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