The forests of the Summer realm were as big or as small as they wanted to be. Trees shifted when you weren’t looking, and paths rewrote themselves behind your heels. It was never just a matter of distance—it was a battle of will with the Queen herself.

  Near the Green Rook, the land had always offered some shelter. The Queen’s influence bent around it, dulled by a magic Gretta never understood. Still, the road could stretch or shrink unexpectedly, and if you wandered too far off it, you might never return the same way—if you returned at all.

  Gretta had spent decades learning to read those signs. But now, this far from the tavern, there was no buffer. No safeguards. No gentle curve of the road. No songbirds overhead.

  And something was wrong.

  The Queen was like most fairies—fond of cruel tricks and quick to seize opportunity—but her realm was considered the gentler half of Fairy.

  Not tonight.

  The forest had turned dark. The trees sagged, their trunks blackened with creeping decay. Massive webs spanned between branches, and a heavy fog pressed down on everything like wet wool.

  Even sound felt wrong—muted, dreamlike, as if the fog were swallowing it whole.

  “Should we rest for the night?” Rowan asked. “Maybe the fog will pass by morning.”

  “This fog won’t pass until we make it go,” Meg said.

  “And how does one do that?”

  Meg turned slowly. “There’ll be a proxy,” she said calmly, eyes scanning the mist. “We’ll find them.”

  A chill ran up Gretta’s spine. She shivered.

  “How are your clothes dry?” Gretta asked. “I’m soaked to the bone.”

  Rowan shrugged.

  Meg turned, eyes narrowing. “You’re right. This fog is thick as soup, and he’s bone dry.”

  Rowan ran a hand through his hair. “Perks of desert living?”

  “I don’t think that’s how it works,” Gretta muttered.

  Rowan looked down. A vine had slipped around his ankle and was climbing.

  “Huh,” he said, more curious than alarmed—

  —and then he vanished into the fog with a sharp tug and a muffled omph.

  The mist swallowed the sound.

  Meg drew her sword. It gleamed despite the gloom, bronze slicing through the gray.

  Gretta followed, drawing her obsidian dagger as the fog thickened around them, pressing in like cotton soaked in dread.

  “Rowan?” she whispered. “This is no time to joke around.”

  “Your friend needs a lot of rescuing,” Meg said, scanning the haze.

  Gretta nodded grimly. “Honestly, I think he likes it.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Not sure what’s proxying the Queen’s power here,” Meg muttered. “But it feels strong.”

  “What’s it waiting for?”

  “Your friend’s probably a tough pill to swallow.”

  “I’ll bet,” Gretta said. “We should still try to save him.”

  “Can you feel which way we definitely shouldn’t go?” Meg asked.

  Gretta closed her eyes and stretched her senses, feeling the tug of wrongness like a rope made of static. She pointed. “Over there.”

  “Stay close. Watch the sword.”

  Meg took two steps, then leapt forward in a clean arc, blade whistling.

  A shrieking scream tore through the fog, stabbing into Gretta’s ears.

  She flinched—then something massive and green slammed into her from the side. Meg, hurled like a cannonball, crashed into her and sent them both tumbling as the world spun.

  They hit the ground hard and skidded until her ribs howled in protest. Her wrist throbbed. Her spine lit up with pain.

  Everything hurt.

  “Getting slower, Miss Dew,” a woman’s voice crowed from the mist. “I had heard you were dangerous.”

  Meg stumbled to her feet, her sword gone, but she curled her fists into balls, ready for a fight.

  Gretta groaned and found her feet. Her dagger was gone. She stumbled to Meg and watched her back.

  “Can you do that bird-cat thing?” Meg asked in a whisper.

  “Yes!” the hag cackled. “Yes, do the bird-cat thing! Let’s see what breaks first.”

  “Still healing,” Gretta said. “Even now, pulling magic is like sucking bread through a straw.”

  The voice suddenly became curious. “Who is your companion? She feels…ancient. She’s going to make a fine meal.”

  “Get ready,” Meg whispered. “The fog—it’s thinning.”

  The voice became nervous. “What are you doing?”

  The fog was thinning. Gretta saw a glint of bronze to their left—and even closer, the obsidian dagger. Not far past the weapons was an ancient, stooped woman holding a dagger over Rowan. He was bleeding from many wounds. Vines gagged his mouth, and his limbs were wrapped by more thorned vines. Every time fog drifted near him, it sparkled and vanished as if the very substance was unmade.

  The woman hadn’t realized the fog was gone as Meg cleared the distance, snatching up her sword as she passed and freed the hag’s head from her shoulders with a mighty swing.

  Rowan groaned as the head bounced off his sternum.

  “Hold still,” Meg said. “I’ll get you out of there.”

  Rowan’s eyes went wide at the sight of Meg’s bloody sword. He let out a few muffled sounds that were probably meant to express his strong preference for not being rescued by decapitation.

  Gretta grabbed her dagger as she strode over. “Stop whining.”

  “Mhrmph. Mhrmph.”

  “It’ll only hurt for a second,” Meg said.

  With a pop, the vines broke, and Rowan rolled further away, pulling at the plants that were gagging him. “I’m good.” He was panting hard. “I’m good.”

  “Looks like we have a place to stay for the night,” Gretta said as she gestured toward a small hut that the fog had hidden.

  The hut was ancient but well maintained. Dozens of plants were around the outside of the house, including the one that had grown to extraordinary proportions to wrap up Rowan. At the moment, all of the plants looked harmless and natural.

  Meg cleaned her sword off on the Hag’s clothes, then sheathed it. “Why not? Let’s see if she had anything to eat.”

  “Aren’t you worried it’ll be poisonous?” Rowan asked, following behind with a slight limp.

  “Nah,” Meg said. “People don’t usually poison themselves.”

  Gretta opened the door. The warm smell of fresh-baked cookies drifted out.

  “Sure,” Rowan muttered. “But they might bake poison cookies for guests.”

  “If you’re too cowardly to eat cookies,” Meg said, “that’s more for me.” She pushed her way into the hut.

  Gretta watched as Rowan stood there bleeding, looking down at the hag’s body. A green mist of magic was drifting up, as if her essence was escaping, and even as she watched, the hag began shriveling like weeks-old rotting fruit.

  Gretta frowned. Was it bad form to kill somebody and then eat their cookies?

  Then again, they were still warm.

  Rowan bent down and picked up a small silver ring that had slipped off the hag’s finger. From where Gretta stood, it looked unremarkable—no gems, no markings, just plain silver.

  He shrugged and slipped it into his pocket.

  Gretta followed as he limped after Meg, both of them disappearing into the warm cookie-scented dark.