Darren stood frozen, just like the block of ice he was staring at, and it took him several more seconds to realize that this was it.

  This was the Package.

  It was a woman.

  A living, breathing woman.

  When Hades had said that he would be delivering a package, he had expected an object of sorts that he would have to carry on him at all times until it was ready for the handoff.

  Accompany should have been the word the King of the Underworld had used.

  But even Darren could not accuse Hades for lying.

  Sometimes the greatest deceptions revolved around the simple act of not showing another the whole picture.

  That did not make him any less mad though.

  “What the fuck is this?” Darren turned sharply toward Charon.

  The Ferryman, however, did not look surprised in the slightest. The god knew about the mean trick that his patron had played on the man. If anything, there was a faint, almost apologetic stiffness to the way he shrugged.

  “Listen, kid,” Charon coughed, pity in his tone. “You made a deal with the King of the Underworld. I’m just the messenger.”

  That did nothing to help his irritation. He had already been expecting this journey to be dangerous and this was somehow worse. Because it wasn’t just a simple task anymore. It wasn’t even a straightforwardly impossible one.

  There were complications now, ones that Darren might not be able to overcome.

  He looked back at the woman, forcing himself to actually study her.

  The woman was young, likely only a few years younger than he was, though Darren knew better than to trust appearances after all the immortals he had come across thus far. But he knew she was not one of the gods. She was mortal. Because Charon had said her name and it was one that he recognized well.

  Elarion.

  The Royal Family of Easthaven, a Kingdom that Darren knew well. In fact, he had already thought of Magnus Elarion, Head Mage of the Magic Tower, not too long ago. His crystalline technology was legendary in Hiraeth, so much so that Darren had thought of them the first time he’d laid eyes on the crystal housing the System itself.

  This couldn’t be a coincidence.

  It couldn’t be.

  So he wasn’t alone, then.

  He wasn’t the only one from his world who had survived.

  He also remembered the princess, the girl who had become Queen, who had been someone his daughter had looked up to.

  Marianne Elarion had Rosalia’s bright red hair, vivid even under the muted light of the chamber. But that was where the similarities ended. Her straight hair was cut pixie short, for practicality's sake. Her body was taut with muscle, built not for courtly appearances but for combat. Bandages wrapped around her chest, stark white against her skin, while baggy white trousers hung low on her hips, leaving much of her body exposed. It wasn’t provocative, clearly the attire of someone who valued freedom of movement over modesty.

  Then, there were the scars. She had more of them than even Darren himself had on his own body.

  They were everywhere. Some thin and pale, others jagged and few were clean. They mapped her body, each one told a story of the battles she must have survived up till now.

  This was no sheltered royal.

  This was a warrior.

  The Wicked Witch, he thought, the title fitting disturbingly well.

  Marianne Elarion looked like trouble incarnate, the kind that didn’t wait to be provoked.

  It was trouble that he did not want to have to handle.

  Charon’s voice pulled him back from his train of thought.

  “I would say it’s too late to back out,” the Ferryman raised both hands slowly, palms out. “But now’s probably the best time to do it. Whatever you choose to do, I won’t interfere.”

  The god meant it. He really did see himself as just the messenger.

  Darren stared at Marianne, his eyes never meeting the Ferryman of the Dead's. Charon wasn't wrong. He could still turn back. But as complicated as this had just become, walking away now would be its own kind of damnation. The thought of turning his back on this deal never crossed his mind. Not even once.

  He needed to see them again.

  He had to.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Darren finally said. “I’ll hold my end of the bargain just like we agreed upon. When you see your King again, tell him that I'm expecting him to do the same.”

  Charon studied him for a moment, lips pursed as though he was considering giving Darren a word of warning. Something unreadable passed through the Ferryman’s eyes—approval, perhaps, or resignation—but whatever words lingered there were ultimately swallowed. He gave no response, only a faint exhale through his nose, nodding as he acknowledged Darren's decision.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  “Now,” Darren continued, turning his focus back to the task at hand, “for the instructions.”

  The man glanced back towards the chamber of which held Marianne Elarion. The magical energy that had frozen Marianne in place, binding her as securely as chains would, began to loosen when that door had opened. The ice encasing the Wicked Witch of Humanity cracked and had already begun to melt. Charon noticed it too. The Ferryman's gaze flicked back more than once, cautious, as though he expected something catastrophic the moment that ice finished melting.

  “I understand that Hades told you the Package needed to be delivered to the God of War."

  Darren nodded.

  That much, at least, had been clear from the start.

  “The problem is…” Charon continued, pausing just long enough to make Darren uneasy, “his whereabouts are currently unknown.”

  Darren let out a groan before he could stop himself, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

  “Could this get any bloodydamn worse?”

  Any existing hope that this task might still be easy vanished. He really had been a fool to believe otherwise. Nothing tied to deals made with the likes of Hades could ever be so simple.

  “You are to find the Emissary to the City of Iron,” Charon went on. “Word is that he has been wandering the Lands of the Lost. He will lead you to that city where you will find those who can lead you to the God of War.”

  "I shall record this for future use." The System added.

  Darren took in a sharp breath. The instructions were vague, layered with unknowns and places he had never heard of. But there was another thing that caught the man's attention. It was confirmation of what he had already been suspecting. The System’s voice rang clear in his head, unnoticed even by the god who stood just a few feet away from him.

  Only he could hear Merlyn.

  It was oddly reassuring. It was proof that this System belonged to him alone.

  Darren didn’t understand what the City of Iron was, nor had he ever heard of Lands of the Lost or its Emissary. But he trusted that, in time, those gaps would be filled.

  Eventually, the answers would reveal itself to him like they always did.

  Charon’s attention drifted toward the windows lining the deck. Pale light crept in from outside, heavy and oppressive in a way that made Darren’s skin prickle.

  “We’re approaching the Gates of the Underworld,” Charon then turned back to Darren, his voice solemn. “You have received your instructions, and the Package is now in your hands, Darren Ittriki.”

  The Ferryman gave him a nod.

  “The rest,” he finished, “is up to you.”

  Darren straightened.

  The path forward was uncertain and behind him, the last of the ice binding the one who would walk with him on it was nearly gone.

  “That’s everything?” he asked, needing to be sure.

  He had to know there wasn’t some crucial detail that had mistakenly been left unsaid.

  Charon nodded again. “That’s everything.”

  The Ferryman lingered on the moment just a little longer, his gaze fixed on Darren with an intensity that hadn’t been there before.

  “Listen to me, kid,” his voice lower now. “Be careful out there. Focus on keeping your sanity in check, lest you lose your mind.”

  The warning was delivered plainly, almost kindly, yet it made him incredibly uneasy. It wasn’t the words themselves—it was the look on Charon’s face.

  There was fear.

  There was genuine fear not for himself, but for Darren.

  Coming from the Ferryman of the Dead, that made even the greatest swordsman in history nervous.

  Charon was already beginning to make his way toward the far end of the deck as the ship prepared for arrival.

  “And just a word of warning,” he added just as he began to leave “If you make it to the City of Iron, there will be many who want the Witch dead. Keep a low profile. And above all else, I would make sure you watch your back around her if I were y—”

  He never finished his sentence.

  Because the Ferryman of the Dead should have taken his own advice.

  With Charon’s back turned and Darren’s attention fixed on his words, neither of them noticed that the last remnants of ice had already melted away. There was no dramatic sound, just the quiet, final release of whatever had been holding her in place.

  Darren’s eyes widened as a familiar screen flashed into existence before him.

  // Marianne Elarion, The Wicked Witch of Humanity

  // Threat Level: ERROR [ Level 402727 ]

  Merlyn’s acknowledgment of her awakening was almost instant.

  But still, it came too late.

  The woman's calm expression finally broke, eyes fluttering open as her lips curled into a grin so sharp that it matched her title perfectly.

  It was a grin that was as Wicked as it could possibly be.

  Charon caught Darren’s look of shock and spun around, instincts finally kicking in. But, just like the System, he was already too late.

  Marianne moved fast, becoming a blur as she rushed out of the chamber. Then she swung hard, her fist driving straight into Charon’s gut with terrifying force. The impact was immense and the immortal was lifted clean off his feet, sent crashing backward through the window in a spray of shattered glass and wrenching metal. Just like that the Ferryman was gone, his body disappearing into the silver waters below with a distant splash.

  Silence followed.

  Marianne hissed softly, flexing her hand as she shook out her arm, wincing at the recoil of her punch.

  Then she turned toward Darren.

  For one heart-stopping moment, Darren braced himself. He would likely be next. He tensed, ready for whatever the Wicked Witch planned sending his way.

  Instead, her expression softened. The wicked grin melted into something else entirely. It was a smile of pure happiness. Adoration, even.

  “It is good to see you again, old timer,” Marianne said warmly.

  Darren stared at her. He looked to the gaping hole in the side of the ship, cold wind rushing in through shattered glass, then back at her again.

  “Why,” he asked slowly, incredulously, “in the world did you do that!?”

  He was still too stunned to fully process what had just happened. One second Charon had been there, delivering instructions and dire well-intentioned warnings, and the next he’d been violently ejected into the waters of the Underworld Rivers.

  Marianne blinked at him, then tilted her head as if the answer were painfully obvious.

  “Oh, come on,” she said lightly. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  The Witch spread her arms, gesturing broadly to the ship around them.

  Darren could only stare, reality finally sinking in with dread.

  This journey hadn’t just become complicated.

  It might just go completely off the rails.

  “We're going to need a form of transportation, don’t we?” Her grin returned, wider and far more dangerous. “Let’s hijack this bloodydamn ship!”