“Southeast,” Jerald had said, pointing with two fingers. “You move through the low ground, cut toward the giant stone in the basin. Don’t cross the water. Skirt it. Make a wide sweep and come back on a third line.”

  Calum frowned. “That’s a long walk.”

  “Then pace yourself,” Jerald replied. “If you rush, you’ll miss what matters.”

  I turned before Calum could argue. The grass was already tugging at my boots as the slope fell away, damp earth giving slightly underfoot. The field dipped unevenly, every step downhill pulled at my knees.

  Behind us, up high the druid guards remained near the tent, eyes sweeping the fields. When I glanced back, I saw where their attention lingered.

  Not on Calum. On Celeste. She and Rob were moving further along, taking a western path.

  Behind me, Calum followed.

  Not close. Not far. Just far enough to make a point.

  We pushed deeper into the brush. Shrubs snapped underfoot, dry and brittle, but the ground beneath was soft, damp. Each step sank a little more than the last. The land dipped gently, the field folding inward until the grass thinned and the air grew heavy with the scent of wet earth.

  Marshland. Or close to it.

  I slowed and looked back at him. He was flexing his fingers without realising it.

  “How’s the hand?” I asked.

  He rubbed at his wrist and looked away, flexing his fingers once as if testing the limits. I noticed the short blade strapped to his leg, easy to reach, and the amulets hanging beneath his coat.

  We walked on a few more steps before the silence grew thick enough to notice.

  Before we had left Jerald had taken me aside. Given me a quick warning. Be civil. Stay on the right side of this. Starting another feud out here would end badly for everyone.

  I exhaled.

  “About earlier,” I said, keeping my eyes forward. “Sorry. For calling you stupid.”

  Calum glanced over at me, then away again. After a moment, he gave a short nod. Nothing more.

  Acceptance, maybe. Not forgiveness.

  He still saw me as a coward. I could feel it in the space he kept between us. I could have corrected him. Could have vanished, let the truth speak for itself.

  I didn’t.

  Trust wasn’t there yet.

  I slowed, then stopped, crouching as I studied the ground ahead. The grass thinned here. The soil was darker. Pressed down in places it shouldn’t have been.

  “Hold up,” I murmured.

  The field was telling a story. I wasn’t fluent enough to read it, but I knew when something didn’t belong.

  Calum stopped beside me, eyes tracking the reeds and broken grass. Understanding flickered across his face. He drew the flute from his pack, gripping not like an instrument.

  “It’s bleak out here,” he said quietly.

  I nodded. The land felt wrong. Closer to Brookfield the grass had been sharp and vivid, almost too alive. Out here the colour was washed thin, greens dulled as if something had leeched the strength from them and moved on.

  I searched the sky. “Where’s your bird?”

  “Hrafnir?”

  I blinked.

  “My raven,” he said. “That’s his name.”

  “Ah.”

  Calum’s mouth twitched, then settled flat again. “Back at the cottage.” His fingers tightened on the flute case. “That barrier the troll used caught him mid-flight. We think it cracked his ulna. Or bruised the radius.”

  He didn’t look at me.

  I waited.

  “Wing bones,” he added, catching my expression. “Possibly fractured.” He adjusted his grip on the flute. “He’s roosting near the cottage. I gave him herbs. He’ll mend. Just not quickly.”

  “So not just Celeste’s wolf was injured,” I said. “So, it’s just you two out here. And your guards.”

  He nodded once. “Something I’ll have to adjust to.”

  We walked on.

  It struck me then how much he’d spoken already. More than before. The edge was still there but dulled. Not gone. Just held in check. I didn’t ask why.

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  The brush ahead stirred.

  My hand went to my hilt on instinct. I stepped forward, blade drawn, eyes cutting through the reeds.

  Calum stopped beside me, gaze steady as he scanned the same patch of ground. “What is it?”

  I held still, listening. The movement came again. Small. Uneven.

  My shoulders eased a fraction. “Probably a rabbit.”

  “Probably,” he echoed.

  Yet, whatever was moving ahead wasn’t moving right.

  A flicker of red flashed low through the grass. I stiffened. Another followed, green this time, cutting across my right.

  “Hey,” Calum shouted.

  I spun on him. He stood frozen, flute gone from his hands, fingers fumbling for the blade at his leg.

  I turned back just as the colours vanished.

  Something cracked through the brush to my right. Pain snapped across my wrist and my hand locked reflexively around the hilt. At the same time, a scream tore the air apart. High. Ragged. Furious.

  A small shape tumbled beside me, no bigger than my forearm. It hit the ground hard, clutching its hand, then scrambled backward on clawed feet. Tiny wings beat wildly as it retreated, a green cap flapping loose on its head.

  It shrieked again, spitting words I couldn’t follow. Sharp sounds. Scratched and broken.

  “Oh,” Calum said, blinking. “He’s angry. What did you do to him?”

  I stared at the creature, then at Calum. “You can understand that screeching?”

  He frowned. “You can’t?”

  “It’s all garbles and screeches to me,” I said. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Calum nodded once. “Pixies.”

  “Bloody pixies…” I echoed. “How many?”

  The air filled with soft scrapes and rapid wingbeats. Shapes flickered at the edges of my vision. Five at least. Maybe more. Each a flash of colour as they darted through the reeds. A thud sounded behind me.

  “Ow!” Calum recoiled, swatting at the air. “They’ve got my flute!”

  As if on cue, one of them popped into view, perched on a reed. A red cap sat crooked on its head, the flute clutched overhead like a trophy. Two others hovered nearby, one in green, another in blue, watching eagerly. A fourth darted past my shoulder, laughing, while a fifth circled higher, just out of reach.

  “Hey,” Calum shouted. “Give that back!”

  I snorted despite myself.

  Calum lunged.

  I caught his arm. “Don’t. It might be a...”

  He twisted free with surprising strength. “Let go of me!”

  He took two more steps.

  Then the ground gave way.

  Mud swallowed him with a wet slurp and he vanished from sight.

  “Shit!”

  I ran forward and dropped to my knees, plunging my free hand into the bog where he’d gone under.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  Cold muck closed around my elbow. I swept blindly. Nothing.

  My pulse spiked. How deep was it?

  I pulled back, eyes scanning around me. Nothing! I snapped to the blade. It was the only thing long enough to reach.

  I gripped the hilt. “If I let you feed on the curse,” I asked in a panic, “can he touch you without… you know?”

  The blade hummed, deep and low.

  “No,” the blade said. “I but if I feed on you, he can…”

  “Damn… fuck… Then do it!”

  The sword hummed again louder more urgent.

  “This will hurt,” said the sword.

  I ground my teeth.

  I flipped the sword and drove it down hilt-first, gripping the edge with bare hands. Pain flared as the metal bit into my palms, sharp and immediate, but I held on.

  The world thinned.

  My fake hair slipped from sight as the blade turned inward, its focus narrowing as it drank from the curse coiled inside me first then from me. My knees locked. A sound tore loose from my throat and I swallowed it, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

  I swept the blade through the mud, slow and blind. Nothing. No resistance. No sign of him.

  Around me, high-pitched laughter rose. Pixies flitted just out of reach, wings ticking, voices sharp with delight. I ignored them.

  I dragged in a breath and pressed my weight forward, keeping my chest against solid ground as I dove my head and shoulders deep into the bog. Cold slammed into me, numbing, aggressive. I almost gasped. Almost lost my grip.

  I pushed on. Ignored the pain.

  The blade carved through darkness, stirring thick resistance as I probed wider, lower.

  Then it struck something solid.

  The hilt jerked hard in my hands.

  Something on the other end pulled back.

  Then pain of the sword ripped through me. I jerked back on instinct, but the resistance stayed.

  I pulled.

  Pain tore through me with every inch. My arms shook. My grip slipped in the slick mud, and I scrambled, digging my knees in, hauling myself back.

  Time lost meaning. There was only strain and breath and the burn in my hands.

  I dragged in air as my head cleared the muck and leaned back, bracing both feet. I hauled on the blade with everything I had. My palms screamed. Skin tore. I didn’t let go.

  Then I saw it.

  Fingers locked around the hilt.

  I pulled just enough and lunged forward and caught his wrist, yanking hard, fabric tearing as I dragged his arm free of the muck. Another pull and his shoulder broke the surface. Another and his weight came with it.

  He collapsed onto solid ground, sucking in a wet, ragged breath. He gagged, coughed, convulsed, mud pouring from his mouth as his chest finally started moving on its own.

  I stayed crouched beside him until the panic eased, until his breathing slowed.

  All the while, laughter from many tiny mouths echoed around us.

  Anger and pain twisted together as I stood.

  The pixies went quiet.

  They hovered at the edge of the reeds now, watching, eyes bright and cruel, wings buzzing with disappointment.

  I wiped the mud from the black blade and turned it in my hand. My thumb found the right rune, pressure settling in my chest as anger pushed past the pain.

  I vanished.

  The world folded and snapped back into place as I cleared the bog in a single, reckless leap, landing hard on solid ground beside the pixie clutching Calum’s flute. My boots skidded. Pain flared up my leg, but I didn’t slow.

  I tore the flute from its small, clawed hands. The pixie shrieked, surprise breaking its rhythm just long enough for me to slam a pommel into its face.

  The impact sent it spinning backward in a burst of shimmering dust. It hit the ground, rolled once, and screamed.

  Then it was gone.

  The pixie shot skyward, wings buzzing as it fled into the sky, leaving only drifting particles behind.

  I turned, heart hammering, counting shapes as they scattered. Most were already in the air, their laughter gone replaced by panic.

  Yet, one greedy little pest hadn’t learned.

  It darted low toward Calum, rummaging through the rune pouch at his belt, nimble fingers already fishing for something bright.

  I swore and sprinted.

  I cut wide around the bog this time, mud sucking at my boots, momentum nearly lost. I came up on the far side just as Calum looked up, eyes wide.

  The pixie froze as my shadow fell over it.

  Mud smeared my hands as I grabbed it by the chest and tore it free of Calum’s gear. Its wings beat wildly against my grip, claws scrabbling for purchase as it shrieked and twisted.

  I held on tight, my own blood staining its wings.

  The pixie shrieked as I hurled it skyward and struck it with the flat of my blade like a baseball. It screamed as it was launched, it bounced once then vanished into the sky in a blur of wings and glittering dust.

  “Sturdy little buggers!” I spat.

  I stood over Calum, chest burning, hands shaking with pain and fury. The pressure in my skull eased as I let the invisibility slip. The world settled back into place as Rick’s muddy features obscured my own.

  Calum blinked up at me.

  Mud streaked his face and hair. His chest hitched as he dragged in air, eyes wide and unfocused, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

  For a long moment, he just stared. Mouth open. Silent.

  Then his gaze locked onto mine.

  And he finally understood.