“Can you make any sense of it?” I ask Revelin, watching as his eyes skim over the ancient Fae script bordering the map.
“Perhaps,” he muses, “but not here. This requires time and safety.”
“Back to the bus then,” I suggest, knowing that whatever secrets the map holds, they’re too precious to risk in the open. Fiadh nods, already wrapping her fingers around the map’s edges, her magic flaring briefly to ensure its protection.
“Time to move out, then,” Tiernan says, casting one last glance around the cavern that has given up its secret after centuries of silence.
Revelin’s fingers dance through the air, tracing runes that glow with a soft azure luminescence before sinking into the fabric of Sassy’s bag. The map, now cocooned within the protective charm, settles into its new home, safe from prying eyes and the ravages of time. We all watch, holding our breath until the final glimmer fades, and she secures the clasp with a satisfied nod.
“It should be safe from damage in transit now,” Revelin announces, his tone a blend of relief and caution. “As the big kitty said, we should haul ass out of this place before the damn thing collapses or some shit.”
As if breaking from a spell, we turn to survey the cavern one last time. It’s a museum of impossibilities, each artifact whispering tales of bygone eras. I can almost hear Khal’s voice in my head, chiding me for not appreciating the ‘history shit’ as much as he would.
“Khal would’ve spent years in here,” I mutter to myself, but loud enough for Fi to hear.
She chuckles softly, her gaze lingering on an ornate puzzle box. “Feray would have dismantled and rebuilt every mechanism by now. She’s seems like she’s only super girly and homey since she found Torben, but the girl broke and then fixed more things in our house than you’d ever know.” Her smile is wistful, eyes clouded with the same longing I feel when I think of my brother.
We share a heavy sigh; the sound echoing off the walls, blending with the quiet hum of magic that permeates the air.
“Once we’re in Amber Hollow, we’ll reach out to Rowena again,” Revelin promises, sensing the shift in mood. Fiadh’s face brightens at his words, a spark of hope lighting up her emerald eyes.
“Good,” she replies, shouldering her bag with newfound determination. “She might know more about this map.”
Taking one last glance at the cavern’s treasures, we navigate the maze of puzzle rooms, each step taking us further away from the secrets we’d unearthed. The gateway looms ahead, an archaic structure that hums with energy, ready to whisk us back to our enchanted transport. Our walk back to the bus is quiet, contemplative.
Once we get inside and settled, the Prince pulls out his phone. “We’re ready to head to the capital. Come immediately.” His voice is steady, hiding the undercurrent of urgency that has settled in all our bones.
Within moments, the obsequious supe is climbing the stairs and in the seat. The engine roars to life, and the bus lurches forward, leaving the cavern and its cryptic whispers behind. Outside, the countryside rolls past the windows, a cascade of oranges, reds, and golds painting a picture of Autumn Hollow’s approach. The city, an autumnally glittery marvel, awaits us with its secrets nestled among the falling leaves and the crisp promise of adventure.
“Here’s to finding the damn artifact without anyone dying,” I say, more to myself than the others.
That’s the least we can hope for, right?
My eyelids flutter open to the soft purrs of the bus engine, a lullaby that cannot soothe the storm in my head. I’m sprawled across the loveseat, my limbs tangled in a cozy mess of blankets that smell faintly of earth and pine—a remnant of the forests we’ve passed through. The magical bus, our chariot of absurdity, hums with an energy that seems to pulse in sync with my racing heart.
There’s something watching us, but I don’t know if it’s bad or good.
I sit up, the motion abrupt, as if jerking awake from a nightmare. This is no dream; it’s the reality we’ve been thrust into since arriving in Faerie—a world more complex and twisted than any storybook ever dared depict. My fingers graze the cold window, tracing the condensation as if it could reveal answers to the enigma that has become my life.
The others are still sleeping, their chests rising and falling in a rhythm that I envy. Only men could slobber in their sleep so easily when every closed eye brings flashes of the creatures following us. The secrets, the lies, the half-truths hang over us like specters, just waiting to haunt our consciousness.
I draw my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as I gaze out at the dawn breaking over the horizon. The early light filters through the trees, casting dappled shadows that dance across the interior of the bus. It feels as though we’re stationary in time while everything outside rushes forward.
“Lass?” A voice, groggy with sleep, breaks the silence. Revelin stirs on the seat opposite me, his hair tousledand eyes clouded with concern. I offer him a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes, an attempt to reassure both of us.
The thoughts keep coming, relentless and demanding attention, so we have a plan that keeps us safe.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, drowned out by the sound of the bus shifting gears as it continues to carry us further into the unknown. The weight of what we’ve seen and learned in Faerie anchors heavily in my chest—an anchor I’m not sure I’m strong enough to bear on my own.
But I have to be—for myself, for Feray, for all of us.
We’re in this together—entangled in a web of ancient power and modern deceit, each thread leading back to the heart of who we really are. As the magical bus drives us deeper into this new world, I steel myself. Ready or not, the truth awaits, and I will face it head-on like everything else I’ve had to deal with.
I trace the condensation on the window with my fingertip, drawing aimless patterns while my mind races. Amethyst’s enigmatic smiles and cryptic words replay in my head, along with the cacophony of the groupies’ insults. The fighting ring echoes with the clash of supernatural strength; the skull-headed monsters prowl the edges of my mind. The book—ancient and whispering secrets since we pilfered it from its hiding place in Arrowwood—it feels like a puzzle piece lodged in my throat.
“Witchling.” Dezi’s tone is gentle, but it cuts through my reverie. His dark eyes search mine for an answer I don’t have.
“Something’s not right,” I say, my voice barely audible over the hum of the magical engine.
