“Try not to die out there, sweetheart,” she adds with genuine affection warming her voice, despite the casual way she discusses our potential demise. She blows him a theatrical kiss that would make a court dandy proud. “All of you be safe. The realm has precious little room for more ghosts.”
Rue catches the satchel with a flourish that would be impressive if it weren’t so utterly ridiculous given thecircumstances, securing it to his saddle with practiced ease. Then he sweeps into a bow so low and elaborate that it’s a miracle he doesn’t tumble right off his horse. “I make no promises about the dying part,” he calls back, his voice carrying that familiar note of mischief that somehow manages to lighten even the darkest moments. “But I do promise to look absolutely devastating while doing it.”
I turn in my saddle to face Lucky properly, this woman who has shown us kindness when she had every reason to turn us away, who had risked her own safety to help us when the smart thing would have been to pretend she’d never seen us at all. “Lucky,” I say, my voice thick with gratitude I can’t quite express. “It was nice meeting you. Thank you for all of your help.”
She waves her hand dismissively, but I catch the pleased flush that colors her cheeks. “Oh, you’re most welcome, Miss Esme. I’m just glad I could help, even if it was only pointing you toward the right kind of trouble instead of the wrong kind. Now go on, get moving before I change my mind and decide to keep you here where it’s safe.”
Locke inclines his head to her with something approaching respect. Then he’s wheeling his mount around, and we’re following suit, the horses’ hooves ringing against the cobblestones as we clatter away from the safety of the Dog & Dagger and into whatever fresh hell awaits us on the road ahead.
We ride in silence for what feels like hours, the only sounds the rhythmic splash of hooves cutting through puddles and the steady drip of water from overhanging branches that seem determined to soak us to the skin despite our cloaks. The landscape around us is painted in shades of gray and green, muted and melancholy beneath the overcast sky.
Sam’s taken his wolf form again, and I can’t help but smile despite our grim circumstances as I watch him bound alongsidemy mare with obvious joy at the chance to stretch his legs properly. His massive brown form moves with surprising grace through the muddy terrain, his heavy paws sending up great splashes as he leaps through puddles with the enthusiasm of a puppy discovering rain for the first time. The sight makes something warm bloom in my chest. After everything we’ve been through, after all the darkness and pain, there’s something profoundly healing about watching him simply exist in a moment of pure, uncomplicated happiness.
Even as I laugh at his playful antics, I can feel the nervous tension rolling off him in waves, the way his ears stay constantly alert, swiveling at every sound, the way his eyes keep darting up to check on me with worry. He keeps pace easily with the horses, but there’s a restlessness in his movement that speaks of instincts screaming warnings he can’t quite articulate. I feel it too, that prickle along my spine that says something is shifting in the wind, something that tastes like danger on the horizon.
After what feels like an eternity of riding through increasingly desolate landscape, I’m grateful when Rue finally breaks the oppressive silence that’s been weighing on us all.
“This place we’re heading toward,” he says, and his voice is quieter than usual, stripped of its typical flair. “It was once a battlefield. Thousands upon thousands of years ago, back when the Light and Night Courts decided they’d rather tear each other to bloody pieces than find a way to coexist.”
I guide my horse closer to his, drawn by the unusual gravity in his voice. Rue has always been the one to lighten dark moods with jokes and flirtation, but there’s no trace of his usual levity now. “What happened there?” I ask, though part of me already dreads the answer.
His eyes grow distant, as if he’s seeing scenes from that ancient carnage play out before him. “Blood spilled into the ground in rivers. Not just the blood of those fae, but theirmagic too. The worst kind you can imagine, dark and hate-filled, poisonous with rage and despair. It all seeped deep into the soil like acid, tainting everything it touched. The dead. . .” He pauses, his throat working as if the words themselves taste bitter. “They say the dead were left exactly where they fell. No rites, no proper burials, no songs to speed their souls to whatever comes after. Just bodies rotting under the open sky while carrion birds feasted.”
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the damp air. “Why would they do that? I thought even in war there were codes, honor among enemies, respect for the fallen.”
Rue’s laugh is harsh, devoid of any warmth. “Honor?” He shakes his head slowly. “There was no honor in that war, Esme my dear. Only hatred so pure it burned everything it touched. They say the land itself wanted us to remember, wanted the scar to remain as a reminder of what we’re capable of when we let our worst impulses drive us. The ground refused to heal. Nothing grows in the Plains now, not so much as a blade of grass. Death feeds more death, they say. The place is cursed, and creepy as fuck in my professional opinion.”
Before I can respond, Locke suddenly pulls his mount to a halt at the crest of a ridge ahead of us. There’s something in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hand unconsciously drifts toward his sword hilt, that makes my stomach clench with dread. When we join him and follow his gaze down into the valley below, I understand why he’s stopped.
Sam immediately drops out of his playful demeanor, a low growl rumbling from deep in his chest as his hackles rise. He paces in tight circles, whimpering softly in the back of his throat, and I can feel his distress like a physical weight pressing against my ribs.
The Plains of the Dead spread before us like a wound in the world itself. Gray and brittle and rotting with the weightof ancient memory, the land looks diseased, as if some terrible plague had drained all life and color from it. The transition is so abrupt it’s almost violent. Healthy trees and green grass simply stop, as if refusing to grow another inch forward into that cursed ground. Fog rolls across the barren expanse in slow, lazy waves, and high above, carrion birds circle in patient spirals. These aren’t ordinary crows or ravens, these creatures are twisted, mutated things with too many eyes that gleam like polished glass and hooked talons that look capable of tearing through steel.
Bones litter the earth as far as the eye can see, some scattered randomly by wind and time, others still arranged in the rough approximation of the bodies they once were. Entire skeletal warriors lie sprawled across the gray soil, their armor and weapons still clinging to them as if they might rise at any moment to continue fighting a war that ended millennia ago.
Locke guides his horse back until he’s beside me, close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes keep scanning the horizon for threats. “This is the Plains of the Dead,” he says quietly.
There’s an eeriness to this cursed ground that goes beyond the visual, something that seeps into your bones and whispers of despair. Even the air tastes wrong, thick with grief and ancient rage that never had the chance to properly die.
Sam shifts back to human form without warning, his transformation more violent and desperate than usual. He’s panting and shaking as he makes his way to where his horse is tethered to mine, grabbing his pack with hands that tremble as he pulls on clothes and boots with jerky, urgent movements. “My wolf doesn’t want to be here,” he says, and I can hear the distress in his voice. “Every instinct I have is telling me to run.”
“None of us want to be here,” Locke murmurs, and for once his stoic mask slips enough to show his unease beneath.
“But alas, our dear Esme isn’t going to make it easy for us, is she?” Rue snorts, though the usual bite in his teasing is muted by genuine apprehension. Even as he speaks, he hasn’t taken his eyes off the Plains below, as if expecting something to come crawling up out of that cursed ground to drag us down into it.
I’ve seen enough. Whatever trial awaits me down there, whatever test I’m meant to face, putting it off will only make it worse. The sooner I can get this over with, whatever ‘this’ turns out to be, the better. I’m the one who urges my mare forward first, down the steep slope toward that wasteland of memory and death, and I can feel the others reluctantly following behind me.
We ride down into the Plains as the sun begins its slow descent toward the mountain peaks. The sky bleeds deep crimson and gold across the horizon, beautiful in a way that seems almost obscene given our surroundings. The silence deepens with every step our horses take, muffling sound in a way that makes even our breathing seem unnaturally loud. It’s as if the very air is thick with the weight of the dead, pressing down on us like a physical thing.
When we finally reach the edge of the trees where all life ceases to exist, none of us are in any hurry to dismount. There’s something about this place that makes every survival instinct scream warning, some invisible force that seems to be pushing back against our presence here. I’m about to voice this feeling, when something lands on my shoulder with a soft thud.
I flinch, nearly crying out, but the sound dies in my throat when I see what’s perched there. It’s one of those twisted carrion birds from above. Up close it’s even more disturbing than I’d imagined. Its feathers are black as midnight but shot through with an oily iridescence that shifts and moves in ways that hurt to look at directly. It doesn’t peck at me or scream, it simply stares with those horrible milky eyes, three of them arranged in a triangle around a beak that looks sharp enough to pierce bone.
Then its voice enters my mind without warning, bypassing my ears entirely to speak directly into my thoughts.
Part the veil. Enter the trial. Walk forward, daughter of death and dreams.
I dismount without a word, my body moving before my mind can process the command. By now, I’m familiar enough with the way magic works in these trials to recognize compulsion when it hits me, but this doesn’t feel forced. It feels inevitable, like gravity or the tide, something I could no more resist than I could stop my own heart from beating.
