Gretta hit the ground hard, the Astral ripping away like a veil. Air slammed into her lungs, and the world spun with too much color, too much sound.

  “Where’s your roommate?” Meg’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and wary.

  “Demons,” Gretta rasped. “They burst out when we arrived. I—he tried to hold them—” She swallowed. “I couldn’t stop it.”

  Meg drew her sword with a hiss of metal and scanned the tree line. “Then we need to move. Fast.”

  “What about Rowan?”

  Meg didn’t look at her. “You heard him. We save Fairy—with or without him.”

  Gretta didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her chest ached—and not from the fall.

  She’d seen him fall. Again. And maybe that was the problem. Rowan had a habit of dying and coming back like it was part of his job description. But this time... this time felt different. He hadn’t looked defiant. He hadn’t looked lucky. He’d looked resigned.

  And it hit harder than she expected.

  Because Rowan hadn’t just been her chaotic roommate or the wildcard in a half-broken plan. He’d been a possibility. The thread she’d never dared to pull. A way home, sure—but also something more. A second chance. At a future she thought she’d given up on.

  For twenty-five years, she’d built a life in Fairy. Opened a tavern. Trained a goblin. Fought off ogres and worse. Survived. But it wasn’t the life she’d chosen. It was what was left when everything else slipped away.

  And Rowan—stupid, unreliable, spark-in-the-dark Rowan—had given her a reason to imagine there could still be an after.

  And she’d missed it. Too tangled in her own regrets, too stubborn to look past her own pain, to see that he was unraveling right in front of her.

  She clenched her jaw. Maybe if she’d noticed. Maybe if she’d helped carry it—whatever it was—he wouldn’t have had to carry it alone.

  She slammed her fist into the dirt. “Damn it.”

  “Look,” Meg said. “I know he was your way out, but if ten demons catch us, we’re not walking away.”

  Gretta pushed herself upright. Her legs ached, her knuckles stung, but none of it mattered. “You’re right. Rowan would never let me live it down if we died here.”

  They took off down the road, boots pounding dirt, their camp already disappearing behind them like a shed skin.

  “Do you think we should find the Wyrdlings?” Meg asked between breaths. “See if they’ll take us back to the tavern?”

  Gretta didn’t answer right away. Her fingers found the fluorescent green feather tucked in her belt, the one Sofia had left her. She smoothed it instinctively, more habit than thought.

  “Why would we do that?”

  “I’m decent in a fight,” Meg said, “and you’re basically the most famous human in Fairy. But neither of us is equipped to fight a demon lord.”

  Gretta glanced over. “Then maybe you should head back. I want to see this through.”

  “Getting killed isn’t going to bring him back.”

  “If we don’t stop this, there won’t be anywhere left to go,” Gretta said. “I’m not asking you to come on a suicide mission. But I’m not waiting around for Fairy to fall apart, either.”

  Meg gave her a sideways look. “We’re in this together, Dew. Just don’t die on purpose. I don’t want to break in a new tavernkeeper.”

  The temperature dropped sharply. Gretta risked a glance over her shoulder.

  A tear in reality had opened behind them, yawning wide and bleeding shadow. From it, a vortex of darkness spilled out, unraveling like smoke—alive and searching.

  “They’re free,” she said. “Pick up the pace.”

  They broke into a jog. Gretta glanced back again and saw the demons taking shape—not bodies, but impressions. A storm of limbs and eyes and hunger, coalescing as they flowed forward in a shifting cloud.

  Ahead, the road narrowed into a cave mouth nearly lost beneath layers of mushrooms. The air reeked of rot and wet stone.

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  “Almost there,” Meg said, breath clipped.

  “They’re closing in,” Gretta answered, and pushed harder.

  “You’re a lot more spry than you’ve been the past few years.”

  Gretta touched the tattoo on her neck. It was warm. Buzzing. “My goddess restores me.”

  The shadows spilled faster now, tendrils stretching from the tear behind them like ink in water. The ground convulsed—roots pulling back as if they too wanted to flee.

  A flicker of light zipped past Gretta’s shoulder. Then another.

  She hesitated, confused, until Meg swore under her breath. “Wyrdlings.”

  Tiny figures danced through the trees, woven from light and thread, their bodies glimmering in hues of green and gold. They weren’t fleeing. They were intercepting.

  One landed in front of Gretta, trembling with power. It lifted its arms like wings—and launched itself into the oncoming dark.

  The detonation of light was blinding. For a single, perfect second, the shape of a demon became clear: a shifting mass of claws and teeth and too many eyes, all stitched into shadow. Then the Wyrdling vanished, consumed whole.

  Another followed. Then another. Each one flung itself at the breach, trying to hold the unraveling tide.

  Gretta stumbled. “They’re going to die.”

  Meg didn’t respond. Her jaw was locked, her gaze fixed ahead.

  Behind them, a high, warped scream echoed through the trees. Something hit the ground with a sickening splatter. Then came a second sound: dry, brittle cracking.

  A Wyrdling husk rolled past them—ashen gray, limbs twisted, its face frozen in a rictus of madness.

  “They’re not just fighting,” Gretta whispered. “They’re being unraveled.”

  Her legs wanted to stop. Her heart almost let them. But then she saw Rowan again in her mind—pushed into darkness to buy them time.

  The Wyrdlings were doing the same.

  And if she stopped now, it would mean wasting both sacrifices.

  Winged shapes peeled off from the shadows, streaking toward them.

  “Incoming,” Gretta said.

  Meg didn’t hesitate. She scooped Gretta up and sprinted for the cave.

  At first glance, it looked like stone—but up close, it writhed with life. The entrance was blanketed in thick mats of fungi, pale and soft, pulsing faintly. The mouth didn’t look carved. It looked collapsed—as if something enormous had tunneled through and left a gullet behind.

  Meg dove.

  They hit the slope with a wet, squelching thud and vanished into the dark. Gretta couldn’t see—couldn’t breathe. Mushroom powder filled her mouth and eyes, the tunnel slick and tight, winding like a throat. The walls pressed close and then fell away, the space narrowing, widening, always shifting.

  The air changed. Cold, then blistering hot—like passing through fire backwards. Light flashed through her closed lids. Behind them, a roar echoed like silk tearing across glass.

  Then they were airborne.

  Gretta hit the ground with a thump, rolled once, and landed on grass. Real grass. Sunlight beat down, brilliant and too white after the dark.

  Birds chirped. The air smelled like flowers and something overripe and sweet, almost cloying.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” Meg said, casually brushing mushroom bits from her sleeves.

  Gretta sat up, blinking in the sudden brightness. “Is this Summer?”

  Meg scanned the horizon. “You really can’t feel it?” She shook her head, half in disbelief. “The Queen is everywhere here. The land hums with her.”

  Gretta turned back, expecting to see the twisted forest or the cave they’d come through—but there was nothing. Just open air and grass waving gently in the breeze, as if the Wilds had never been there.

  “We don’t have long,” she said. “They’ll be right behind us.”

  Meg held up a hand. “Shh.”

  Gretta went still. She felt it then—a pressure at the base of her spine. Not pain, not magic. Just... presence.

  She scanned the hills. Rolling green, no trees, no shadows. No place to hide.

  “We’re being watched,” Meg said quietly.

  “What do we have here?”

  The voice came from behind her. Smooth. Curious. Amused.

  Gretta spun.

  A dragon shimmered into view, reclined in the grass as if it had been there all along. Its forelimbs were crossed with deliberate ease, tail curled around its body. Wings folded neatly against its back.

  Copper-gold scales gleamed in the sunlight, edged with black that flickered like soot. If it weren’t a massive, probably-murderous apex predator, it might have been beautiful. In a painting. Behind glass.

  It stared at her. Calm. Unblinking. Too intelligent.

  Then it smiled.

  Gleaming white teeth—each the size of a shortsword, serrated and perfect.

  Gretta took an involuntary step back.

  The dragon’s eyes shifted from Gretta to Meg. It inhaled slowly—deliberate, deep—and stilled.

  The grin faded. Not from fear. From recognition.

  “Ah,” it said, voice lower now, more thoughtful. “So the rumors were true. I hadn’t expected to meet Anathina herself on such a pleasant afternoon.”

  Gretta blinked. The name rang familiar. She’d heard it before. Seen Meg flinch. Heard the Wyrdlings whisper “Highness.” But this—this was something more.

  Meg didn’t move. She didn’t have to. Her entire body shifted, not in stance, but in presence. Her hand hovered near her sword, and the air around her grew colder by degrees.

  The dragon tilted its head. “Daughter of frost. Exile of Winter. What brings royal blood to the Queen of Summer’s doorstep?”

  “Not your concern,” Meg said. Her voice was quiet, but it could have cut steel.

  The dragon chuckled. Deep. Resonant.

  “No,” it agreed. “But the Summer Queen will be interested to know the Winter Queen’s blood still stirs. And still chooses heat over silence.”