice. I'd tried before. In dreams. In moments too quiet, that felt a little sad to be honest.

"Still no."

The Baroness turned to her wineglass and traced the rim, thoughtful. She let out a pleased hum, twirling one hand lazily in the air.

"We're making such progress."

Then the room quieted—all sound draining like someone had opened a hole in the air. And she looked up, all sweetness again.

"Well then," she said, as if the last ten minutes had been a polite game of cards. "Shall we begin the real bargaining?"

And I had the sinking feeling we'd only just gotten to the part that would cost me something I couldn't even name. I leaned back just a little, enough to feel the Bass-Axe press against my spine. Solid. Grounding. She was circling again, one finger trailing along the back of chairs like she was selecting a prize pig at auction. Alright. My turn.

"How about a scream I never let out?"

She paused mid-step. Just a twitch. A curious glance over her shoulder.

"From when?"

"Take your pick. Any one I buried."

She considered.

"Tempting," she said at last, "but I already collect those. They sour quickly."

I nodded once. Expected that.

"How about one of the lies I believed growing up?"

Her smile twisted.

"Oh, darling, everyone believes they're special."

"Wasn't that one," I muttered.

"Still no."

I offered the taste of the first snowfall I ever saw. She said snow only mattered when it crushed a village. I offered the shadow I cast during a moment of pride. She said shadows only matter when they're crawling.

"You're stalling," she cooed.

"No," I said. "I'm playing."

Her teeth showed.

"Then let me take my turn."

She stepped close again. Too close. I could smell crushed violets and rot under the ice.

"I'll take the first sound you make when you wake from your worst nightmare," she whispered. "That little gasp, the twist in your throat—the moment you remember you're not safe."

"No."

She clicked her tongue.

"Spoilsport."

She circled back around her chair, plucking a bit of frost from the tablecloth.

"Very well. Your warmth. Not all of it. Just the kind that seeps from your bones when you're finally, finally content. The warmth of rest. Of safety. I want that."

I blinked. That was clever. .

"No."

"Of course not."

I leaned forward.

"Then how about my last tear of joy?"

She paused. And actually considered it. Then shook her head, smiling.

"Would've taken that a century ago. Not anymore. You're not the type."

Fair enough. I reached, tested one more.

"How about my first heartbreak?"

She arched a brow.

"The one where I thought I'd die," I clarified. "Didn't. Obviously. But it felt like it."

"Mmm…"

She tilted her head. Then waved it off.

"I'd rather have the one that breaks you for real."

I almost flinched. Almost. She knew it. We kept going. She asked for the sound of my bones breaking when I'm finally outmatched. I offered my laugh, the next time it's real. She scoffed and countered with my voice, during my last goodbye to someone I love.

"No," I said again, and now even my voice was starting to wear. Not from fatigue. From pressure. This was the longest anyone had probably resisted her. And she was loving every second. Her eyes glittered like frost-stained gems.

"Such a difficult boy," she said.

"Only to people who want pieces of me."

The Baroness stilled. No more pacing. No more dancing through words. She sat down slowly in her throne, folding her hands over her lap, and the room quieted with her. Even the ice seemed to lean in.

"You've made this fun," she said, almost fondly. "And that's rare. Most mortals scream by now. You? You bargain like someone who knows what he has left to lose."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

"My price," she said, "is simple."

The air pulled tighter.

"First," she said, lifting one pale hand, "I ask for a hollow spirals that catch the breath of the world. The doors that let in thunder, prophecy, and song. When I wish it, they shall open only to me."

I said nothing. I just listened. She raised her second hand, fingertips gleaming with frost.

"Then, I ask for the ember that burns in the quiet chambers. That which beats wild beneath defiance. The flame that stirs when your name is called, when fear rises, and you choose to stand."

And then the last.

"Lastly... I ask for the first leaf you'll ever grow. The fruit of your branch, yet unripe. The echo of you yet to be sung. When the time comes, and your line begins... I shall have a say in where it walks."

Her hands fell back to her sides.

"That is the toll. For her."

"Deal, no takesy backsies." I said with a smirk.

She tilted her chin toward Morgan—who didn't flinch. Who didn't move. But who looked at me with an intensity that bordered on warning. Because she knew what those riddles meant. So did I. She meant to speak to me forever. She meant to touch my will, when I was most vulnerable. And she meant to claim my bloodline, to use it as leash and threat, if I ever refused her again. She stood up to do her magic, to make me pay the price, but I was faster. So I stood. And I reached up with one of my claws to the air—and I ripped my ear off.

It came off clean. Hot blood spilled down my neck. The room went silent, even the frost pulling back in a shudder. I stepped forward and dropped the ear onto her plate. Wet. Final. She tilted her head, confused. But I was already moving. One deep breath—then claws through ribs. My heart screamed. So did I. But I didn't stop. I ripped out my heart, still pulsing, still twitching with defiance. Set it beside the ear. The Baroness stared. First at the plate. Then at my chest—already healing. Her lips parted.

"You…"

"I gave you what you asked," I said, voice low. "The gate. The flame. The leaf."

"You… you misunderstood—"

"No," I snapped. "You weren't specific."

A beat of silence. Then she smiled. Not cold. Not mocking. Genuinely delighted.

"Well," she said in the middle of giggles. "It feels refreshing to be on the other side."

I staggered once, barely staying on my feet. But I didn't give her the satisfaction of falling. I turned away, blood soaking her chair. And the Lady of Winter—she just laughed. The Baroness's laughter trailed off like a frost-kissed wind through broken glass. She wiped delicately at the corner of her mouth, as if the absurdity hadn't delighted her far more than it should have. Then her eyes sharpened again, fixing on me.

"One remains," she said, voice smooth and low. "The last promise. The final toll."

The firstborn. That which blooms from your bloodline. I'll have it—when the time comes. Not now. But soon enough. Her smile curved like a sickle blade. Morgan tensed beside her. I felt her flinch without looking. And I just… tilted my head. Met her gaze. Then grinned. All teeth. Jagged, gleaming, too many for a normal mouth. My wolf-blood smile. The kind that suggested I'd bitten things that screamed.

"You said 'child,'" I said slowly, voice like gravel stirred with lightning. I leaned forward. "But you never specified the mother."

The grin widened.

"Could be anyone."

The words hung in the air like fog in a war zone. The Baroness blinked. Once. Then twice. Then tilted her head with a startled half-laugh.

"Oh."

Morgan buried her face in her hands. Patrick turned away and whispered, "You are not right in the soul, boy." Thalien muttered something that sounded like "Of course he said that." The Baroness, after a beat, just leaned back and gave me a look halfway between scandalized and genuinely impressed.

"You're not a man," she said, smile curling again. "You're a problem."

"And yet," I said, wiping blood from my collar, "you said yes."

She laughed again, softer this time, like she was no longer sure who was winning. Then she waved her hand. And Morgan's chains fell like rusted links to the floor. No one moved. The table remained set, full of untouched food that shimmered faintly with enchantment, though now it felt more like a stage than a feast. The Baroness hadn't dismissed us, and in the Faewylds, you didn't leave until the host released you.

She rose from her throne with all the deliberate elegance of a snowfall on stone—measured, weightless, and cold. Her gown pooled around her like living ink, and when she turned, her eyes found mine instantly, unwavering and curious in that deeply unsettling way only the truly powerful manage. A single pale hand lifted. Her fingers curled, not in command, but in invitation. She didn't speak loudly, didn't need to.

"Come," she said, her voice smooth as a blade drawn through silk. "To the victor go the spoils."

The words echoed with suggestion, layered and deliberate. There was no humor in her tone, but neither was there cruelty—only the quiet certainty of someone who expected to be obeyed. I didn't move at first. My fingers still twitched from the healing, my skin sticky with drying blood, my ribs tight beneath the shirt I'd ruined. But her eyes never left me. Neither did the silence. Morgan shifted beside me, her hands clenched in her lap. She didn't speak, but something passed behind her eyes—confusion, maybe, or a warning unspoken. Patrick muttered something low in Gaelic, just beneath his breath, while Cú stared dead ahead, the muscle in his jaw taut. Even Thalien, usually composed, looked distinctly uncomfortable, posture locked like he was trying to decide whether to intervene or let the madness play out.

The Baroness turned away with perfect poise, her expression unreadable. The tall doors at the far end of the chamber—a pair of blackened wood slabs banded with cold iron—opened without a sound. They hadn't been there moments before. She stepped through them, her voice drifting behind her like perfume on frozen air.

"You've paid your price," she murmured. "Come see what Winter offers."

She didn't look back. The doors remained open, and the corridor beyond flickered with a light that was not fire, nor moon. No one spoke as I stood, slow and steady. I didn't offer an explanation, or even a look to the others. Just turned, bones aching under skin that had only just reknit, and walked after her.

without looking back she flickers her hand in the air, my skin was no longer dirty with dirt and blood, and my clothes repaired themselves out of thin air.

The doors opened with a low hiss of enchanted air, spilling a haze of perfume and heat into the cold corridor beyond. I stepped out, still fastening the last button of my shirt—which was mostly theoretical at this point—and trying not to limp. My crocs squelched faintly against the rug, still damp from... well. Things.

"God... I hate this place even more" I said to myself.

The others were exactly where I left them.

Cú tilted his head, eyes narrowing in amusement. "You look like you lost a drinking contest with a hurricane."

Thalien just nodded once, like that was about what he expected.

Morgan stood beside them, now free of chains but still draped in the thin silks the Baroness had put her in—more performance than clothing, the kind of thing designed to humiliate without saying a word. Her arms were crossed, her hair wild, her expression unreadable. But she was standing tall.

Saint Patrick met my eyes, then let out the long, slow sigh of a man forcibly reminded that he was surrounded by sinners on every side.

"That's five Hail Marys," he muttered. "And an act of contrition. Minimum."

"Not even gonna ask for a confession?" I said, stretching, my spine popping in several deeply concerning ways.

"That was the confession."

"I told you I wasn't a church guy." then turned to Morgan. "You good?"

"I'll be better when I'm not dressed like a ceremonial offering," she said evenly, plucking at the thin fabric with barely concealed distaste.

"Fair," I said. "Let's get you something that doesn't scream 'personal property of a Winter noble.' Maybe something with sleeves."

Cú grunted. "And a knife loop."

"I like the way you think," Morgan replied.

Thalien glanced toward the edge of the court's territory. "So. That's it? We have the witch?"

Morgan smirked faintly. "You have nothing. I'm here because I chose not to burn that entire castle to the ground."

"I think she's in," I translated.

The doors behind us closed on their own, locking the Baroness back into her icy den of velvet and riddles. I didn't look back.

Saint Patrick crossed himself again, muttering about corruption and witchcraft under his breath.

We were leaving Winter behind. The trees shifted as we crossed into the lands of Autumn—leaves the color of rust and flame, the air heavy with the scent of cider, blood, and endings. The path beneath our feet was winding, the kind of path that felt like it remembered every boot and hoof that had crossed it in anger.

Then the light changed. I looked up. Two black suns hung in the sky above the fading treetops, eclipses caught mid-breath. Their halos shimmered gold and red and wrong. The forest quieted. Even Sif paused, ears flat.

The first sun pulsed once. And something dropped into my hands.

It was old. Heavy. Smelled like salt and lightning. A thick leather sack, cinched tight with cords, stamped with symbols that made my eyes blur just looking at them. It felt like it was breathing. The bag twitched once in my grip, like it remembered being opened before.

Somehow, I knew what it was. This wasn't just any artifact. This was the bag. Aeolus's wind bag. The same cursed gift Odysseus had—sealed with every wind except the one he needed, lost to foolish hands before it could deliver him home.

It still held those winds. I could feel them inside—coiled, snarling, eternal. Each one ready to tear the skin off mountains if I so much as loosened the cords too far. A storm in a sack.

I didn't say a word. Just cinched it tighter and slipped it into my gear with the kind of caution usually reserved for explosive weapons.

Then the second sun flared. Not light—something deeper. Something etched. It didn't give me an item. It changed something in me.

Suddenly, I knew what I could do. The knowledge slipped in with frightening ease, like it had always been there, just waiting for permission. My hands, my claws, my magic—none of it would be denied again. Not by magic hide, immortal scale, or divine cheat code.

If something thought it couldn't be hurt? Now it could. Maybe not easily. Maybe not cleanly. But I could get through.

Nemean Lions. Regenerating horrors. Unkillable beasts. They'd feel pain. They'd bleed. And given enough time—I could win.

I flexed my fingers once, claws sliding out just a little. The world didn't look different, but I felt taller. Sharper.

Behind me, Saint Patrick let out a breath like he'd just seen something unholy walk out of Eden.

"You're glowing," Morgan muttered.

"That's my winning personality," I said, adjusting the strap of my Bass.

Ahead, the forest waited—copper-leafed, half-shadowed, and full of death.

We made camp just outside the reach of the Autumn Court's dominion—close enough to see its shadow stretch across the trees, far enough that the air didn't yet taste like blood and gold. Even here, the atmosphere felt wrong. Not hostile. Not yet. But sharp around the edges, like the woods had been taught to whisper only half-truths and wait to see who listened.

From the ridge, we had a perfect view of the capital. Thornhall. The seat of Autumn's power. It rose like a monument to decay—beautiful, immense, and cruel. Towers of blackened iron twisted with crimson stone climbed high into the amber sky, half-covered in ivy that moved when you weren't looking. Spires shaped like antlers pierced the clouds, crowned with stained glass that shimmered in hues no mortal had names for. Massive bridges arched between the towers like spider silk spun from rust.

The whole castle pulsed with a strange rhythm, like something alive had been grafted into its bones. The trees around it were twisted things—leafless, bark like old bone, branches curved into shapes that resembled reaching hands.

And all around it, the court arrived. Carriages pulled by dream-blooded elk drifted down roads of red stone, their wheels never quite touching the ground. Flying beasts soared overhead—winged serpents and crystal-eyed owls, faerie dragons and worse. Even from here, you could feel the presence of power. The Seasonal Courts didn't send messengers. They sent monarchs.

I watched it all with one hand on my Bass, the other idly thumbing the tightly-cinched wind bag hanging from my belt. The Black Suns had given me gifts. But gifts don't make you immortal.

"You weren't kidding," Morgan said softly from beside me. She was dressed differently now—no more silken chains or see-through mockery. She wore leathers, stitched with runes. A cloak of green and grey draped across her shoulders, hood half-pulled. Her hair still wild, her magic sharp again.

"It's not the time to joke, need to save the world or something," I said.

She snorted faintly. "So. What exactly are we doing?"

The fire crackled. I looked at the others. Cú was sharpening his spear. Patrick sat cross-legged, mumbling scripture under his breath. Thalien looked like he hadn't blinked in ten minutes, staring toward Thornhall like he could will it to crumble from sheer distaste.

"Well," I said, "the short version is: the new Queen of Autumn isn't supposed to be Queen. She stole something that doesn't belong to her. A mind-bending artifact, something that lets her control fae. She used it on Aurelina—the last Queen—and probably plans to use it on everyone else once the coronation's done."

"And by 'everyone else,'" Thalien said without looking away from the city, "we mean the rest of the Court monarchs. Maybe even Oberon."

Morgan went still.

"That Oberon?" she asked.

"The King of All Fae himself," I said. "If he gets mind-locked, it's over. All the courts fall under her leash."

Morgan blinked once. "And who thought this was a good plan?"

"The Morrigan," I said, pointing my thumb back behind us. "She's the one who told me to freed you."

Morgan gave a slow, sharp exhale. "Of course she is."

I leaned back against a tree, watching another gilded carriage drift toward the castle.

"We're supposed to stop the coronation.," I added. "The enchantment can still be broken. Maybe. If we can trigger enough emotion—shock, grief, rage—something real. It'll break the hold. Wake the others up... I think I got a plan going, but it might be a bit dumb"

Morgan stared at me. "... You think you got a plan? we doing this on a hunch?"

"Welcome to the team."

The fire popped. Dignitaries soared overhead. The castle in the distance glowed with evening light, even though no sun had moved in hours.

CP Bank:200cp

Perks earned this chapter: 400cp Strength to Victory (Disney's Hercules) [Destruction] It would be nice if you were always able to punch your way through monsters, wouldn't it? Good thing you can now. Well, sort of. You have a strange ability, Jumper. Things that should be resistant or even immune to your abilities ... aren't. You can cut the hide of the Nemean Lion, and you can kill a hydra through decapitation. This perk massively downgrades the immunities or resistances possessed by any beings you pit yourself against, to the extent that absolute immunities are broken down to very high resistances instead and resistances melt like butter to a hot knife.

This doesn't mean you can kill the aforementioned lion with a paper cut, though. It will still require a lot of work, but it can be done, and similarly while the Hydra does still regenerates, it does so far, far slower than it normally should.

100cp Wind Bag (Greek Mythology) [Making] A tightly closed leather bag that contains an endless supply of wind. When opened the bag will release the winds inside, the strength of the wind released depends on how wide you open the bag's "mouth".

Milestones: Like father Like son: Good job, you just abandoned your child, at least this one is royalty: 200cp

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The fire crackled in the center of the camp, but the real heat came from the arguing.

"I'm just saying," Cú Chulainn growled, pacing in uneven loops like a caged beast, "Ireland had spine before you showed up. Warriors. Champions. You took all that and wrapped it in prayer beads and shame."

Saint Patrick, seated ramrod straight on a fallen log, didn't flinch. "I gave Ireland structure. Order. Charity. A sense of higher purpose."

"You gave it taxes and priests who wouldn't know a good duel if it bit them!" Cú snarled.

"I gave them hope."

"You gave them celibacy, you cassocked eunuch!" Cú barked.

Patrick stood abruptly, eyes flashing with more divine annoyance than holiness. "And yet you drank blood like it was breakfast and called it bravery. I turned raiders into citizens."

"You turned kings into monks!"

"I saved souls."

"You neutered a nation!"

"You—"

"Okay," I said, holding up a hand. "If someone doesn't throw a punch in the next five minutes, I swear I'm making popcorn."

Not that I had popcorn. But if a bag of wind and anti-immunity mojo could fall out of the sky, maybe the Black Suns were handing out snacks next.

The saint and the hound glared at each other like they'd come to blows over a flag and a bar tab.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the fire, another storm was brewing.

"You call him just?" Morgan's voice rose like smoke. She stood with her arms crossed, glaring daggers at the Green Knight, who hadn't moved from his seat but radiated calm disapproval.

"Arthur was a good man," the knight said simply, as if that were that.

Morgan scoffed. "He was a figurehead. A puppet for the noble class who couldn't stomach the idea of a peasant uprising."

"He brought peace to the isles."

"He brought bureaucracy to murder. I watched him sign off on prima nocta, tax codes that starved towns, and decrees that let his knights steal from farmers as 'military collection.'"

The Green Knight slowly looked up from his blade. "He outlawed blood feuds. Forged unity where there was only chaos."

"He raised castles from corpses and called it order." She sneered. "Do you know what he did to my sisters? To Avalon?"

"I know you abandoned court," he replied evenly. "And threw your lot in with vipers."

"Because I'd seen the lion up close. Your 'noble king' was too busy polishing his image to notice his kingdom was rotting from the inside out."

"You twist truth into bitterness."

"And you whitewash history with poetry and prayer."

Across the fire, Cú grunted. "At least your king didn't outlaw cattle raids."

Patrick spun around. "Because your people were still drawing in caves!"

"I hope the snakes I banished come back and chew your ankles off!" He continued.

Sif rolled over with a groan and covered her ears with one paw. Thalien was meditating, eyes closed, fingers laced together like he was trying to phase into a more peaceful dimension.

I, meanwhile, sat back on my pack and just watched.

This was theater. High-stakes, myth-soaked, chaos-laced theater. Legendary warriors and mages arguing like tired roommates during finals week.

Above it all, the Bladed Tree loomed on the horizon.

The Autumn Court's capital glowed faintly under the starlight—its tower-branches spread like a clawed hand over the city, its highest chamber alight with preparations for a coronation built on lies. Carriages still trickled in along glittering roads. Flying beasts circled like slow vultures. The very roots of the castle twisted into the bedrock below, pulsing faintly with magic.

The fire had burned low. The others had quieted, lost to sleep or reflection or whatever passes for rest before you storm a throne.

I didn't expect Morgan to sit beside me. Not gently, not quietly like that. No rustle of magic, no sharp retort. Just the sound of her cloak brushing the grass.

She didn't speak at first. Just looked ahead, eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the Bladed Tree, where torchlight flickered in its bone-white branches like lanterns hung in a gallows, even if it's eternally noon.

"I came here after Camelot fell."

Her voice wasn't sharp this time. It was soft, almost frail under the wind. Like it hadn't been used for that kind of truth in a long while.

"Everything burned after Arthur died. The court, the round table, the stories. People were screaming for order, for vengeance, for a hundred different kings. And me? They blamed."

She paused, clasping her hands in her lap, thumb nervously brushing the back of her knuckles.

"They blamed me for everything. For the betrayal. For the blood. For not dying with the rest."

A bitter breath slipped past her lips. "I thought... maybe if I came here, the Faewylds could offer me something else. A new path. A better one. I was still young enough to hope."

Her voice dropped further.

"I left behind my son."

That quiet admission knocked the air out of my chest. She didn't say the name, but it didn't matter. There was only one son a woman like her would speak of in that tone.

"Mordred. I don't even know what became of him. Whether he died at Camlann, or somewhere after... I fled."

She looked down at her hands. Pale. Trembling. Barely fingers at all in the light—they could've been shadows.

"The Baroness of Winter found me wandering the border. She didn't threaten me. Not at first. She taught. She listened. She was... kind, even."

Morgan gave a small, aching laugh.

"She became a friend. Then a patron. Then something more. I thought we were equals."

I felt the quiet twist in my gut before she said the next part.

"I didn't notice when I stopped choosing. When I stopped being allowed to say no. When her voice stopped sounding like advice and started sounding like law."

She swallowed, hard.

"I gave her my name because I thought it meant trust. She took it like a title deed."

A long silence stretched between us.

The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of woodsmoke and wet leaves. From the edge of the hill, I could still see the Bladed Tree—looming, waiting.

"You miss him," I said.

She nodded, once.

"Every day."

I reached into my pocket and handed her one of the cider apples I'd swiped back near Spring's border. She took it without a word, staring at it like it might vanish.

"I know I've said it already," I murmured. "But I'm sorry."

She looked at me, tired but clear-eyed.

"You freed me. That's more than most would dare."

I shook my head. "I didn't do it alone."

She smirked faintly. "You're too humble for someone who plays a vihuela on the battlefield, you know you did."

I smiled.

But I could still feel the weight of her sadness hanging in the air between us.

She leaned against me, slow, her head resting lightly on my shoulder. And in that quiet—beneath the sun, beside the embers we sat.

It was still noon. It had always been noon. The sun hadn't moved an inch since we entered the Faewylds, its golden light filtering through the canopy like stained glass made of honey and lies. There were no shadows long enough to measure time here—just an endless glow, and the pressure of fate slowly winding toward detonation.

Saint Patrick knelt near a gnarled tree, hands clasped tight in prayer. Latin spilled from his lips in a steady rhythm, low and strong like the toll of a cathedral bell. I understood maybe half of it—just enough to get the gist: protection, clarity, deliverance from evil. Also, at one point, a particularly pointed "libera nos a paganis." That one landed.

Morgan crouched beside her scrying bowl—still steaming from the images she'd conjured earlier—her eyes locked in the direction of Thornhall's looming silhouette. The Bladed Tree rose like a crown of bone over the city, its highest tower glowing faintly as dignitaries continued to arrive: floating palanquins of crystal, chariots drawn by armored deer, flying whales covered in tapestries.

The guests of the Season Courts had gathered.

"It's not the queen we need to strike first," she said quietly, staring at the mist curling off the water. "It's the audience."

I glanced sideways at her. "What do you mean?"

She looked at my Bass. Her expression shifted—cunning, hungry, hopeful. "Your music. It's unlike anything they've ever heard. Jarring. Loud."

I raised a brow. "You want to replace the house band?"

She smiled, wicked and tired. "We don't just need violence. We need emotion. we thin the horde of murderous fae by breaking her control, the monarchs should follow."

"And if that doesn't work?"

Cú cracked his knuckles. "Then we put her in the ground."

Morgan nodded, brushing mist from her fingers. "But first... you play."

She laid out the plan in clear, brutal detail.

I was the key.

I'd fly into the upper tower using the Bag of Wind, triggering the wards, but Morgan would fix that, and open a Dimensional Door from inside. The spell would only carry one or two at a time, so we'd have to do it in waves. two trips, maybe three.

I'd sneak in first, find a good staging point, and open the way.

Morgan would conceal the others with glamours and fog, each group slipping in behind me while I returned to ferry the next. Once everyone was inside and hidden, we'd find the castle musicians—probably somewhere near the inner hall. Knock them out. Take their place.

Then, once the ceremony began...

I'd play.

The others would guard the stage—Cú, Patrick, and the Knight. If anything tried to silence me before the song did its work, they'd hold the line.

"Simple," I muttered.

Thalien raised an eyebrow. "Reckless."

Morgan's grin widened. "Beautiful."

I strummed a low chord, feeling the strings hum under my fingers.

"No pressure," I said. "Just revolution by way of rock and roll."

Saint Patrick crossed himself again.

Cú tightened his spear strap.

The Green Knight pulled a sharpened antler charm from a pouch and tucked it into his armor.

And Morgan stood beside me, already conjuring the first layer of magic over our forms, her voice a whisper of spells from old England.

The wind shifted, unnatural and warm, curling through the trees like it knew something was coming.

I stood at the edge of the ridge, looking out toward Thornhall, the Bladed Tree rising behind it like a crown made for a tyrant. The sun still hung overhead, locked in its eternal noonday glow, gleaming off every golden arch and tower spire like it was blessing the coronation.

Which was a load of crap.

I adjusted the Wind Bag at my belt. Thick leather, pulsing faintly with power, as if the storms inside were sleeping just under the surface—dreaming of open sky.

Thalien stepped up beside me, vines coiling from his fingers with the practiced ease of someone who'd woven spells longer than I'd been alive. He murmured something in a language I didn't understand—Fae, fluid and strange—and the vines twisted themselves around the bag's mouth and buckle, securing it to my belt like a living carabiner.

"It'll hold," he said, voice low. "Just don't open it all the way unless you want to repaint the skyline."

"Noted," I muttered.

He met my eyes for a beat. "This is madness."

"Yeah," I said, tightening the strap across my shoulder where the Bass waited, humming like it already knew the solo coming. "But it's our madness."

Morgan approached behind me, brushing a hand across my back briefly. "Aim for the northern wing," she said. "There's a glass arch just above the musicians' hall. That's your entry."

"And what if someone sees me?"

"Make it a performance," she said. "It's what you're good at."

Saint Patrick gave me a final, solemn nod, two fingers raised in a blessing. "Fly swift. Play true. And for the love of the Lord, keep your trousers on."

Cú snorted.

I took a breath. Slid my fingers around the lip of the bag. And opened it.

Just a little.

The wind screamed.

Not loud, not angry—but hungry. A blast of compressed air surged beneath me, kicking up leaves, shaking branches, scattering embers from the dying fire. My feet left the ground almost immediately.

The vines held.

The wind rose.

And then—

I was airborne.

Launched like a rocket through the amber skies of the Faewylds, wind rushing past my ears, cloak snapping behind me like a battle flag. The treetops fell away, the city of Thornhall stretched below like a map inked in gold, and the Bladed Tree loomed ahead, its twisted tower reaching for me like it expected me.

The bag hissed with every twitch of my hand, guiding me higher.

I was flying.

Rocketing through the amber sky, cloak whipping behind me, the wind surging from the bag like a controlled scream. It didn't push me—it launched me, a screaming missile with a Bass in one hand and a string looped around my pinkie, tied tight to the mouth of the wind itself.

The Bladed Tree loomed ahead.

But beneath me…

Gods.

The city of Thornhall unfolded like a dream half-remembered and painted in firelight. Curved bridges arched between bronze towers wrapped in ivy and red glass. Waterways spiraled like veins through tree roots so thick they formed streets, with golden walkways laced around them like ribbon on a crown. The buildings shimmered with enchantments—some shaped like falling leaves frozen mid-descent, others carved from living wood and stone that breathed.

It was beautiful. Unforgivably beautiful.

The kind of place that stole your breath while it slid a dagger between your ribs.

I caught a glimpse of the royal promenade, guests in masks drifting in carriages pulled by winged beasts, crystalline antlers and flame-veiled steeds, their laughter barely audible over the rush of wind and magic screaming in my ears.

I could see the stage hall, a wide domed wing beneath the highest tower—its glass roof sparkling like frozen sap. I angled toward it, tensing my fingers on the neck of the Bass, letting the runes hum against my palm.

Almost there.

The sound of the wind shifted.

Time to fall.

I gave the string on my pinkie a sharp tug.

The bag slammed shut, like a dying breath sealed in leather.

The wind stopped.

Gravity didn't.

I began to drop.

Fast.

I didn't hesitate. Fingers slid across strings in one swift, practiced motion.

"Feather Fall."

The magic caught like a parachute of music—slowing me, catching me on invisible notes, letting me drift like a falling ember.

I dropped gently toward the glass of the musicians' hall, boots touching down with barely a sound.

I was in.

Alone.

And the plan had begun.

My boots touched down on an open balcony with barely a whisper.

The glass beneath my feet gleamed like crystallized maple syrup, edged in bronze filigree shaped like twisting vines and oak leaves mid-fall. The air was thick with incense and fading harp music. Somewhere inside the hall, laughter echoed—distant, but too close for comfort.

I crouched low, pulling the bag tight to my hip and slipping the Bass back over my shoulder. The balcony curved around the edge of the musicians' hall, half-sheltered by carved stone branches that twisted like petrified antlers. The place was almost too quiet.

Empty.

I edged toward the stained-glass doors leading into the hall.

Inside, the lights were low—golden and flickering like candlelight filtered through amber. Velvet curtains, half-drawn. Ornate instruments on stands. A table with empty goblets. No musicians.

No guards, either.

I slid one door open—slow, careful, quiet.

Inside, I saw no one. Just a wide, semi-circular chamber with enough acoustics to make a whisper sound like a war drum. The stage itself was bare, but the setup was real. Sheet music, a small wine tray, a harp with strings still humming.

I moved quick.

First to the doors—big double things carved from blackwood, set with thorn motifs that made my skin itch just looking at them. I spotted the latch, twisted it, and then dropped a small bracing bar across the interior handles.

Not enough to stop a determined brute. But enough to delay. Enough to give us time.

Then I turned, breath slow, ears tuned to every creak and whisper the palace gave me.

The room was silent.

The others could come.

I stepped back toward the balcony, pulled the Bass from my shoulder, and played a few notes—low, pulsing, just enough to cast the spell again.

Dimensional Door.

The rip in space shimmered just off the floor, humming with my magic and Morgan's subtle threadwork. Just wide enough.

The gate opened.

As I finished anchoring the last sigil of the Dimensional Door, the air shifted again.

I didn't see them—but I felt them.

The Black Suns.

Two hung high above Thornhall, watching like twin gods playing dice with reality. One of them flared—brief and blinding—and then, without ceremony, something popped into existence right above me.

It landed square on my head with a fwump.

I flinched, half-expecting a cursed crown or a screaming skull.

But it was a hat.

A wide-brimmed, crooked, deep-purple thing with silver stitching that shimmered faintly when it caught the light. There was a playing card wedged into the band, blank on one side and pulsing faintly on the other. The brim curled upward slightly at the ends, and the crown slouched like it'd been worn by a lunatic or a legend. Or both.

I adjusted it slowly, glancing into the reflection off a polished cymbal nearby.

"Okay," I muttered. "I'm not even mad. This goes hard."

The look—leather and claws, bass on my back, wolf at my side, and now this unhinged carnival headpiece worked. Like a glam rock warlock crossed with a Fae nightmare. I just needed more buckles.

Thalien stepped through the Dimensional Door first, graceful and quiet as ever. He took one look at the hat, blinked once, then offered a tiny nod. "Strange. But fitting."

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

Next came Cú, rolling his neck like he was preparing to chew glass and grin through it. "You get that from one of your gods?" he asked.

"Something like that," I muttered.

Saint Patrick emerged next, blinking in the amber light of the chamber. His hand moved instinctively in the shape of the cross when he saw the tower's carvings—old oaths and thorny spirals etched into the beams.

"I don't like this place," he said, quiet.

"That makes two of us," said the Green Knight, stepping through.

He towered above us in that ever-present armor, every inch of him silent moss and silver bark, his blade sheathed across his back like a hanging judgment. He gave the room one long look, then nodded once. No words. Just presence.

Morgan was the last to step through, her cloak trailing mist, her expression already locked on the hallway beyond.

She looked at me. Then the hat. Then the Bass.

Then she smirked. "You look like a riot waiting to happen."

I tipped the brim. "Planning on it."

We huddled at the edge of the musician's chamber. Behind us, the portal flickered once and snapped shut like a trap sealing. In front of us: the rest of the castle. Gold-veined halls, arching doorways lined with twisting runes, corridors pulsing with enchanted heat and candlelight.

No one had come in yet.

No one knew we were here.

"Alright," I whispered. "Plan time."

Thalien straightened his shoulders, adjusting his cloak with the subtle arrogance of someone born to command. His voice dropped into a calm, imperious lilt.

"I'll pose as our patron. A minor court noble with his new performance ensemble. That will let us move through the halls and toward the central stage without suspicion."

"Perfect," Morgan said. "The rest of us? Play the part. Quiet. Formal. No sudden clawing unless someone earns it."

Cú grinned like someone who really hoped they earned it.

Patrick just exhaled and started whispering another Latin prayer under his breath.

The Green Knight gave a single, grave nod.

And me?

I plucked a low, warm note from the Bass and let it hang in the air like a promise.

"Let's go find the real band," I said. "Before the curtain rises."

The inside of the Bladed Tree didn't follow any sane geometry.

I stepped through the corridor and immediately lost track of what direction was "up."

Staircases spiraled into themselves like knots in the air. Balconies overlooked courtyards that were somehow above them. Hallways ran in impossible loops, one moment a wide-open marble promenade, the next a spiraling corridor of oak and iron that doubled back through itself without ever curving.

The walls pulsed faintly with golden veins—slow and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of something ancient buried deep in the wood.

I caught glimpses of movement through archways: nobles in masks gliding past, attendants floating on air currents that weren't there, one whole hallway covered in autumn leaves that never touched the ground. Everything was drenched in impossible symmetry, the elegance of madness. It was like walking through a painting that hadn't decided what it wanted to be.

"This is a nightmare," I muttered, eyes flicking from a ceiling that might've once been a floor to a chandelier made of windchimes and bones.

"It's normal," Thalien replied without looking, walking straight down a stairwell that went sideways.

"Yeah," I grumbled. "Sure. Normal like taxidermy at a baby shower."

"Focus," Morgan hissed from behind, keeping her cloak pulled tightly around her. "We need the musicians. Where would they keep them?"

"Near the performance floor," Patrick said, glancing up and crossing himself again as a window passed overhead showing a sunrise that shouldn't exist.

"They wouldn't mingle with the guests," Thalien confirmed. "But they're important enough to be close. Either below the throne floor or above the wine chambers. Possibly both, depending on who enchanted this place last."

Cú peered into a hallway that led into a door, which led into a mirror, which looked like it opened into another hallway. "Why not just ask one of them to scream and follow the echo?"

The Green Knight said nothing, but I could tell from the angle of his helmet he was watching every shadow like it owed him a duel.

"Could we hear music?" I asked. "Get a direction?"

Morgan shook her head. "The castle's enchanted to mask sound. No one hears anything until the ceremony begins. Standard fae security."

"Cool. Great. Everything's cursed."

We reached a narrow corridor that seemed to slope sideways, though we were somehow walking upright. The air smelled like cinnamon and rain-soaked parchment. Thalien paused at a split in the path.

"Left goes toward the kitchens," he said. "Right... might be the dressing hall. If the castle hasn't re-shaped again."

"How would we know?"

"We wouldn't," he said simply. "But I'm technically invited, the floor will guide me."

That didn't reassure me.

Still, we turned right, passing under a carved archway made of what looked like intertwining ribs and wheat stalks. The torchlight here flickered strangely—casting shadows that moved the opposite direction.

I tightened the strap of my Bass and kept one hand near the Wind Bag.

Hallways rotated while we walked. Banisters moved like serpents when we weren't looking. At one point, we passed a servant walking along the ceiling, humming to herself while pushing a floating tea cart that screamed softly with every wheel turn.

We opened a door.

Immediately, sound exploded outward in a burst of cheers and drunken howling.

A wide chamber, carved into the roots of the castle, had been turned into a gladiator pit—complete with sand floor, iron rails, and high balconies stacked with finely dressed fae nobles, waving golden slips and calling out bets.

"Ten goblin souls on the tree!"

"I got five dragon farts on the horned one!"

"What odds on the minotaur exploding again?"

Down below, in a mess of blood and splinters, a lone gladiator—a minotaur, judging by the horns and sheer muscle mass—was swinging a massive axe at a towering ent, who moved with slow, groaning grace, each swing splintering bark but not stopping it. The tree-creature was winning. By a lot.

"I hate this place," I muttered.

Morgan yanked the door shut before the crowd noticed us.

We kept moving.

Stairways turned upside-down mid-stride. A hallway with thirteen doors somehow led back into itself unless you touched the left wall with your palm. The whole castle felt alive, but not in a cozy "Beauty and the Beast" way—more like a fever dream drawn by Escher during a panic attack.

Then I opened another door.

Dark.

Dead quiet.

I stepped forward, cautious—

And two massive golden eyes snapped open in the darkness.

My breath hitched.

A low rumble shook the floor. Then a flicker of flame, curling along massive fangs just past the threshold. Heat burst against my face like someone opened an oven fueled by bad decisions.

I slammed the door shut.

The wood smoked behind me.

Everyone stared.

"Nope," I said, voice dry. "Dragon. Giant. Fire-breathing. Bad mood."

Cú looked almost disappointed. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Pretty sure."

The Green Knight tilted his head slightly. "That wasn't a hallway, was it?"

"No. That was a lair."

Saint Patrick crossed himself again. "This place is an abomination."

Morgan smirked. "Welcome to the fae court."

The next door better have sheet music and some nervous performers inside. Or I was starting a band with the dragon.

We kept moving.

I swear the same hallway passed us three times, but every time the sconces were burning a different color and the tapestries had moved. One time they showed a fae wedding. The next? A man being swallowed by a giant weasel. Third time?

Inside was a massive ballroom.

No people.

Just furniture.

Moving.

Dancing.

Chairs twirling in waltz formation with lampstands, cushions swaying on invisible strings, a piano lid opening and closing in time with a phantom beat. The air pulsed with invisible rhythm.

In the center, a wardrobe and a writing desk were slow-dancing like they were in love and very drunk about it.

I shut the door before anyone else had to process it.

"I hate it here," I whispered again.

Saint Patrick muttered a psalm under his breath.

We pressed onward, deeper into the Bladed Tree.

Another hallway. Another door.

I cracked it open.

Inside, a hallway made entirely of mirrors, except… they weren't reflections.

They were watching.

Versions of us—not alternate, not distorted—just aware. Their eyes followed us. Mine smirked at me and winked.

I closed that one gently.

Thalien sighed. "It's this way," he said with a tired certainty, pointing down a corridor that curved like a nautilus shell and smelled faintly of mint.

We followed.

Through a tighter hall, across a bridge with no visible supports that shimmered like a spiderweb in moonlight, then around a corner where the shadows were too thick.

And finally…

Music.

Barely audible, but it was there.

We reached a narrow antechamber lined with red velvet and thorn-patterned gold trim. The music drifted in from a door at the far end. Soft. Classical.

Formal.

Thalien touched the door gently. "This is it."

I nodded, adjusting my hat.

Time to meet the competition. And retire them.

Inside, the musicians were busy with final preparations.

A pair of goblins adjusted the straps on a strange, antler-shaped harp. A lean fae in silver robes tuned a crystal flute. A satyr leafed through sheet music like it was made of gold, while a human man—thin, pale, eyes blank—plucked absently at a lyre from a bench, his ankle chained to the leg of a table.

They didn't notice us at first.

Too busy setting the stage for tradition.

Too bad tradition was about to get drop-kicked by modern noise.

I nodded once.

Everyone moved.

Morgan was the first to strike—hand sweeping up like she was throwing glitter, but instead? It was green fire. The flame didn't touch the velvet curtains, or the golden frame of the lute stand—it ignored matter completely. But it hit the goblin harpist dead in the chest.

He dropped screaming, rolling on the floor as his coat burned in ghostly, soundless flames.

Cú was next—fast, brutal, and grinning like it was his birthday. He went for the satyr rifling through sheet music, grabbed the back of his collar, and yeeted him across the room. The satyr slammed into the wall, groaned once, and stayed down.

The Green Knight moved with no wasted motion. He stepped forward and brought the pommel of his sword down like a divine hammer on the flute-player's shoulder. The fae didn't even have time to react before crumpling to the ground in a heap of silver robes and broken dreams.

Thalien, of course, was elegant—a flick of his wrist, a coil of vine-summoned magic ensnaring one of the goblins as if the floor itself betrayed him. The goblin tried to squeak out a note on a bone flute—but it was already too late.

Patrick, to his credit, went for the most sensible approach.

He walked calmly up to the second goblin, raised the cane like he was about to gently tap a disobedient dog—then wailed on him with righteous fury.

"The Lord is my shepherd," whack, "I shall not want," whack, "he maketh me lie down—"

whackwhackwhack.

The goblin definitely lay down.

Then there was me.

The human—the only one who hadn't moved, who hadn't even blinked. Eyes empty, fingers twitching across the strings like a marionette. Chained at the ankle, barely alive in there.

I didn't speak.

I just walked over, gripped my Bass, and slammed the flat of it into his head with a clean, practiced swing.

He slumped over like a rag doll.

Didn't even bleed. Just stopped.

Like the music was finally turned off.

And just like that, the room was silent again.

The real band?

Retired.

Our crew?

Still standing.

A little breathless. A lot smug.

I looked down at the unconscious musicians. Then at the instruments. Then at my own axe-bass.

Morgan snapped her fingers, and the candles in the room flared brighter, bathing the chamber in dramatic golden light. It was like the Faewylds themselves knew this was a wardrobe change scene and leaned into the theater of it.

"Alright, team," I said, dragging a satyr by the ankle, "let's look the part."

First came the clothes.

Not exactly a rock band's dream, but they'd work. Long robes with embroidered trim, sleeveless leather tunics, shimmering half-capes designed more for flair than function. Most of it was tailored for fae bodies, which meant we had to improvise.

Cú tried to shove his broad-shouldered barbarian frame into a tight ceremonial doublet. It tore immediately.

"Gonna wear it anyway," he grunted, strapping it over one shoulder like a sash and tying it off with a harp string.

Saint Patrick, by contrast, looked entirely disgusted by the outfit he'd been handed—a flowing green coat with embroidered vines. He stripped it of all embellishments, muttering under his breath the whole time, and somehow managed to make it look like a monastic vestment by sheer force of will.

Morgan layered a shimmering cloak over her shoulders, her natural glamour warping the shape into something sleeker. Her hair rearranged itself into a braided crown, and with a flick of her fingers, her eyeliner sharpened to near weaponized levels.

Thalien didn't need to change much. One shrug, one magical adjustment, and the clothes folded around him like they'd always belonged.

The Green Knight didn't even remove his armor. He just slung a silver scarf across his pauldron and pinned it in place with a tuning fork.

Me?

I found a goblin-sized coat, sliced off the sleeves, added some extra straps from someone's harp harness, and cinched it all up under the Bass like it was meant to be there. With the hat still on?

I looked like the leader of the weirdest battle-of-the-bands entry in history.

Meanwhile…

The bodies.

Thalien silently opened the balcony doors.

Morgan cast a silence spell on the outer railing.

And one by one, we started tossing unconscious musicians into the ether.

Cú hauled up a goblin and yeeted him with a grunt. "Hope that one lands in the wine vats."

Patrick grimaced but still managed to push the satyr over with a whispered prayer. "May he wake up… somewhere far from here."

Morgan dumped the still-smoking violinist with a casual flick of her hand. "I did him a favor. Fae fire detoxifies the soul."

The last one—the human—I carried gently. Not out of kindness. Just… a little pity. Poor guy. I laid him over the railing and gave him a gentle push.

He disappeared into the golden fog.

"Showtime," I said, straightening the collar of my stitched-together jacket.

Everyone turned to me.

The hat tilted.

The bass hummed.

And somewhere, beneath our feet but also above us, the coronation was starting.

Sorrel sat at the high table of the Bladed Tree, her fingers tracing the polished rootwood beneath her palm. The weight of the crown was hidden under a veil of glamour and poison-laced perfume, but the burden was real enough. Around her, the banquet raged on like a fever dream, a whirlwind of color, sound, and intoxication.

To her left, Titania, Summer's bloom, gestured with a chalice filled with liquid fire, her voice weaving a tale of a Summer knight who betrayed his oaths by marrying a dream. "She turned into sunlight when he kissed her," Titania said, sipping without flinching. "Now he just screams. Beautiful voice, though. We keep him in a jar."

To her right, Verdanas, Queen of Spring, had tangled herself halfway across the table, gnawing lazily on candied beetles from a silver tray shaped like a womb. Her gown was woven from breathing moss, pulsing faintly with each breath. "Did you hear," she lilted, "about the River Court's failure? They let a mortal boy drink from the Timewater. He bloomed into a tree mid-sentence. Still rooted there. Says hello whenever it rains."

Across from them sat Mab, Winter's void, unmoved and untouched, her lips pale and sharp. Her cup, full and shimmering with something that writhed, remained untouched. Sorrel noticed. She always noticed.

"You haven't tasted the vintage," she said gently. "Pressed from poppies grown in the soil of fallen empires. Filtered through the silk of spider-priests. It tastes like remembered kisses and the moments before death."

She punctuated the words by licking the toad on her silver platter—a pale, twitching thing covered in spots that whispered obscenities. It shivered, then sagged. Her tongue came away glittering.

Mab didn't blink.

"I abstain," she said.

Sorrel tilted her head. "Still dieting, my Queen?"

Mab's hand, graceful, gloved in moonlight, settled lightly on her abdomen. "I made a trade. One of mine bartered for a rise in rank. From baroness to duchess. In exchange, she offered something… far sweeter."

Verdanas perked up. "Do tell."

"The future," Mab replied. "A firstborn, promised to me. Not yet born. Not even conceived. But sun-touched."

Titania laughed, sharp as glass breaking in honey. "Children are so last century. Refilling the ranks of the court are already too much for me. Better on my figure too. How quaint."

Verdanas giggled, rolling over herself. "Oh, I did that once, half dragon, never again."

"My court needs a new champion," Mab said, eyes cold. "It seemed fitting, sun touched for the winter court, almost poetic."

Sorrel kept smiling, but her fingers tapped once, slow and deliberate, against her goblet's stem. The air around them pulsed with magic, scent, and sin. Below, the gardens erupted with movement. Dancers whirled in impossible patterns, limbs too long, bones clicking in rhythm. One twirled with no skin, muscles wrapped in burning thread, while his partner dissolved into smoke with each step, reforming only to collapse again. A trio of veiled nobles stitched together at the spine played music through slit throats. Their song was wordless and wrong.

At the base of the terrace fae and mortal entangled with creatures that shifted between genders, shapes, and screams. All of them bleeding somewhere. None of them stopping.

Sorrel sat, smiling. The goblet in Sorrel's hand shimmered as she tilted it, but she didn't drink. Her attention wasn't on the wine. Her focus was on the bracelet—a delicate thing, coiled tight around her wrist like ivy made of starlight and intent. To the untrained eye, it looked ornamental. Decorative. A gift befitting a new queen. But to her? It was a blade.

Slowly, deliberately, her thoughts wound through it. The enchantments within reached across the gilded terrace, brushing against Titania, Verdanas, and most delicately of all—Mab. The Winter Queen flinched. It was subtle—the smallest hitch in her fingers as she reached for a silver fig. But to Sorrel, it was enough. The spell was working. One root at a time.

Mab blinked. Her eyes, just slightly softer, drifted toward Sorrel's voice.

"So tell me," Sorrel said, gently twisting the bracelet's clasp beneath the table, feeding a little more will into the spell. "When will my dear lord-husband Oberon grace us with his presence?"

Mab's expression didn't change, but Titania scoffed, swirling her cup like it contained the truth.

"When he drags himself out of the harem chambers, perhaps," she said, her voice all velvet and thorn. "Summer has need of replenishment. There are battles coming, and only I can't birth an army alone."

She raised one eyebrow, eyes sparkling with cruel humor. "Unless, of course, Sorrel, you've plans to help lighten that burden."

A few courtiers nearby laughed—low, throaty.

Verdanas sighed dreamily, stroking a vine that curled from her shoulder like a pet snake. "He used to come in Springtime, you know. When he was still curious. He brought poems and flowers. I miss him."

"Winter has no use for his warmth," Mab said flatly.

Sorrel smiled, her fingers tightening again on the bracelet. She saw Mab's brow twitch, her hand still resting lightly on her belly. The spell slid deeper—a gentle suggestion wrapped in acceptance.

"Perhaps," Sorrel said softly, "we should prepare the court for his return, then. In dignity. In order. In unity."

Mab blinked again and nodded, only once. A tiny nod. But not nothing. Progress.

Sorrel exhaled slowly, keeping her smile easy. She felt the bracelet cool slightly—like it had eaten well and was content, for now. Across the terrace, more madness bloomed: a sacrifice on fire, carried by moth-winged priests through a maze of glass walls that screamed the names of every god ever forgotten. The dancers below had begun balancing on swords and singing in reverse, their voices turning the ivy black. But none of it mattered. Not yet. Because the queens were starting to lean closer, and Sorrel was almost ready to speak in Oberon's name.

The feast melted into music, the music into dance, and the dance into a blur of limbs, spells, and sensual chaos. Fae of every rank and shape slipped into impossible patterns, some naked, others clothed in smoke or thorns or shimmering illusions. They twirled across hovering glass platforms, flew through pillars of flame, spilled wine and blood in equal measure. A spiral of motion coalesced at the center of the upper terrace—a wide circle cleared by unseen force. There, wordlessly, the next tradition began.

The call rang out from a hollow horn grown straight from the Tree's bone—a deep, echoing cry that reverberated in every soul present: "The Champion's Melee begins!"

And they came. Four figures stepped into the ring from four corners of the terrace. No fanfare. No titles. Just presence.

One radiated heat, flame curling along their blade, footsteps turning the air golden with each step—a child of Summer, furious and proud. Another arrived shrouded in silent frost, breath misting around their obsidian armor, moving with the slow certainty of inevitable death—the champion of Winter. Spring's chosen was a slippery, smiling creature, covered in curling green tattoos, wrapped in petals and pollen that pulsed with unseen magic, their eyes too wide, too bright. And the last—Autumn's—stepped forward in rust-colored plate etched with bone symbols, a cleaver in one hand, a horned helm hiding their face, gait steady and brutal like a falling harvest moon.

They didn't greet each other. They simply began. The first strike cracked like thunder. The crowd roared.

Summer and Winter clashed, flame against frost, steam rising in violent bursts. Spring darted between them, leaving illusions in their wake, giggling as if the fight were a flirtation. Autumn struck hard and slow, carving a path through chaos, blade grinding through spells and bone alike.

Above it all, the queens leaned forward, delighted.

Titania cheered every cut, her hands sticky with peach juice and blood. Verdanas had twisted herself into a seated sprawl, feeding her thigh-vines pieces of roasted boar between sips of mead. Mab watched in silence, as she always did, her expression unreadable save for the barest uptick of her lip at a particularly nasty feint. And Sorrel? Sorrel smiled. Faint. Serene. Her fingers played over the bracelet on her wrist, coaxing the spell deeper. She could feel it in the queens. The softening. The slow unraveling of resistance. Even Mab, she thought. Even her. She was winning.

The Champion of the Seasons dropped to one knee by the end, crowned in blood and bruises and flower petals. The melee had ended as it always did—in something between exhaustion and ecstasy. Autumn's champion had won, their rust-colored blade embedded in Spring's shoulder, Winter frozen in place behind them, Summer breathing smoke and curses into the dirt.

The crowd cheered. Mad, wild. Tossing thorns, coins, souls, ribbons. Some dropped to their knees and wept. A ritual complete.

Sorrel rose just slightly from her throne and gave the acknowledging nod.

Then the sun changed. No warmer. No brighter. Just… deeper. More real. It shimmered like silk catching wind. And the air froze, not with cold—but with stillness. Reverence.

The crowd went silent. Every fae noble. Every chained muse. Every howling mask-dancer. Even the dying champions on the blood-soaked circle stilled.

He was there. Oberon. No announcement. No horn. He simply walked from the highest stair and stood at the terrace's edge, and his presence silenced everything.

His hair was the color of midnight storms. His antlers branched like the world tree itself. His cloak trailed behind him like a storm cloud stitched from twilight and prophecy. He wore no crown—he was the crown. His gaze was like gravity. His expression soft, distant, and impossibly warm. And everyone—everyone—swooned.

Mab blinked and softened. Titania gasped, her smile dropping into something childlike. Verdanas pressed her palms to her cheeks like a maiden seeing her lover in a ballad. Even Sorrel inhaled, sharply, despite herself. Despite the bracelet. Despite the spell.

It was as if her lungs had forgotten what breath was for, and now remembered. Oberon didn't speak. He only smiled.

They were melting. Even Mab—Mab, who hadn't blinked in half an hour—now watched him with the softness of a frost thawing at the first brush of spring. Her breath slowed. Her gaze lingered.

Titania was already leaning forward, the neckline of her gown shifting dangerously. She tilted her head just enough for Oberon to catch the shimmer of her eyes.

Verdanas was outright sighing, palms cupping her cheeks, face flushed and dreamy. "He hasn't aged a single sunturn," she whispered to no one in particular.

Oberon stood still, hands clasped behind his back, the faintest of smiles playing at the corner of his mouth. Not arrogant. Not seductive. Just… kind. Regal. And completely, utterly disarming.

Sorrel gripped the armrest of her throne, her knuckles white beneath the glamour. This wasn't supposed to happen. She'd worked too hard. Played the long game. Subtle influence, softened wills, woven dreams. And now they were about to blush like maidens in a mortal fairy tale.

She gritted her teeth and flicked her fingers beneath the table. The bracelet pulsed. Feed. Magic flowed, invisible and thick, like syrup over silver. It slid into the queens' thoughts—subtle pressure behind their smiles, a nudge toward propriety, toward composure, toward her.

It took time. She planted suggestions. Propped up impulses. Sent thoughts fluttering like moths into their minds.

Talk to him. Compliment him. See how he regards you.

It took longer than expected—Oberon's presence resisted the spell like stone resists wind—but eventually, it clicked. Titania shifted her shoulder just so, laughing lightly, and asked him how long he'd stayed away. Mab inclined her head and murmured something about the skies over Winter—an opening, cold. Verdanas reached for his hand.

Oberon listened to each in turn, warm and unreadable. And Sorrel breathed again.

Then—music. A rumble beneath the terrace. The sound of the Tree shifting. The stage rose like a blooming scar, petals of gold-veined bark unfolding in spiraled harmony with the living root beneath the Bladed Tree. Atop it, five strangers stood. The crowd quieted.

No familiar court bard. No robed harpist or glass-voiced soprano. No fanfare. Just five figures cloaked in shadow. At the front stood a man with wild blond hair and a broad-brimmed hat, resting a strange, glowing instrument against his hip. A great bass-axe, silver strings thrumming with static. His clothes were strange—layered leathers, straps, and dark glamour. The others fanned out behind him, silent.

One was wrapped in green with burning eyes, another cloaked in plate. A figure in priestly garb clutched a bag of what seemed to be salt with reverence, while a man draped in wild furs cracked his knuckles with anticipation, grinning wide.

No names were given. No titles announced. Only the herald's voice rang out, magically compelled, confusion thick in their tone: "By decree of Her Majesty Queen Sorrel of Autumn, the court is honored to present a modern sound for a new age... titled Free Bird."

Gasps rippled through the gathered nobles. "Modern?" Verdanas chuckled, her voice syrup-thick. "You naughty girl, breaking tradition already?" she purred toward Sorrel, tongue flicking behind her teeth. "Heheheh."

Sorrel did not reply. She only smiled. Her teeth creaked, this was not part of the plan, the music was carefully chosen to be boring, safe... not this.

CP Bank:0cp

Perks earned this chapter:200cp Hatter's Hat (Wonderland No More) [Benevolence] A fashionable piece of headgear that is suitable for practically every occasion. Wearing it magically boosts your charisma and increases protection to your head (also, if a blow to your head fails to overcome the armor enhancement, the hat will protect you 100%, preventing the blow from having any effects at all on your head). You can alternatively choose a hat or other headgear you already own to receive the benefits of this purchase.

Milestones: None.

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Authors note: hey sorry for the delay, been stuck at work and playing a lot of EU4, so I was kinda stuck, probably will continue be for a little while.

The air behind the curtain buzzed with tension. Everything was still, but you could feel the voltage in the bones of the stage. I adjusted the strap of my bass, fingers rolling along the strings in slow, deliberate taps. One test note hummed beneath my palm, barely audible. The Thunderbird feather twitched.

"Alright," I muttered. "One shot."

Morgan stood nearby, whispering old Sidhe words over our instruments. Her fingers glowed faint green, glyphs sliding across the strings and frets like ink under water. She finished with a breath and a snap of her fingers. The magic snapped into place, seamless.

"They'll follow your tempo now," she said, brushing her hair back. "Even if you lose you die mid-solo, the rhythm will keep."

"Reassuring," I muttered.

"Patrick?"

The priest was a few paces off, kneeling in front of the curtain. His hands moved with practice, sprinkling consecrated salt into a tight line across the edge of the stage. Latin rolled from his lips in a low, rumbling chant—half prayer, half spell.

"Just a moment longer," he called, not looking back. "In the name of the Lord, no horrors shall pass."

"And for the sides?"

Morgan raised her hand. Green light sparked between her fingers.

"I'll take care of the wings," she said. "Together, we can seal it well enough to keep the big ones out."

"'Well enough'?"

She shrugged. "This isn't an exorcism, skald. Some of the little ones—the desperate, the mad, the broken—they'll slip through."

"Then they'll find us waiting," came a deep voice behind me.

Cú cracked his knuckles, eyes gleaming, leaning lazily against a drum stand like it was a tavern counter.

"Let the bastards try."

Beside him, Thalien was calmly adjusting the tuning pegs of a borrowed flute, his eyes flicking toward every shadow like he could see time bending.

Then the Knight stepped forward—slow, methodical, like his whole existence moved to a heartbeat no one else could hear. He reached up and removed his helm. The room shifted with recognition.

"Sir Gawain," Morgan whispered, poison on her tongue. "Of the Round Table."

He nodded once, as if announcing the weather.

"I ride under no banner now," he said, "but this knight will keep the line." his sword Galuth now rested on his shoulder like he was going to strike a home run.

Morgan turned back to me.

"You play," she said. "You keep them focused. We'll keep the fangs off your throat."

"No pressure," I muttered.

Cú grinned. "You'll do fine. Just play it loud."

Thalien added, deadpan, "And if it goes wrong, die screaming. It's more dignified."

A soft clink broke the silence. Saint Patrick, still kneeling by the salt line, reached into his vestments and pulled out a small glass bottle. Old. Cloudy. The cork looked like it hadn't been touched in decades.

"Not even I," he muttered, "will stand against giving dead man their drinks."

He turned, his face shadowed by candlelight and resolve, and held the bottle up.

"In case we meet the Lord today."

The others fell quiet. No jokes. No taunts. Even Cú stepped forward with unexpected gentleness, uncorking the bottle with his teeth and taking a long, deliberate swig. "May He laugh at our nonsense," he muttered, and passed it on.

Morgan tilted it just slightly, let a single drop fall to the floor. "For the ones who didn't get the chance."

Thalien only nodded, taking a sip without a word, his eyes flicking toward the curtain as if sensing what was on the other side.

Gawain cupped it briefly, then handed it to me without drinking. "No knight drinks before the war," he said. "But I'll toast after."

The bottle reached me last. It was heavier than I expected. I looked at the dark wine inside, swirling like blood, like memory. Then I raised it.

"To the end of the world," I said.

I drank. It burned like fire down my throat. The curtain rustled. Morgan looked at me, one brow raised.

"Showtime."

The curtains parted—

—and behind them was madness.

No other word could fit. The court before us pulsed with colors that shouldn't exist, sounds that came from nowhere. A hundred nobles twisted mid-air in impossible dances, writhing along invisible walls. A ent was on fire and laughing. A creature with too many eyes sobbed into a bowl of light. A noble couple kissed with tongues made of smoke, while a nearby jester bled wine from their eyes into goblets shaped like teeth.

And all of them turned. All of them looked.

Saint Patrick's salt barrier flickered, holding—barely. A soft golden sheen in front of us, blessed and trembling. To the sides, Morgan raised both hands, green fire curling from her wrists, weaving through the cracks of the stage into walls of shimmering force. They sealed with a snap.

"Not for long," she hissed.

Behind me, Cú cracked his neck, already bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Let 'em come."

Thalien adjusted his cloak, flute drawn, eyes on the crowd. Gawain planted his feet, Galuth in hand, silent and still like a statue carved for stone.

And me? I gripped my bass like it was the last thing tethering me to reality. I took a breath. And then another.

"I don't care what happens," I muttered, fingers hovering over the strings, "but I'm getting to the guitar solo."

No one argued.

The lights dimmed. The stage trembled. And I played the first notes. Low. Slow. That opening riff of Free Bird.

The crowd didn't understand it—not at first. But they felt it. Heads turned. Eyes widened. Bodies froze in half-laughs and half-lust. Then cheers. Screams. Shrieks of delight and confusion. The stage became the center of gravity, the madness curling inward.

The music wrapped around the court like a net. I played through it—let it carry me forward, past fear, past the weight, into something else. Then my eyes scanned the crowd. And I saw her.

Sorrel. Seated now at the center of the high table, surrounded by wine-eyed queens. Her gown was deep red, dark as blood, woven with symbols I couldn't name. The bracelet still shimmered faintly on her wrist, feeding, pulsing, hungry.

Her skin glowed faintly golden under the enchanted lights. Her eyes were wide, lips parted just slightly in something between awe and suspicion. The spell was still holding. But it wavered. Her expression cracked—just a little—as I met her gaze. And I began to sing.

"If I leave here tomorrow… Would you still remember me?"

The words rolled out with the chord, raw and slow, echoing through a crowd that didn't know what music after the 18th century was.

The notes echoed like thunder rolled through honey—strange, sweet, and just a little wrong in a place like this. And the crowd? They were changing. At first, it was subtle—a tilt of the head, a shiver down the spine. But then the tapping started. One by one, fingers began twitching along to the beat. A dried dryad clutched her goblet like it was a lifeline. A trio of fox-masked nobles began to sway, almost mesmerized. Somewhere near the terrace, a satyr tried—and failed—to mimic the rhythm with a flute.

It was like watching a pack of caveman hearing music for the first time. I kept playing. Fingers sliding into the chords like they were carved into my bones, sweat already starting to bead under the lights. Each note sang with more static than the last—the Thunderbird feather trailing sparks now, feeding the rhythm like it was drinking from the storm inside me. And still, they listened. Not just with their ears—no, these weren't mortals. The fae heard with everything. Heartbeats. Magic. Memory. And rock was a new thing—to loud, too raw, too alive. It bit. And they loved it.

I caught a flash of Mab's lips twitching. Verdanas had stood, hands on her hips, her eyes wide with delight and confusion. Titania was tapping her foot on the table—not even realizing she was doing it. And Sorrel? Sorrel looked like she'd just seen a ghost. She was still seated, but her fingers had curled away from the bracelet. Her eyes were locked on me.

"But if I stayed here with you girl… Things just couldn't be the same…"

My voice carried through the enchantments, cutting through spells like a blade. I saw a courtier clutch their chest. Another dropped to their knees, shaking. It was working. I felt it building—in my chest, in the strings, in the air. The chords weren't just vibrating through the bass now—they were booming through the roots of the Bladed Tree itself. Each pluck of a string hit the court like a shockwave. Glasses shattered. Lights flickered. One fae in the second row straight-up collapsed, twitching like someone had unplugged their magic.

I leaned into the mic. "'Cause I'm as free as a bird now…"

My fingers slammed the strings harder—frets screaming with wild power as static arced along my arms. The Thunderbird feather lit up in a burst of blue-white electricity. The song had changed. It had teeth now. The audience had gone from enchanted to… disturbed. Sorrel rose from her throne, eyes wide, lips parted In rage. She saw it. She felt it. The spell was unraveling.

Mab had blinked, confused. Titania was gripping the table like it might float away. Verdanas was weeping, quietly, her vine-crown wilting under the weight of some long-buried memory the song must have dragged back into the light. And still—I played.

"…and this bird you cannot change…"

That was the breaking point. Sorrel stood tall at the edge of the high table, hair snapping in a phantom wind, the bracelet on her wrist glowing with desperate hunger. She raised one trembling hand—pointed directly at me.

"Stop him!" she shrieked. "By my command—bring him down!"

Every fae in the audience turned as one. Their eyes glazed. Their mouths opened in rictus grins. And they charged. It was like throwing a switch. The nobles launched themselves over chairs, through tables, over balconies. Winged fae dove from the air, glass-limbed things sprinted down the walls, beastmen leapt with spears, banshees screamed behind burning veils. A storm of madness coming straight for the stage.

Patrick's barrier flared—a wall of golden light flickering under the weight of sheer magical will. "They're coming through!" he shouted. Morgan's hands snapped up, throwing green glyphs into the crowd—a dozen fae detonated into butterflies and smoke, but more surged behind them. Cú, already laughing, launched forward like a cannonball, slamming a winged noble into a tree pillar with a crunch. Gawain's blade met the first fae to cross the line. No words. Just steel. Thalien flicked his flute once—and a burst of sonic magic blew a hole in the mob's front line. And me? I played harder. I didn't stop. Couldn't. I was in the eye of the storm.

"Lord knows I can't change…"

And with every word, every note, the air rippled harder. The stage was a battlefield. The curtains blew back as if ripped by a storm. The Faewyld Court erupted. Madness. Screaming. Rapture. And in the center of it all, we stood, encased in a dome of golden and green light—Saint Patrick's holy salt ringing the edge of the stage, Morgan's spellwork woven into every shadow.

They came at us like a tide of nightmares. Courtiers shrieking with mouths full of thorns. Nobles with glass eyes and obsidian blades, twisted by Sorrel's will. Winged horrors dove from the rafters, clawed dancers pirouetted through the air with poisoned blades—all of them converging on us, driven by a single command: "STOP HIM NOW." And yet the barrier held. Golden light flared every time a fae hit the wall. Holy fire surged with every step closer. Morgan's green runes pulsed outward like breathing wards, shoving the worst of them back with force that cracked the marble floor.

Inside the dome, we were together. Cú Chulainn, teeth bared, fists red, crouched like a wolf between verses. Gawain, sword in hand, shield raised, silent and calm, braced like his king was watching him. Thalien, cloak snapping in the stormwinds, fingers at the ready, watching the edges. Patrick, rosary in one hand, salt burning white in the other, whispering psalms in Latin like he was laying the foundation of a siege. Morgan, arms outstretched, green flame dancing from fingertip to fingertip, her eyes locked on the crowd, muttering in a dead tongue, holding the line. And at the center? Me.

I gripped the bass with both hands. My fingers moved fast, too fast, strumming chords that shouldn't be possible, screaming sound into spell.

"Lord help me, I can't change…"

That was the moment. That was the spark. The words left my throat like a blade, and the court shook. The Bladed Tree shivered, bark groaning, branches twisting overhead like they were trying to reach the stars. The golden dome around us pulsed once—hard—as if the song had become a heartbeat, and now it was pounding in sync with something older than music.

Above it all stood Sorrel, her hands clenched into fists, the bracelet blazing with angry white light. Her face was frozen between fury and disbelief. The spell was fraying, coming apart in waves. You could see it in the queens: Titania, hunched forward, weeping. Mab, one hand rising like she didn't know why. Verdanas, mouthing a name that didn't exist anymore.

"̴̹̫̟̂̉̄L̵̞̔͌o̸̞͂̆̐͜r̵̳̱̰̀d̴̩͂͆ ̷̨͒͊̑h̶͉͕͒ĕ̸͎͝l̴͇̂p̴͚͆ ̸̡̛̈̀m̸̺̙̽͒͝e̷̠͛̋̚…̵̱̇"̷̻̩͛̈

The notes wailed. I pulled the strings with everything in me. My arms ached. My back screamed. My heart thundered with the storm, My voice touched the firmament, the realm only reserved for the very gods themselves, for a second I saw. A greek city in the sky, a mighty river bathed in darkness under our feet, a city of gold, a gigantic tree in the distance, and many many more, all overlaid before my eyes.

And then I hit the solo. My fingers screamed across the strings. Sparks burst off the bass in arcs of lightning. The Thunderbird feather ignited, blue and white bolts lashing into the sky as if the storm had come to scream with me. The notes weren't just notes—they were teeth, rage, grief, freedom. I bent the neck of the guitar, sliding into the high run like I was slicing a hole in the air itself. The court screamed. Some dropped to their knees. Some tried to flee. Some, horrifyingly, tried to dance with bones snapping out of place, unable to stop moving even as the spell broke over them.

The court had become a maelstrom of feeling. Not chaos. Not control. Emotion. And then—

CRACK.

A single lightning bolt smashed through the dome—not at us, but for us. It hit the Tree's heart, and the wood split with a sound like a cathedral collapsing. The spell shattered. You could feel it. The moment Sorrel lost them. Not all at once. But enough. Enough to know she wasn't queen of their minds anymore.

I kept playing. Because the solo wasn't over yet. And neither were we.

The solo ended on fire. I was on my knees with the bass, hair whipping in every direction, fingers blistered on the strings, each final note a scream of electric defiance. My back arched as I hit the last bend, the Thunderbird feather now a full storm tethered to my bass. The air shimmered. The roots of the Tree trembled. Somewhere in the distance, someone sobbed like they'd just remembered who they were. I was gasping. Sweat pouring down my neck. The world was silent for half a second. Then she screamed.

"ENOUGH!"

Sorrel. The glamour cracked from her voice like glass breaking inside a cathedral. Her body moved in a blur—more magic than person—and she launched herself from the royal dais. Straight for me.

"No—!" Morgan shouted, throwing up both hands, weaving spell after spell to reinforce the barrier. It was too late. Sorrel hit the holy shield like a comet. The salt burned her, the divine magic ripped through her glamour, flesh and spell igniting like paper—but she kept going. Pushing through fire, through faith, through everything we had thrown in her path. The barrier held for a moment. Just one. And then shattered. A pulse of magic detonated outward like a sun being born sideways. The entire stage exploded in white and green fire. Morgan, Cú, Gawain, Thalien—everyone was blasted backward. Patrick fell to his knees, cross glowing with blistering heat.

I couldn't hear. Couldn't think. The world had become white. So I did the only thing I could think of. I hugged her. Arms tight. Claws retracted. Bass falling from my back, spinning away in the explosion. I wrapped her up like a brother catching a wounded sister—no rage, no fury. Just finality. Then I turned. And we fell.

Through the broken stage. Through the warped stone. Through splintering marble and shattering root-veins of the Bladed Tree. Two bodies. One blazing comet. Down. Down. Down. Like a missile. Like a prayer.

Impact.

We hit like a bomb. Stone shattered. Earth buckled. Air cracked. The courtyard of the Bladed Tree caved in where we landed, a smoking crater now smoldering in the heart of the Autumn Court. The ruins of the palace twisted above us, roots and walls curled inward like they were trying to flinch away from the force of what just happened. And we were alive. Barely.

I lay there for a second, blinking stars, blood in my teeth. My arms refused to move. My bass was gone. Everything hurt. Everything. Ligaments popped loose. I could feel my shoulder hanging wrong, my jaw dislocated, and I was pretty sure my kneecap was somewhere near my shin. My body was trying to heal, sure—but it was like welding a ship back together mid-sinking.

I coughed. Something red hit the dirt. Across from me, Sorrel rose from the wreckage. Her left side was melted—skin charred down to the bone, her gown hanging in smoking tatters. Her hair was a ruined halo, her lips split open, one eye pouring radiant magic like a leaking star. And still, the bracelet burned on her wrist. She didn't speak. Just raised one trembling hand and blasted me across the courtyard. My body hit a root-wall so hard it cracked behind me. My shoulder dislocated again on impact, and I had about half a second of silence before I roared and snapped it back into place with a sickening pop.

She limped forward, arm trembling, preparing another spell. I pushed off the wall, claws snikted out of my hands with a hiss of adamantium cutting the air. I leapt at her. She screamed, magic flaring like a firestorm. A cone of heat washed over me, burning skin, singing clothes—but my claws found her shoulder, digging in deep, sparks flying as I dragged them through her flesh and into her ribs. She shrieked. Then detonated my face again.

We went tumbling. Her: bleeding radiant ichor, her face twitching with fury. Me: ribs pulping my lungs, hands shaking, eyes burning from the inside out. We got up again. Slower. Worse. But still—up. She hurled a spear of pure light. I batted it aside with my claws, the shockwave blowing out my eardrums again. I lunged—she dodged—I bit her arm. She screamed. We collapsed into each other again—snarling, swinging, biting, clawing, burning.

She screamed something in Sidhe—a curse, a name, a god—and then her hand flared white-hot. A ray of heat slammed into my chest, and I swear I felt my skin crackle like pork rind. My jacket lit up, flesh splitting, ribs glowing red beneath the torn layers of scorched muscle. I staggered, blackened smoke riising from my chest. She stepped forward, dragging her leg, blood and purple magic pouring from the claw wounds I'd torn into her side. Her lips curled in fury, her eye bleeding streaks of gold.

"Stay. Down." she hissed, voice raw and shaking. I spat blood into the dirt. Then surged forward with a roar. Claws up. She went to dodge. Too slow. I brought my left hand down, hard and low—and lopped off her foot just above the ankle.

She screamed. Her body hit the ground with a thud that made the crater tremble. Her arms thrashed, dragging herself backward, bracelet still glowing, still trying to charge another blast. I was on fire. Literally. My chest smoked. My arms looked like cracked stone, flesh burned so deep I could see silver glints of bone under the skin. My healing factor fought, but it was crawling. Struggling. Losing.

Still, I stalked forward, every breath a grind of pain, every step tearing fresh fire through my muscles. She raised a hand again—magic crackling like the last gasp of a dying star. I slapped it aside with one clawed hand and drove the other straight through her shoulder.

We collapsed into each other again, clawing, biting, burning, bleeding—two silhouettes locked in ruin, surrounded by smoke and shattered stone. There was no grace left. No elegance. Just survival. We were ash and agony. She tried to crawl away. Magic still flickered from her hand—her body jerking like it was stuck between casting another spell and losing consciousness entirely. But I was already behind her. Burned to the bone, clothes in tatters, skin split and smoking from her last blast. Didn't matter. I wrapped my arm around her throat, locked my elbow in place beneath her jaw, and pulled her back against me in a brutal chokehold. My muscles screamed. My skin tore open again just from the strain. She thrashed, gurgled, eyes wide with disbelief and panic. Her hands clawed at my wrist, nails raking lines across my skin. Then she inhaled. A deep, sharp breath and then she breathed fire.

It erupted from her mouth like a flamethrower, engulfing my arm from elbow to shoulder, turning flesh to bubbling, hissing ruin. I howled, vision going white, the smell of my own meat cooking in my nostrils. My instincts going haywire. I just dropped my head, bared my teeth—and bit into the back of her neck. Hard. Her scream was ragged, half-choked, as I sank my dagger-sharp teeth into fae flesh, tasted blood, freshly cut grass and whatever passed for divinity in her veins. She convulsed in my grip, magic flaring wild and uncontrolled, lashing into the ground around us, carving molten symbols into the dirt. My arm was fused to her now, skin and sinew melted together. I kept biting. She kept burning. Both of us half-dead. Neither of us letting go.

My arm was gone. I couldn't feel it past the elbow—just the weight of metal bones locked to her neck. She writhed once more in my grip, flailing weakly, her magic nothing but sparks now. She choked. I bit harder. And then I bit through. My jaw cracked as I forced my teeth shut, grinding bone and sinew until I felt my teeth click against each other on the other side of her throat. Sorrel made one final noise—a soft, pitiful gasp—and then went limp in my arms. Her body twitched once. And her head went rolling.

For a moment, I didn't move. The fire still burned in patches around the crater. The earth was blackened. My body was pulped, skin charred and flaking, the only thing keeping me breathing was that stubborn, a sliver of healing pulsing beneath my ribs like a dying heartbeat. I let go. Let her headless body fall beside me in the dirt, her one remaining eye open, staring at nothing.

I stared up at the ceiling of wrong sky, let the heat bleed out of my quickly healing chest cavity, and whispered: "…Ow."

I don't know how long I stayed there. Long enough for the healing to finish. My skin reknitting in patches. The worst of the burns flaking off. My muscles remembering where they went. Eventually, I rolled onto my side. And looked at her head—a crown. It looked like root and amber, twisted together, grown into her skull like roots digging into bone. It wasn't ornamental. It was ownership. Her authority. Her anchor to the Court.

I crawled over. Reached out with my good hand. And gripped it. It resisted at first. Like trying to pull a nail from an ancient tree. Then with a crack—sharp, wet, wrong—it came free in my hand. Root and bone. Her crown. My loot. I stared at it—blood-slick and humming with power. Then leaned back against the dirt wall of the crater, crown in one hand, blood still on my lips.

I sat there a moment longer, crown in hand, chest heaving. The Faewylds above were quiet now—or maybe my eardrums aren't back yet. Either way, the silence felt earned. I looked up. The walls of the crater rose around me like the inside of a broken tooth—sheer, jagged, still flickering with residual magic. Somewhere far above, the shattered underside of the Bladed Tree's throne room swayed in the heat haze, glowing with residual embers.

I limped toward a corner, finding my bass embedded into the ground, with a wordless scream I pulled it free, and into my back it went.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, spat blood and pieces of fae stuck in my teeth, and slid the root-crown into my bicep, where it pulsed like a second heartbeat. Then I reached behind me with both arms—and let the adamantium claws slide out. With a grunt, I jammed them into the stone. Skrrk. They held. I pulled myself up—one heaving motion at a time. Fingers aching. Arms trembling. Blood and dirt trailing behind me like a smear of battlefield ink.

No divine wings. No miracle lift. Just claws and willpower. Up. Up. Up. Toward the edge of the crater and then to where the coronation was being held. Because the job wasn't finished yet. The stone rim scraped under my claws as I dragged myself over the edge. I collapsed to one knee, breath ragged, hand still braced on the lip of the shattered throne room. Around me, the court had gone silent. Not just quiet. Silent. Like the world had forgotten how to speak. Fae nobles stood frozen mid-step, blood still drying on their hands. Dancers held their poses. The queens of Summer, Winter, and Spring sat wide-eyed on their thrones, crowns slightly tilted, like they'd been caught watching the wrong myth unfold.

The Bladed Tree groaned overhead—bark split down its trunk seeping sap to the world, roots twitching in the stone. Smoke curled upward from the crater behind me like a burned offering.

"She's gone," I rasped, voice like gravel and thunder.

Cú whistled low. Patrick made the sign of the cross, slower this time. Morgan laughed, once—the sound like a blade pulled from a velvet sheath. Gawain simply nodded, arms full of gore folded like he was looking at a man returned from war. Thalien moved to my side without a word, steadying me with one hand, the other already watching the reactions in the crowd. Still—no one spoke. No one moved. Until I turned to the high table, and without breaking eye contact with the three remaining queens, I said:

"I'm keeping the crown."

And none of them argued. Because whatever they'd thought I was before—mortal, nuisance, now they knew. I was the one who killed their queen. And walked out with her crown. From the far end of the shattered throne room, a shadow stirred—quiet, but absolute. He didn't walk. He arrived. Oberon. King of Faerie. The First Crown. He stepped from behind the Bladed Tree as if he had always been there—just hidden between the world, behind the heartbeat of the world. Hair like twilight. Eyes like still water. Robes of living shadow and red-gold flame.

He looked at me. And smiled. Not wide. Not cruel. Just... curious. Behind him, the three queens rose from their thrones, Titania, radiant and wilting at once, stepped forward first.

"Such a storm you've made," she said, voice a breath and a blade. "We had just finished polishing the floors." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "But you play beautifully, little sun. All that light, and yet you know how to use it to burn." She dipped her head the barest fraction. "Summer will remembers its debts."

Next was Verdanas of the Spring—barefoot in vines and blush-petal armor, her green eyes soft and sharp all at once. "You've trampled my garden," she said, expression unreadable. "Uprooted my order. Shattered the peace I'd just finished sewing shut." Then she smiled. "I adore you for it. Spring owes you a bloom." Last was Mab. Mab of Winter. Unmoving. Unsmiling. Frost still clinging to her veil. She looked at me like she was memorizing my soul for later dissection. "When the time comes," she said, "and the snow is deep enough to swallow memory, I'll remember you." A pause. "I hope you do not expect thanks. We do not thank wildfires. We survive them." But even she gave a nod. And then Oberon stepped forward, arms folded behind his back, his voice impossibly smooth, like silk.

"You've broken one of my queens," he said, "in her own court no less." He smiled again. "Glorious. Wasteful. Divine." He tilted his head. "You have brought war to our banquet. Ruin to our rituals. Fire to our law. You have bled on our roots and howled at our sky, and still you wear her crown." He took a breath. Then said—softly, clearly: "All the Courts of Faerie… owe you a debt." The silence that followed was total. Then Titania laughed. A bright, poisonous thing. "Not that we'll ever let you forget it." Oberon's words drifted across the court like the final line of an ancient riddle: "The Courts are in your debt."

They began with my companions. Saint Patrick stood stiff as a church pillar, his hands folded tight, chin high, like he expected to be struck instead of rewarded. Mab stepped forward from the rest. Just a single gesture—and from a velvet box, she lifted something wrapped in blood-red silk. She handed it to him. He opened it slowly. Inside: a nail. Rusty. Ancient. Bent from use.

"The left nail," Mab said, voice like a frostbitten whisper. "Taken after it hit divine flesh. Saved by a witch who saw what mortals couldn't."

Patrick's lips parted. But no words came. He clutched the nail to his chest, sank to one knee, and wept.

Next was Cú Chulainn. Titania didn't bother with pageantry. She snapped her fingers and a battered canteen thunked at his feet. He raised an eyebrow, opened it, and sniffed. His pupils dilated like he'd just seen the heavens.

"Whiskey," she said, "from the first still ever made. Poured by one of your gods. It never runs dry. You probably will wish it did."

He raised it high, grinning like a lunatic. "I'll die happy then."

Gawain stepped forward next. Verdanas smiled gently and handed him a scroll, sealed with red wax and a sigil. He unrolled it slowly. Sir Galahad's handwriting. A map.

"Last known location of the Grail," Verdanas said. "Assuming your faith is stronger than your pride."

Gawain whispered, "Always."

Morgan received hers from Winter—a small black mirror in a silver locket, no bigger than a coin. She flipped it open. Pages fluttered in the reflection. Books. Thousands. Spells shifting like stars behind glass.

"Every word the Courts have ever written," Mab said. "Even the ones they swore never to speak again."

Morgan snapped the locket shut and tucked it in her sleeve. "I'm keeping that," she muttered. "Forever."

Thalien stood silent, watching it all—until Spring stepped close and touched his shoulder. A mark bloomed there, made of ivy and roses.

"You're a Lord now," Verdanas said. "Spring answers your call."

He bowed deeply. Then they all turned to me. Oberon conjured a long, narrow chest—oiled wood, rings of gold, locks that sighed open without touch. Inside were two things, a greek sword of flawless bronze.

"Alexander's," Oberon said. "Lost on the shores of Aegypt, traded for immortality. He didn't understand the deal.

A scroll in golden waxed leather—a collection of Plato's lost philosophies, scribbled not in ink, but in charcoal, faded from memory before the Parthenon ever fell.

The praises came quick and flowing. Cheers echoed through the Autumn Court—golden music, crystalline voices, petals raining from the rafters of the Bladed Tree like ash. Faeries danced in spirals, sang songs. Names were woven into verse, praises painted in light:

Lucas of the Sun.

Breaker of Queens.

Singer of Storms.

Bearer of the Autumn Crown.

The Dog, the Knight, the Saint, the Sorceress, the Springborn. Victors of the Court Eternal.

It would've felt like a hero's farewell. But they were obviously trying to shove us out the door. "Oh, do take this parting blessing," cooed one fae noble, slipping an invisible ribbon into Sif's collar, having been brought from the clearing where we left her, "and perhaps a path back to your quaint little world?"

"You must return before the stars shift," said another, eyes sharp despite her smile, "the borders are so unreliable this time of year."

Mab herself rose from her throne, regal and ice-pale. "It would be… unwise to linger. The Wild Magic bends around your kind. And you've bent quite enough."

Titania chimed in with honeyed laughter, "We do so adore guests. Brief ones. Victorious ones. Departing ones."

Even Oberon, calm and still as a mountain in mist, gave a single nod toward a spiraling arch of branches and gold now pulsing at the edge of the room. A door back to the mortal world.

"Your tale has changed us," he said, "and the telling is not over. But the Faewylds are no place for mortals to loiter."

Morgan muttered under her breath, "That's the fae version of get the hell out."

Cú was already half-drunkenly swaying. "They're throwing us a party and the boot. I kind of love it."

Patrick crossed himself for the fiftieth time and said something about Babylon.

And me? I looked back. At the shattered throne. At the crater we left behind. At the Autumn Crown strapped to my side. And I smiled.

"Alright then," I said, voice rough with smoke and victory. "Let's go before they start singing again."

We turned as one. And walked out.

We stepped through the portal—

And reality hit us. Hard. Gone was the honeygold air, the humming trees, the timeless twilight of the Faewylds. Instead? Wet stone. Rot. A sewer. The stench punched me in the teeth. Hot, humid, like old rain soaked in rat piss and crushed tourist food. It was the smell of New York. My boots splashed down into ankle-deep runoff, warm and oily. Sif whimpered beside me, fur slick and miserable, ears pinned back like she was ready to bolt back through the portal. Morgan muttered a curse in four dead languages, wiping sewer slime from her dress.

Cú just howled with laughter.

"This," he said, clapping me on the back, "this is what being a hero gets you!"

Patrick crossed himself for the hundredth time. "Deliver us from this mortal filth, Lord."

Gawain stared up at the manhole like it was the pearly gates.

I turned around, half-expecting to see Thalien sighing beside me, a clever remark on his lips, some fae-flavored complaint about mortal plumbing. But he wasn't there. The portal flickered behind us. He stood just past its edge—in the Faewylds still. Framed by golden light, with spring blossoms swirling faintly around his shoulders.

He didn't speak. Just smiled. Small. Sad.

I stepped toward him. "You're not coming?"

He shook his head. "This is my court now. My world. I'm a Lord of Spring, remember?"

He hesitated. Looked past me at the others, then back.

I nodded. Didn't trust myself to speak.

He raised a hand in farewell—

And the portal closed. Gone. Just sewer stone now. Just rust and wet and the echo of dripping water.

We stood there in the quiet.

Then I looked up at the manhole. Sunlight bled through the cracks above. I started to climb. "Let's go, heroes," I said, voice low, almost reverent. The manhole creaked open with a rusty groan. I shoved it aside and hoisted myself into sunlight. Warm. Honest. Blinding.

I blinked a few times, eyes adjusting. Birds chirped. A lawn sprinkler hissed in the distance. I was standing in the middle of a quiet suburban street—one of those neighborhoods where all the houses looked like they were printed from the same IKEA catalog, painted in different shades of slightly hopeful beige.

Behind me, the rest of the crew climbed out in various states of exhaustion and trauma. Cú was still laughing. Gawain looked like he wanted to lie down on the pavement and never move again. Morgan wrinkled her nose and conjured a gust of wind to blow sewer air away from her robes. Saint Patrick muttered a prayer and kissed his nail. Cú pulled Sif out of the hole, fur still matted, just plopped down on the grass with a groan.

I took a breath. Looked left. Looked right. And saw it. Across the street. In all its low-rent, neon-lit, glorious modernity—a TGI Friday's. The sign out front flickered in the daylight, as if it, too, had seen war. JELLY SHOTS - BUY ONE GET ONE.

The gods wept.

I grinned. "Alright," I said, slinging the bass-axe back over my shoulder and adjusting the Autumn Crown now digging into my armpit. "We've saved the realms, dethroned a queen, and crawled through literal shit to get here." I turned to them. "To hell with destiny. Let's go get hammered."

Morgan and Gawain sighed. Patrick made the sign of the cross. Cú raised his flask in salute. And together—bloodstained, burned, myth-soaked and barely functional—we crossed the street.

We were already seated by the time the shock set in. The reality of our surroundings hit like a punch to the gut. Red vinyl booths squeaked under our weight, and plastic menus covered in high-gloss photographs of food that looked just greasy enough to be divine lay in front of us. The lights were too bright, the music too soft, and somewhere in the back, someone was microwaving something that might legally be called cheese.

Across from me sat a motley crew of heroes, each lost in their own world of wonder and bewilderment.

Cú, the ancient Irish warrior, was grinning like a lunatic, polishing off a plate of loaded nachos with his bare hands. Cheese dripped down his chin, and he licked his fingers with relish, eyes closed in pure bliss.

Gawain, the Knight of the Round Table, stared in awe at a milkshake the size of a toddler. He dipped his finger into the whipped cream, then licked it clean, his expression one of pure fascination.

And beneath the table, Sif, the wolf, slept soundly, a half eaten rack of ribs beside her like a tribute to her heroism.

Morgan licked buffalo sauce off her fingers, her eyes widening with each taste. "This is... intense," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

I grinned, picking up a fry drenched in bacon and jalapeño goo. "Welcome to the mortal world," I said. "We gotten quite good at cooking, just watch the waistline."

Patrick sniffed a mozzarella stick, his nose wrinkling in disapproval. "I've fought heresy with less sin than this," he repeated, shaking his head.

I chuckled. "It's cheese. Deep-fried. With marinara. You are looking at the apex of human civilization."

Gawain muttered something about decadence, marveling at his third side of ranch. Cú, meanwhile, tore into a cheeseburger like it owed him money. "This is glorious. We should conquer this place." he declared, his mouth full.

I leaned back, arms stretched across the booth, nodding at the platter in front of me. "You realize, the sheer amount of spice and grease in this one basket could probably kill someone from your time, right?"

Morgan blinked, her eyes widening. "This has... multiple spices?"

I nodded. "Thirteen. That I know of. The sauce alone is made with four peppers."

She looked at the plate like it had just offered to duel her. Patrick muttered something about Sodom and shook his head, his expression one of pure disdain.

Across the restaurant, the bartender set down a tray of neon jelly shots. Cú saw it and grinned, his eyes lighting up with mischief.

"I love the modern world," he said, raising his glass in a toast.

Gawain followed suit, raising his milkshake. "To our bard," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "

I raised my own glass, a smile spreading across my face. "To jelly shots," I said.

Morgan had a trick up her sleeve. She enchanted the waitress, who floated from table to table in a daze, smiling like she was stuck in a really chill dream. Her arms were loaded with sampler platters, steak skewers, strawberry lemonades, shrimp cocktails, and a deep-fried cheesecake that radiated sinful energy.

Morgan just twirled her fingers under the table and whispered, "All of it."

And so we were feasting.

Cú was the first to speak, his eyes distant, glass raised. "I'm going back," he said. "To the Éire. Somehow. She's changed, I know. But so have I. Maybe I'll find a place that remembers me."

"Do you... know how to get there?" I asked, my voice soft.

He shrugged. "Walk long enough. Swim, maybe. Fight the sea. Ireland always calls back eventually."

Morgan leaned back in her seat, her expression thoughtful then she looked at me with questionable eyes. "I wonder if Circe is still around," she said. "We used to write each other—pen pals in the art of turning men into pigs. Good times."

I gave her a look, raising an eyebrow. "Just because I'm a Greek demigod, I'm supposed to know her?"

She blinked, completely serious. "You don't, she is one of the mightiest sorceress on your side of the world?"

Patrick finally spoke, his arms crossed, eyes on his root beer float like it was heresy in dairy form. "I should head toward the papal states," he muttered. "See what's left of the faith."

I grinned, the warmth of the moment spreading through me. "Oh, I cannot wait to see your face when someone tells you about the Protestants."

He blinked, confusion written all over his face. "The what?"

I chuckled. "Don't worry. It's a long story. Starts around the time someone nailed a letter to a door."

Gawain finished his last rib, wiped his hands with a napkin, and exhaled deeply. "I'll seek the Grail again," he said quietly. "It's out there. It always is."

"Any idea where?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

He nodded, his expression serious. "The last rumor placed it in the pyramid of Memphis, but not of the Saracens but in some place call Ten-e-see, probably near Cathay."

I blinked, confusion written all over my face. "Tennessee?"

He nodded, deadly serious. "Aye. The home of the Great Pharaoh Bass Pro Shop."

Cú just muttered, "Madness. Absolute madness."

And me? I leaned back in my seat, stomach full, laughter screaming out of my lungs.

CP Bank:1000cp

Perks earned this chapter: none.

Milestones: Quest end: Dethrone a seasonal queen: 1000cp.

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