“It’s a different part to where Theo’s dragon was sulking,” he explains.
He’s lucky I’m between him and said dragon with the way his chest heats and the rumble from his throat. It all spells violence.
The grass thickens beneath us, lush and emerald, not trodden or trampled. Each blade catches the light as if it’s been polished for presentation. The trees lean inward, their branches weaving together overhead until the sky fractures into thin ribbons of gold and shadow. The air tastes different, clean and sweet.
Theo’s body tightens behind me in a subtle movement, but I feel it in the way his chest shifts against my back. “Something’s off,” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I agree. “My floof has progressed from suffering to numbness. I believe that’s the next stage before detachment.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“It should be.”
Malachi adjusts behind us, the faint hum of Excalibur threading through the quiet like a warning. Nash slows his horse by a fraction, controlling the speed of the group while they assess for threats and where they might be coming from.
Sir Sweeps-A-Lot, for once in his chaotic little existence, pauses mid-spin. His bristles quiver as if he senses impending doom.
“Well,” I utter, glancing around at the meadow we’ve wandered into, “this feels like the sort of place where people die in very poetic ways and then become cautionary tales.”
“We’re not dying,” Hart mutters.
“Great,” I reply. “Have you told that to whatever is watching us from around the meadow?”
“What do you?—”
“I see it,” Nash interrupts. “Correction—I see them.”
Theo’s arm tightens around me as the meadow rustles, bringing with it the scent of wildflowers at dusk.
A white horse steps through, delicate and powerful at the same time. For one glorious, idiotic heartbeat, I think,oh, pretty. Then it lowers its head, and its horn catches the fractured light.
Not delicate. Not decorative. Sharp. Glowing. Lethal in a way that makes it very clear this is not a creature built for admiration but for consequence.
Another steps out, and then another, surrounding us in a tightening net. A herd of stunning unicorns, wronged in so many ways by the Hallows. Their bright, intelligent eyes watch us as they form a slow, deliberate circle around us. Their horns dip in warning, looking sharp enough to maim.
“For the record,” I say, lifting my hands because it feels appropriate when faced with a herd of armed sparkle creatures, “I would like to formally state that I have always supported unicorn rights. Before we even knew what it was, a female with a grudge attacked us and made us wear it. I would never willingly do so. I hope you can forgive a pair of clueless maidens trying to make things right.”
One of them snorts, and I take that as a no. Nash’s horse shifts restlessly beneath him. Hart angles his body as though he’s already mapping out exits that do not exist, and Malachi’s hand hovers near the sword without drawing it, coiled and waiting.
Genie squints at them. “I’ve never seen such a large herd. They are almost extinct on account of misuse of their, well, you know.”
Hooves stomp in outrage.
Gwyneth tilts her head, studying them with that calm, terrifying focus of hers. “Don’t,” she murmurs as Malachi’s fingers tighten.
One unicorn steps forward, larger than the rest, its mane shifting like liquid silver as it fixes us with a knowing stare that digs into the core of my soul and assesses it. I suddenly become very aware of every poor choice I have ever made, which is unfortunate because there are many.
“Right,” I say into the silence, because I have never once improved a situation by staying quiet. “If this is about the speech, in my defense, I’m dealing with revolting Idols and an actively protesting floof.”
The unicorn blinks. I blink back. Then, without warning, it turns and walks away. The rest move with it, not loosening the circle but tightening it in a different way, guiding rather than threatening, pressing us into motion with careful, insistent steps.
Herding.
“I don’t think I like this,” I mutter as one nudges the side of our horse with enough force to make its intention clear.
“We’re being moved,” Nash says.
“I had gathered from the aggressive encouragement,” I reply. “What do we do?”
