Rowan slung the snakeskin pack over his shoulders. The texture was strange—cold, smooth, and somehow alive. It didn’t just sit there; it clung, like it recognized him.

  “You’re keeping that?” Gretta asked, eyeing it like it might bite.

  “It’s a gift from Fairy,” he said, adjusting the strap. “Feels like... it’s mine.”

  “It’s kind of creepy,” she muttered.

  “It suits him,” Meg said dryly. “Let’s go.”

  The air was warm, but Rowan felt cold sweat sticking to his spine. His chest ached—deep, tight, like something inside him had started pulling apart.

  Meg took a few steps down the freshly risen road—a winding strip of stone that hadn’t existed an hour ago. It shimmered faintly in the light, as if Fairy hadn’t decided yet what color it wanted to be.

  She looked back.

  “I’m coming,” Rowan called. His voice rasped, and he had to pause to cough into his arm. It started in his throat, sharp and dry, but it rattled by the end—deep and wet. Not a good sign.

  “All you did was stand up,” Meg said. “How are you going to fight a demon lord in this condition?”

  Rowan straightened with effort. “If I can get the demons to the Void, I’ll manage. It’s tougher trying to contain them and maintain a physical body at the same time.”

  “How long have you contained demons before?” Meg asked.

  He forced a smirk. “Every second is a new record. Before this? Maybe a few minutes. Tops.”

  “That’s not promising,” she muttered.

  “Well, he was holding all of the demons,” Gretta offered.

  “Except my brother, the lord of demons,” Rowan muttered. “He got away.”

  “Yeah, and that’s been just lovely,” Meg said. “I really enjoyed switching from tavern bouncer to demonic pest control. Real career highlight.”

  “Sorry about that,” Rowan said automatically.

  “You always take credit for the worst parts of everything,” Gretta said.

  He didn’t argue. “Because they are my fault.”

  Gretta shook her head. “I’ve had years to think about this. They’re not.”

  Rowan glanced over, but she wasn’t looking at him. She kept her eyes on the road ahead.

  “You never wanted to be a god,” she said quietly. “But you did it to help your friend. You didn’t want to stop a power-hungry god from ascending, but you did it to save a child. You didn’t want to save magic, but you went to Purgatory to try anyway. And you definitely didn’t want to come to Fairy.”

  Her voice softened. “But you did it for me.”

  Rowan didn’t reply. He just kept walking, one step at a time. Every joint ached. Every breath scraped.

  Gretta slowed beside him. He could feel her watching him, and when he finally looked over, their eyes met. Not long. Just enough.

  There was something in her expression—familiar, steady. Like she’d already decided she’d follow him into whatever hell came next.

  He almost said thank you. Almost said he didn’t deserve it.

  Instead, he offered a lopsided smile. “You’ve changed.”

  “Life is change,” she said.

  “Are you two going to kiss?” Meg asked, deadpan.

  Rowan coughed once, then shook his head. “Pretty sure I’d pass out halfway through.”

  “He looks like he’s half my age,” Gretta said, straight-faced. “And no, of course not.”

  Meg shrugged. “You’re the same age. And since you got that tattoo around your neck, you’ve been looking younger by the minute. Looks like you won’t need to bind yourself to Fairy after all.”

  Gretta reached up and touched something at her collarbone—just a small movement, but Rowan caught the glint of a chain and a faint pulse of blue light.

  A vial. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, but it glowed softly, like moonlight filtered through water. She tucked it beneath her shirt before he could really see it.

  For a second, the glow lit the edge of the tattoo curling up her neck—still dark, still sharp. The Wild Mother’s mark.

  Rowan felt a tug in his chest that had nothing to do with the demons or the coughing fit simmering behind his ribs. She was stronger now. More than the girl he used to know. More than human.

  He took a breath and immediately regretted it—his lungs protested, and he coughed again, the sound scraping its way out like it didn’t want to leave.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “How far is it to the Summer Court?” he rasped, forcing one foot in front of the other.

  Meg’s long stride brought her beside him in a blink. Gretta joined her a heartbeat later, matching his pace without comment.

  “You going to tell us about the ‘Your Highness’ thing, Anathina?” Gretta asked, not unkindly.

  Meg snorted. “It’s nothing.”

  “You’re immortal,” Gretta said. “I never thought to ask about your parents. I’m sorry about that.”

  Meg kept walking, gaze fixed ahead. “Leave it.”

  The air went quiet. Just the sound of boots on stone and Rowan’s breathing, which was getting louder in his own ears. Too loud.

  He thought about making a joke—something about crowns or secret fan clubs. The line formed, but it landed without flair. He just didn’t have the energy for delivery.

  So he kept walking, eyes on the horizon, trying not to count his steps.

  Rowan cleared his throat and forced a grin. “So… does this mean you have a secret fan club? I’m picturing a whole line of admirers at the Summer Court—waiting to get your autograph. Maybe a few enchanted headshots?”

  Meg glanced over, frowning. “Pictures? Like… paintings? Why would anyone sign somebody else’s painting?”

  “It’s something famous people do on Earth,” Gretta explained, a hint of amusement in her voice.

  “Weird,” Meg muttered. “Here in Fairy, anyone who recognizes me is more likely to stab me than hand me a canvas.”

  Rowan chuckled—then doubled over mid-step, the laugh turning into a sharp, wet cough. His knees buckled, and the world tilted. He threw his hands out too late to stop the fall completely.

  Gravel bit into his palms. The sky spun above him in slow, uncaring circles.

  Meg sighed, then crouched and scooped him up with one arm under his knees, the other behind his back—like he weighed nothing.

  “I gotcha,” she said, her voice more gentle than he expected.

  Rowan tried to protest, but the words caught in his throat. Everything felt distant. His arms hung limp, and the wind prickled against skin that felt too cold and too hot at once.

  She cradled him easily, her footsteps steady and slow. The world swayed with each stride, and he let his head fall against her shoulder. No point pretending anymore.

  The road wound through endless poppy fields, the petals glowing faintly in the moonlight—red and silver and violet, shifting colors like dreams he couldn’t quite hold onto.

  Somewhere along the way, he lost track of time. His eyes drifted shut, opened, shut again. Fairy whispered around him in a language made of scent and light and breath.

  When he came to again, the sky was deep violet, and trees arched overhead like cathedral vaults. The air smelled like moss and woodsmoke.

  “I’m telling you,” Meg said around a mouthful, “it tastes like rabbit.”

  “Well, it’s definitely not chicken,” Gretta replied. “And it better not be snake.”

  Rowan surfaced slowly—first to the scent of woodsmoke and meat, then the crackle of fire, then the murmur of voices. His eyes blinked open, and the world took a moment to resolve into shapes and shadows.

  Gretta and Meg were sitting near the fire, each holding some kind of roasted meat—on the bone, lightly charred, vaguely untrustworthy.

  “Where’d you get food?” Rowan croaked. His voice sounded like someone had sandpapered his lungs.

  “Your fancy pack,” Meg said, licking grease from her fingers. “Fairy must’ve enchanted it.”

  “We couldn’t get it off you,” Gretta said. “It only has one strap, but it wouldn’t budge. Like it didn’t want to let go.”

  Rowan blinked and looked over his shoulder. The snakeskin pack was still strapped to him like it had never left. He tugged it off and opened it—empty.

  “That’s not a very good joke,” Rowan muttered, turning the empty pack over like a sleight-of-hand trick had gone wrong.

  “It’s no joke,” Gretta said, rising and walking over. She offered her hand, steady and familiar.

  He took it. His fingers felt numb, but her grip was firm as she helped him sit up.

  “Close it up and tell it what you need,” she said.

  Rowan squinted at her like she’d grown a second head. “You seriously need better material.”

  “Just do it,” Meg called from the fire, still chewing. “We already got dinner out of it.”

  Rowan sighed. “Fine. I need a coffee.”

  He opened the bag with a little flourish. Still empty.

  “Hilarious,” he said. “Truly, the gods are laughing.”

  “Maybe it only works with things that exist in Fairy,” Gretta offered. “Try something simpler.”

  Rowan closed his eyes. The fire was warm. His head hurt. Everything ached.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “I wish I had something to drink.”

  The pack lurched suddenly, like something had been dropped into it. Rowan nearly dropped it in surprise.

  He opened the flap again. Inside sat a leather waterskin—rough and worn, with a stopper of pale wood and a thick cord looped around its neck. It looked hand-stitched, old but well-kept.

  He picked it up. It was ice-cold against his skin, as if it had just been pulled from a glacier.

  “Open it,” Gretta said, crouching nearby. “Carefully.”

  “Great,” Rowan muttered.

  He pulled the stopper—and immediately sloshed freezing water across his chest and lap. “Oof! Dammit—”

  Meg snorted without looking up.

  Rowan gave the skin a cautious sniff. It smelled clean—crisp, like snowmelt. He took a sip.

  Then another. Then he drained it in a series of greedy gulps, the chill shocking but glorious. When it was empty, he let out a long breath.

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s not a magical sword, but that’s pretty amazing.”

  “We found out that if you put something back in,” Gretta said, “it disappears.”

  Rowan narrowed his eyes. “Disappears like... stored safely? Or disappears like we’re feeding some ancient pocket dimension that’s eventually going to demand a blood tithe?”

  “No idea,” Gretta said. “Didn’t test it with anything valuable.”

  “Great,” Rowan muttered. “So there’s a non-zero chance we’ve been robbing an interdimensional witch who tracks inventory.”

  Meg chuckled from across the fire. “You of all people are going to ask how magic works?”

  “It seems to work best if you don’t ask for anything too specific,” Gretta said, poking at the fire with a stick.

  “Which is why we’re eating mystery meat,” Meg added, gnawing on the bone.

  Rowan gave Gretta a sideways look. “You used to be more cautious.”

  She met his eyes. “You knew me a long time ago. I’ve learned that sometimes… you have to take chances to survive.”

  Rowan hesitated, then looked down at the pack. His fingers brushed the snakeskin, still cool despite the firelight.

  “I wish I had a way to get you home,” he said quietly.

  The bag jerked suddenly in his lap, heavy enough to make him flinch. It slipped from his hands and hit the ground with a soft thud.

  Something slid out of it—a book. Thick, ancient, bound in dark leather, its edges stitched in silver thread. It landed softly between his boots—ancient, inevitable, and waiting.