"Finn, no!" he heard Sophie calling after him, but he wasn't going to stop. Something drove him forward, though he couldn't say if it was genuine concern for Bran or desire to prove himself.

  "Madden, stop!" Morrigan's command echoed behind him, but the trees swallowed her voice as he plunged deeper into the thicket, not daring to look back.

  The light of his lantern cast strange, shifting shadows among the trees. There was no path and no trail, only trunks and branches and roots reaching for his feet. He was in uncharted territory now, guided only by glimpses of movement ahead and the occasional sound of breaking twigs and rustling leaves from Bran crashing through the undergrowth. At least he hoped that it was Bran. Or else -

  "Bran!" he called, hoping for some kind of reaction. "Wait!"

  Finally, he caught sight of the taller boy standing in a small clearing, his lantern raised high. The apparition of Lachlan hovered at the clearing's far edge, half-translucent now, its form blurring. "Where is he?" Bran shouted, his voice catching. "Where did he go?"

  Finn approached cautiously, trying to steady his breath, his own pulse hammering in his temples. "Bran, listen to me. We need to go back. This is exactly what it wants - to lure you away from the protection of the procession."

  Bran turned towards him, slowly, tears of rage and despair running down his cheeks. "You!" he spat. "Go back to the others. Leave me alone!"

  "I'm trying to help you!" Finn shot back, his own temper rising. "That thing isn't your brother! It's using his likeness to trap you!"

  "Liar!" Bran lunged forward suddenly, shoving Finn hard, punching him in the chest. The surprise attack sent Finn stumbling backward, his lantern flying from his grasp, its flame dying instantly as it hit the ground.

  Darkness engulfed them, broken only by the feeble flicker from Bran's still-burning lantern.

  "Look what you've done!" Bran yelled, looming over Finn. "He's gone because of you, you piece of - "

  "He was never here!" Finn shouted back, scrambling to his feet. "And if you weren't so blinded by pride and stubbornness, you'd see that clearly!"

  With a wordless cry of rage, Bran dropped his own lantern and threw himself at Finn. They went down in a tangle, Bran's size giving him an immediate advantage as they rolled across the forest floor.

  "You know nothing about me!" Bran growled, landing a glancing blow to Finn's chin. "Nothing about my family. Nothing about this world. Nothing about the Aether."

  Finn twisted, breaking free momentarily. "What are you talking about?" He ducked another swing. "You've been hiding behind your family name, pretending you're special because of your bloodline when really - " he grunted as Bran tackled him again, "- you're just an insecure gobshite. Scared you'll never measure up to your brother!"

  The words struck home. Bran froze for a split second, giving Finn the opening he needed to shove Bran away. They faced each other in the dimming light of Bran's overturned lantern, both breathing hard, dirt and leaves clinging to their faces and hands and clothes.

  "You shouldn't be here. You're dangerous. Untrained. Unpredictable." Bran's hands began to glow with pale green light as he called upon his Aether, forming crackling tendrils around his fingers. "My father warned me about you. Said to watch for signs...for proof."

  "Proof of what?" Finn instinctively reached for his own Aether, heat rising in his chest, flowing to his hands where blue-silver light began to shimmer.

  "That you're his - "

  A cackling laugh echoed across the clearing. Both boys whirled to find a bizarre figure standing just a few feet away, a small, wizened man, no taller than their waists. His skin was deeply wrinkled and the color of old leather, his features sharp and pointed beneath a mop of wild red hair. He wore a tattered red coat and leaned on a twisted walking stick carved from rowan wood. Between his baring teeth, he had a long-stemmed pipe with a peculiarly shaped, off-white colored head the size of a walnut.

  "Well, well," the little man said, his voice surprisingly deep for his size, with an accent that sounded ancient, even compared to some of the Academy's masters. "What have we here? Two little Weavers, lost in the woods, on Samhain night. How very... fortunate."

  "Who are you?" Bran demanded, visibly startled, his Aether-wreathed hands curling into fists.

  "Names have power, young Blackthorn," the creature replied and cackled again. "But since you ask so politely, you may call me Far Darrig - the Red Man."

  He bowed with mocking courtesy, his movements exaggerated, jerky, and unsettling.

  "Just a humble traveler enjoying your realm for a night."

  Finn felt a chill race down his spine. He'd read about the Far Darrig in one of its books. It was said to be one of the more sinister fairies, not overtly malicious, but dangerous in his love of cruel tricks and his habit of doling out harsh lessons to those who wandered where they shouldn't.

  "We need to get back to the Academy. Now!" he muttered to Bran, barely moving his lips.

  "Leaving so soon?" The Far Darrig circled behind them with startling speed, blocking their path. "But we haven't even played a game yet! And I do so love games on Samhain night."

  "We...we're not interested in games, thank you," Bran stuttered, his fingers still flickering with Aether.

  "No? Then perhaps a wager?" The Red Man's eyes glinted with sly delight. "A simple challenge. Win, and I'll guide you safely back to your procession. Lose..." He grinned, revealing teeth filed to points. "Well, I could use two strong servants for the winter. Just until Imbolc, mind you. I'm not unreasonable."

  "And if we refuse?" Finn asked, though he already knew the answer. He will take us.

  The Far Darrig's smile widened. "Then we play a different game. One where I hunt, and you run. Though I should warn you." The creature's form blurred momentarily, growing taller, towering over them, before settling back. "Few Weavers outrun me in my own forest."

  Finn and Bran exchanged glances. "What's the challenge?" Bran asked reluctantly.

  The Far Darrig clapped his gnarled hands and donned his sharp-toothed grin.

  "Simple, simple! I present you with three objects." He reached into his tattered coat, pulled out a smooth black stone, a silver key, and a wooden cup, and placed them on a fallen log in front of him. "You simply must choose the one that doesn't belong. Choose correctly, and freedom is yours. Choose wrongly..." The Red Man rubbed his hands together gleefully.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "That's it?" Bran scoffed. "Just pick one object?"

  "Careful," Finn warned. "It can't be that simple."

  "Wise, young Madden," the Far Darrig cackled, swirling his stick. "Indeed, there's a twist. You must decide together. One choice, one voice. Agree, or forfeit."

  Bran stared at the three objects laid out on the log before them. "The stone," he said immediately. "It's natural. The key and cup are crafted."

  "No," Finn pointed at the cup, squatting to study the items more carefully. "Look at the cup. Something's off. The wood...it feels wrong.""

  "What do you mean 'feels wrong'?" Bran frowned. "It's obviously the stone. Any idiot can see that."

  The Far Darrig watched their argument with undisguised amusement, his pointed fingers drumming against his walking stick.

  Finn closed his eyes, searching for his Aether. Whatever it is, maybe it has its own signature, like the plants.

  Blue-silver light flowed from his hands as he hovered them over each object.

  The stone resonated with a deep, steady pulse, just like the Witch's Henge's monoliths in Duncliffe - ancient and natural. The key gave away nothing, at least nothing he could sense. He looked at it more closely. It looked just like a key, a deep metallic brown with a light green patina, man-made but honest in its purpose. But the cup... something about the cup felt wrong. Though it appeared to be no more than carved wood, he could sense something beneath its surface - an unnatural, light magnetic pull.

  "It's the cup," Finn said, opening his eyes. "The cup doesn't belong. It's not what it appears to be."

  "You're just guessing!" Bran growled. "The stone is clearly the odd one out. A blind person can see that!"

  "I'm not guessing," Finn insisted. "I can feel it. There's something else. The cup is hiding it."

  "And why should I trust your feeling?" Bran shot back. " A few classes at the Academy and you think you're— "

  "Try it yourself then." Finn interrupted, stepping closer to Bran, lowering his voice. "Look, I know you don't like me. I know you don't trust me. But right now, we need to work together, or we're both spending the winter with him over there. As his slaves."

  Bran hesitated, his eyes flitting between the Far Darrig and the three objects. His shoulders sagged slightly. "Fine. What am I looking for?"

  "Not sure, but there's something. Just look through them, not at them." Fin stepped aside.

  Bran began channeling his Aether, gliding his palms over the stone, then the key, and lastly, the cup. After what felt like hours, he opened his eyes and looked at Finn.

  "I think you're full of shite, Madden. None of them feel special." His gaze wandered back to the Red Man. "The cup," he finally conceded through clenched teeth. "It's the cup."

  "Final answer?" the Far Darrig asked. The grin had faded from his face as his black little eyes bored into them.

  "Yes," they answered in unison. "The cup doesn't belong."

  For a moment, the Red Man's face contorted with anger. Then, just as quickly, he broke into another cackling laugh. "Well played, little Weavers! Well played indeed!" He snatched back the stone and key, but left the cup sitting on the log. "Few see through my glamours. Fewer still manage to agree when I've set them at odds."

  "You promised to guide us back," Finn reminded him. "We've been away for too long already."

  "And so I shall, so I shall," the Far Darrig assured them, his demeanor suddenly jovial. "But first, a reward for winning my game." He gestured to the cup, which had reverted to its true, macabre form, a small human skull - not bigger than a man's fist - carved from pale bone. "A gift for you, young Madden."

  Finn recoiled. "That's...that's kind of you - but I don't want that cup. Thank you."

  The Red Man cackled again. "Not the cup, boy! What's inside it!"

  And indeed, where before the cup had appeared empty, it now contained a small object, a pendant of tarnished silver on a fine silver chain, etched with spiraling patterns that matched those on Finn's lost Heart-seed.

  "What is it?" Finn asked, hesitant to touch anything offered by the fairy.

  "A key of sorts," the Far Darrig replied. "A piece of what was lost. A fragment of truth." The grin dropped from his face, all playfulness vanishing from his eyes. "Take it, Madden! It's yours by right of blood and choice! "

  Bran stiffened, his gaze darting between Finn and the fairy's gift.

  Carefully, Finn reached for the skull-cup and lifted the pendant from it. The moment his fingers touched the silver, a jolt ran up his arm and settled deep in his chest. The sensation was similar, yet so much more intense than what he'd felt when touching the water elemental bestiary in the Archival Wing and when the bog sprite had shared its vision. It penetrated his muscles and seeped into every single one of his bones from head to spine to toe.

  "What is this?" Finn asked again, more insistently.

  But the Far Darrig had already backed away, his form beginning to blur. "A fragment," he repeated. "Seek its siblings. Make whole what was shattered."

  Before either boy could respond, the fairy dissolved into the shadows, a final crackling laugh echoing among the trees. In his place appeared a path of faintly glowing phosphorescent mushrooms.

  For a moment, Finn and Bran stood in silence, staring after the Red Man, the shock of the encounter settling over them. Then Bran turned away from Finn and stalked off into the forest without another word, deliberately ignoring the glowing path.

  "Bran, wait!" Finn called. "That's not the way!"

  But Bran had already disappeared among the trees, his lantern light fading quickly into the darkness. Finn sighed, turning the silver pendant over in his hands. It was cool to the touch now, but he could still feel something - a faint resonance that had joined his pulse - a connection that felt both new and familiar.

  "Seek its siblings," he murmured, recalling the Far Darrig's final words. The pendant was a fragment - but of what? He slipped it into his pocket and began following the mushroom-lit path into the trees. Whatever secrets it held would have to wait until he reached the safety of the Academy. Behind him, cloaked in shadows, a pair of gleaming eyes watched his departure. Patiently lingering until Finn was swallowed by the forest, they blinked once before slowly melting back into the blackness of Samhain night.