The marsh had a mix of smells, most of them wet and pressing into her senses like healing oils. Damp earth. Cold, flowing water. Pungent algae where the water drifted into stagnation, budding up from the dark brown water like bumps of toadskin.

There were those, too. Toads and frogs. Most of them ignored the passing horses, sitting on sticks and soggy banks near the water’s edge, but some jumped in.

Birds prowled the shoreline, too. Ducks. Egrets. The occasional heron, lifting off with its massive span and a croak that sounded like a loud, rusty hinge. Wild geese sounded in the distance, beginning their return from the south. Once, she heard the cry of a hawk hunting.

A veil of fog rolled through it, much as it had through Levine yesterday morning. Thick and hazy, but moving in perceivable drifts, as if the clouds dragged their feet through the reeds.

It gave the place a haunted feeling. Isolated.

If Nales’ demon theories were right and this place did present a weak point between the different worlds, it was certainly setting the mood.

Nales’ map labeled it ‘Levin-ad Mon’, an old variant of a name that simply meant ‘swamp near Levine’—but Karel called it ‘Venir-da Ta’. ‘Venir’s Folly’.

Venir had been one of the old god’s children, referenced in a number of crossing mythologies. The son of a mountain who’d scoffed at the local marsh deity, then found himself lost for forty days and forty nights.

She eyed Karel and the bright white pony he led.

It was good they’d found him. A local guide was important to have in a place like this. With his water-fey ancestry, his sense of this place would prove far better than hers.

Then again, he could be leading them into a trap.

She didn’t think so, though. There’d been no hiding who Nales was, but Karel hadn’t seemed to care much. No, he’d been far more interested in Matteo—especially after the man had identified every single one of the items he’d found.

Suns. Some of those things…

Just what kind of world did Matteo come from?

Did they want to find it?

Yes. Of course they did. Forewarned was forearmed, right? And she was no coward. Anything they could find about what had happened at Abiermar—and Matteo’s world was clearly part of that—anything they could find was a good thing.

They needed to know what they were dealing with. The more they knew, the better chance they had at reversing it.

And, damn it all, Nales was right. Going to the Light Elves wasn’t a guarantee. If they knew what had happened, wouldn’t they have fixed it by now? They didn’t like demons any more than the rest of the world. Except for Nales’ family, but that apparently came with its own problems.

Just how much did Nales’ brother want him dead?

At least, coming out onto the marsh like this, any assassins would have a difficult time finishing their job. The place only had one main road and, despite the fog, they could see well in all directions.

Then again, if the place’s insect population had their way, the mosquitos might do an assassin’s job for them.

They strung out in a broken line along the main road, a thick line of land that had been built with dirt, gravel, and stone and packed down for year upon year. Their horse’s hooves crunched and sucked their way into a bedded mix of mud, gravel, sand, and occasionally wood when they met one of the marsh’s many scattered bridges. Few other roads strayed from it, and even fewer were as well-built or maintained, but dozens of footpaths and boardwalks zigzagged their way through the clumps of grasses and reeds, their ways occasionally marked—by a symbol, glyph, or simply a large stick driven into the bank.

Karel ignored all of these, he and his pack pony leading them straight along the road.

Ahead, the fog streamed thicker. By the lightness and warmth from overhead, though, the sun would probably burn most of it off.

The rhythmic clop and crunch of their horses’ hooves made an easy companion.

By the slightly faster clop and crunch of one set, and the dark splotch of Nales’ black gelding coming up in her peripheral vision, however, she suspected loneliness would not be her problem for long.

“How does elven woodcraft work?”he asked.

Elrya. Where had this come from?

“How does your demon magic work?” she countered.

He ignored her. “Doneil says you’re better at it than he is. Is that because of your rnari prowess?”

“Yes, a bit.”

“If he trained more, could he become as good as you?”

“No, but he could come close.”

“No?” Nales’ brows furrowed. “Why not?”

“Why can some people see better than others? Or run faster?” she asked. “One’s woodcraft could be bettered to a certain point, but some people simply have the natural capacity to achieve higher training with it.”

Nales was quiet for a few seconds. His jaw muscles were flexing, chewing on the problem.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“So, if Doneil wanted to train his further, how would he go about it?”

She narrowed her eyes. “If Doneil wants to train his woodcraft, he knows exactly what he needs to do.”

“Which is?”

She hesitated. Woodcraft was something intrinsic in Raidt culture. Every forest elf held talent in it to some degree. It was as basic as learning to count or write letters.

It was also somewhat specific to them. While others like Karel or Prya may have some variation of it, for the Raidt elves it was something entwined in their souls—as sacred as breathing, and as essential.

Speaking of its details with a Lorkan prince felt taboo, somehow.

“What do your studies say of it?” she asked curiously.

“A mix of things. The texts claim it is a gift of your religion, but most people at court refer to it as a strange witchcraft.”

She barked a laugh. “‘Strange witchcraft’? That is quite a statement coming from your court.”

A smile quirked his lips.

“Isn’t it just? I suspect they throw ash on your kind to ingratiate themselves. My brother—” He grimaced, expression briefly twisting into an ugly look, as if remembering something distasteful. “Some in the family have let their thoughts on the Raidt known. It becomes a safe topic to cast stones on.”

“We’re far enough away, I suppose. For which I’m grateful, though I somehow still managed to get Undersworn to you.”

“For which I’m very grateful.”

“Really?” Her brows arched, and she looked at him. “How grateful? Because I could really use a new set of armor, and these clothes have had a little too much demon blood rinsed out of them to ever be completely fresh…”

“You pick out the armor, I’ll pick out my pocketbook,” he said.

Well, that answered that wandering query of hers.

“Is there anything else my gratitude can buy you?”

“Other than a fix to this broken gate business?” she teased, but trailed off thoughtfully. They were already working on that. That was the whole reason they were riding through this marsh in the first place.

But there was something else…

“I want to learn kimbic,” she said.

This time, his eyebrows shot up. “You do?”

She hid a wince. Kimbic, largely, was a human magic. Made for and used by those who had little casting talent on their own. Not elves, who had more natural ability and three entirely different magic systems, one of which she didn’t even use.

Kimbic, however, was reliable. Her own was not.

Of the two mercari spells, only her weakest—wind calling—would still work without question.

Choosing to pursue kimbic felt like a betrayal to Kodanh, the ice deity who provided the bulk of her mercari power. She’d gone through a lot of trouble and effort to get him. He was also notoriously territorial, burning her skin and refusing any other spells to inhabit her skin after his casting had been placed.

Given current circumstances, however, she felt he would understand.

“Yes. And I think Matteo should learn it, too. Could you teach us?”

“Make that three,” Doneil said from several paces behind them, clearly having overheard. “I wouldn’t mind an extra Learning.”

And here she’d thought he’d given up his non-culinary aspirations.

Maybe he was planning to glaze cakes with it.

Nales didn’t speak for several beats. For a few moments, she thought he would refuse—a prince, teach them? So far below him? But when she looked over, his expression had only grown thoughtful.

“All right. I can do that. Now—” He glanced at her, an eyebrow rising. “Tell me more about woodcraft.”

*****

The flame felt hot on his hands. He stared at it, entranced and wide-eyed, and wondered again if he was dreaming all of this. It floated above his palm, dancing lightly, as if he had some sort of trick magnet-type thing happening with it.

He didn’t.

He had no idea why this flame was still alight, let alone floating in midair above his palm. It had nothing to consume. No fuel, just air—and yet, there is was. Floating. Burning.

And the weirdest thing? He could feel it. This floating fire felt like part of him. Like an eleventh finger, and exactly as weird.

No, weirder. He was sure someone, somewhere had a working eleventh finger. That was a natural mutation.

An ability to hold fire in midair was not.

That’s it. I’ve made some deal with a devil, and now I can hold fire above my hand.

He just hoped to hell it’d go away when he told it. It would, apparently. It had before, when he’d tested that theory.

God, he didn’t want to burn his horse. He was hardly paying attention to the gelding, anyway. All his focus was on the fire.

He was pretty sure the gelding didn’t mind.

[Searching… Searching… Searching… Error: Connection not found.]

They had done some sort of ritual to get this, though. Nales had drawn some symbols into the ground and set a fire—with magic rather than flint—and the other two, Catrin and Doneil, had apparently instigated this. The two of them corralled him in, Karel watching on. Once Nales started the fire, he gave them some words to repeat—none of which were in his HUD’s dictionary, so he guessed this was yet another language—then took some wood from the fire and drew a symbol onto the back of each of their hands with the glowing wood’s embers.

He’d expected it to hurt, but it hadn’t.

It had felt warm, yes. Then, when they repeated something else he said, it felt like that warmth had sunk deeper. Wrapped around his bones.

Then, they’d all said that word—‘Riyan’, same as what Treng had told him to say when wielding that paper magic—then their flames had appeared.

And now, for the past half hour, he’d been holding his own flame above his hand.

This really was a fantasy world. As if the elves and demons and stuff weren’t enough of a clue.

But right now, he and his team of fantasy people were looking for stuff from his world—and if Karel’s stash was any indication, they’d be moderately successful.

Every time he thought he had a handle on this place—this situation—it just got stranger and stranger.

And now he was holding fire with his hand. And the fire felt like part of himself.

Maybe this really is some sort of advanced VR.

But if it were, what would be the point? Amusement? He’d been here a month now, and apart from inexplicable magic and strange fantasy races, he’d seen none of the hallmarks of VR. No clipping, no repeating, no oddly parsed audio…

And the pain… it had been acute, and it had been real.

He’d seen some VR setups that could dish out pain. Been in a few, too.

This was different. And, like the fire, he could feel that in his bones.

[Searching… Searching… Searching… Error: Connection not found.]

He definitely liked the fire, however.

From what they’d told him, holding it like this was practice. The more he did it, the more the connection formed. The more the connection formed, the stronger he’d get with it. It worked both like a muscle and a nerve pathway.

Nales was a level up from the rest of them and keeping watch on their flames. Walking along as they did—riding along—the three of them looked even more fantasy-like. Especially with the fog.

Like meeting fairies in a swamp. But not the nice kind. The ones that led you astray.

He shivered, and the fire danced. Now was not the time to be thinking of that shit. Before, back in Tenessee, he hadn’t given those stories a second thought.

Now? With what he’d seen? And the company he’d kept?

They were all too likely to be real. And they had not been nice stories.

Guardian Force training didn’t cover what to do when attacked by swamp fairies. He supposed ‘shoot them in the face’ would probably suffice, though.

Swamp ghosts, on the other hand.

He wasn’t Mexican, but one night he and his squad mates had stayed up watching a horror show about La Llorona, the white lady who lured and killed men at the side of waterways.

She was… all too easy to picture here. Especially with the fog. It kept making these shapes in the corner of his eye, like parts of it overlapped, or perhaps caught the sun. Or maybe reflected some sort of shine on the water, but—

A loud, shrill scream pierced the fog.

[Connection found. Do you wish to connect? Y/N]