Her jaw slackened as her mind caught up to what her eyes were perceiving. The entire thing had been taken—moved out and replaced. Instead, a low, bumpy mountain sat over what had once been the slow bend of the river wetlands.

She could see its outline clearly against the rest of the forest. Dark and rocky, devoid of flora except for small, scraggly-looking trees and shrubs, along with acidic-philic plants that bent in the cracks of the ground in clumps and series. The back of it made a craggy outcrop against the slow slope of the forest and valley beyond.

And the smell…

Her diaphragm spasmed, a hint of bile crawling into the back of her throat as the stench of rotting blood and sulfur mixed into the spriggy scent of the forest. This time, there was a miasma—she could see it clearly, slipping up from the dense, coarse ground like a dark ground fog, a larger remnant of the stuff she’d seen off the first hellhound she’d encountered. Her mind flipped back to the wiry, lean roughness of its coat, the way it seemed to wear the rot and acid like a cloak.

Slowly, the area settled in her woodcraft like a shiver.

Silence lay thick in the air—even thicker than before—and a distinct unease crawled through her skin. Every inch of her was taut, wary, alert. Ready for action. Her eyes darted to and fro, senses working in overdrive, searching.

It was clear something had happened here. Fires burned here and there, dotting the landscape like scattered sheep. Bodies slumped in their glow, their bumps and outlines more solid than the ground they lay on—demons. She recognized the snout of one hellhound, its snarl limp and dead, and the mangled wing of another demon sticking out like a broken umbrella post. The smell of death and sulfur pressed against her senses like a hot rag.

As she followed the light of one fire, and her attention landed closer to the small mountain, her breath died in her throat.

“Is that… a fortress?”

Distinct battlements lined the lower crags of the mountain, fitted in a rough, carved style. Columns and balustrades, arching in paths and criss-crossing up the slope, along with what looked to be stone steps accompanying them, if she squinted properly.

Her blood ran cold as the implications sank in.

“I’m not crazy, am I? This is where Ulchris used to sit, right?”

She’d been to it, once. Keenly remembered the view. A small white temple half-hidden in the trees on a rise by the river, a quiet road snaking its way up to it through the forest.

“You’re correct. Ulchris used to be here. Now, it’s…”

“A demon fortress,” she finished for him.

Gods, it really had just transplanted itself, hadn’t it? There was even a glint of water through the trees where the river had diverted, flooding several fields like a dark, rushing pool. She stared, feeling the coolness of the water prick distantly in her woodcraft.

“Yes.”

She didn’t need to look to the side to see Nales’ tension—she could feel it. He knelt next to her like a meercat, back and neck stiff, face wary, his entire body still as a hunting spider. Like her, he also had his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“It’s not supposed to be here,” he sputtered. “Even when he ruled, his hold was on the other side, in the infernal realm.”

“Guess he relocated.” She turned her attention back to the scene ahead of them. “Lots of dead demons,” she commented, keeping her voice low, tension pulling her shoulders tight. She glanced to the side. “I count fifteen at the least. More, most likely.”

And a lot of magic had been used. She wasn’t an expert in it, not like the fey were, but she could feel it in the air. Every inch of the place felt like it had been hit by a lightning strike—booming and potent, violent and powerful, the energy already spent but still wreaking havoc in its passage.

But there was something else, too. A second tone underneath it.

It felt like it was waiting.

Not a good sign, given their current situation.

She swallowed back her fear and forced her mouth to work.

“I don’t see any fey yet.” She clamped her teeth shut, the words almost electric as they left her chest—was it really possible they were still alive? She’d thought so before, when she’d seen the marks in the hellhound’s corpse, but, Gods, she hoped they were.

If a party like that couldn’t defeat the demon lord…

A tremble of fear—true, cold fear—crawled up the underside of her spine. Fey were powerful. If they couldn’t defeat the demon lord, they would need an army. Her shoulders stiffened with tension, and she sank closer to the leaf litter. Though the scent of sulfur and rot was still overpowering, the wet, earthy scent of the soil below helped ground her. Her fingers trembled into the dirt.

They had to get out of there.

“If this is his keep, there will be upwards of five hundred demons inside. More, most likely. It all depends on what he’s been doing with the past two hundred and fifty years.” Nales spoke with only a sliver of a tremor in his voice, the tone low and even. “Our historical texts tell about him subjugating the forest lords through the ley vein corruption. I’m sure there’s more to the story, but…”

“Forest… lords…?” She managed.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

He grunted. “Like the deities you pray to, except demonic.”

Gods, how did he know all this? Had he spent all his free time reading demon lore as a kid? Given what he’d just told her about his family, that would make sense, she supposed.

She pulled her mind back into the present. Now was not the time to wonder about that. Instead, she let out a slow breath and instinctively reached down into the soil, wincing as the energy of the demonic area jangled in her woodcraft senses.

It wasn’t an energy she’d ever felt before. Overpowering, far more than the clearing had been. It was playing hell on her senses, even with her attempts to ground, pressing straight on top of her like her head was in some scientist’s bell jar.

And where had the fey gone? It was clear some fight had taken place—she could feel that much. Though the atmosphere crushed against her body, she could feel the magic that had been used in the area, like the shock of a thunderstrike, or the pressure of a building storm system. And there were certainly enough demonic bodies lying around.

But she couldn’t see anything from here. Only the corpses. And the vague sense of movement from the walls of the mountain itself, like catching the sight of ants crawling along corridors.

Nales shifted. “We should go back. This is too big for us.”

Oh, thank Elrya. He isn’t a moron.

“Oh, it definitely is. I agree.” She put a foot under herself, shaking at the thought—they’d need a veritable army to take out the hold ahead, and a large one at that. No, going back was the best idea. They’d regroup. Send word to Lorka. Muster the King’s army, maybe the Raidt’s. If anyone could defeat the mass of demons and undead in that fortress, it would be them. “Once we get—”

Leaves rustled to her left. A footstep. A silhouette shadowed the trees.

Adrenalin smashed through her. She was on her feet, blade in hand before she’d completed the thought.

Volaon li Naine stood between two trees to the side, hair frayed and disheveled, his pale, blood-streaked form outlined by the slim fraction of moonlight that slipped through the leaves.

The breath rushed out of her in a whoosh of relief.

“Oh, praise the gods,” she started, immediately relaxing. “We’d thought the worst. Are you okay?”

He didn’t look okay. In fact, his ability to stand was about the only thing he had going for him—the rest of him was a mess. An absolute, bloody, half-mangled mess. Blood coated his pale form in dark patches and smears, more than a few nasty wounds visible, armor scored deeply in places. Much of it had crusted, but some of it was still wet and oozing. Most prominent was the jagged cut that slashed his bicep, making both skin and fabric gape, and a massive trauma point on his temple.

Very little of him wasn’t covered in blood.

“Elrya,” she said—this time, the goddess’ name was both a prayer and a curse. “We need to get you back to Doneil. He has a healing rune.” She swallowed, spotting more and more cuts and bruises—even a break, by the way he was listing to the side. They had to get him to Doneil soon. “Where are the others?”

He didn’t reply, but his eyes locked on her—black as ink, gleaming in the light of the nearest fire. He stepped forward, faster than she would have expected from someone so injured—the fey always were—and a twig snapped under his heel, leaf litter giving a whispery rustle, much in the way some had for the raccoon earlier.

“Volaon?” She backed up a step as he closed in, her gaze darting to his bicep wound again—Gods, it looked terrible. Almost like the blood had slowed. Probably not a good sign. “Where are the others? We have horses. We can get to them. If you just—”

He lunged, quick as a snake. She jerked back with a squawk, snapping herself away.

Cooling flesh wrapped around her wrist in a grip hard enough to lock her bones.

A shock went through her as realization hit.

He was not alive. Undead.

Her squawk turned into a growl. She ripped her hand down, snapped to the side. He followed, lightning fast, blocking her automatic temple strike and snatching at her. The whisper of a drawn blade came from behind her—Nales—and she felt others close in. Footsteps. Vague, pale silhouettes of the other fey rushing them.

Panic flooded her system. She switched her blade around, but Volaon blocked her other strike, capturing her fingers on the hilt in a bruising grip and forcing her back.

As the others closed in on her back, she took them both down in a spinning tumble.

The air whumphed from him in a stale mess. Cold skin pressed against her, his weight bearing down like a sack of bricks. She struggled, struck out. Bone cracked as she smacked his face, clicking loose like a rigid carcass. She jutted an elbow out and twisted, feeling him try to turn her.

Then there were other hands on her. Holding her down, forcing her to bend. Pain stung through her legs as someone kicked out the backs of her knees, pushing her down. A hand on her neck pressed into her vertebrae, bowing her forward. In her peripheral vision, she saw Prince Nales to the side, forced to his knees.

Her woodcraft snapped through her like lightning as her cheek pressed against the forest loam.

Volaon’s grip on her knife hand tightened painfully. She resisted, refused to let it go. Hands held her down as she struggled, and she switched gears, began to pull on something—anything—to help her, scraping at her magic in wild efforts. Felt the wind lift as one of her runes activated, felt the forest respond, reach into her woodcraft as if it could do something—

Volaon’s grip tightened painfully. A second later, he pulled back.

Her elbow popped like a chicken bone.

Pain smashed through her. A scream ripped from her throat, raw and loud, then a second one, louder, when he forced the broken arm to twist up her back. Tears blurred her eyes. Acid clotted in her throat.

The ground pressed hard into her cheek and chest. She swallowed the yell into a full-throated hiss, choking to get fresh air into her lungs.

Then, the fey stopped. Stilled.

Waited.

The wind shifted, touching the magic in her extended senses. The breeze brushed through her power like a cold hand, dry and trembling.

Leaves scratched to the left, dry and crackling, and a low voice spoke into the tremor of the air.

“What is this? More sheep to feed my flock?”