The world is a red rock wasteland baking under a white sun. Trees are scarce, knobby wretches reaching from the cracks in the rock, bleached bark speckled with thin black needles.

A pair of Elemnists walk through the wastes, travel cloaks wrapped tightly against their bodies as a harsh wind blows in from a wine-dark sea. The leader holds a staff of stained wood, the grains perfectly aligned with one another, shaped by his own hands through Elemnistry while the follower carries a wrapped bundle in his arms, a mewling infant weak and fallow. The girl hasn’t moved in a fortnight, but her burbles tell the two that she’s still alive. It’s not too late.

The Elemnists come across a black stone mound rising from the red rock, an obelisk pocked with porphyry nodes sitting in a pool of milky water. Crystal clumps grow and crumble around a shallow opening, a narrow chasm yawning on the face away from the sun. The leader stops, leaning on his staff, and peers into the ink-black darkness before him. Though it matches the construction of Elemnist structures, pulled from the ground and shaped with a single thought, a coppery stench tells a different tale.

The water reeks of iron, reddish motes drifting along the surface.

The leader pulls back his hood, squinting against the bright corona around the dark obelisk as the sun sets. Dark bags hang from his black eyes. Red stubble itches his scalp. The other Elemnist does the same, eyes just as haunted, his skin baggy.

“Is this the place?” he asks, cradling the babe in his arms.

“I’m afraid so,” the redhead says. They stand in quiet contemplation, debating their next steps.

“We can always go to the city. They would have medicine.”

“It’s too late for that. What good would medicine do if Elemnistry couldn’t heal her?” The other says nothing. “Let’s make this quick, Olohne.” Without another word, they enter the chasm.

The courts of the Iron Fae are seldom welcoming to intruders, least of all Elemnists. Least of all an iron Elemnist who can shape their flesh as easily as clay. But the Court of the Iron Wood extends out before the two, black and pitted with rust.

Olohne holds the infant closer to his body, her desperate cries growing soft. His eyes scan the black iron walls, broken up with murals of rust and crystal quartz. He can’t discern their alien designs. He can’t comprehend their twisted words. Olohne rushes forward, locking his eyes to the back of the girl’s father.

“Helod,” Olohne starts, “what exactly are you planning on offering them?” He doesn’t receive a response.

They come upon an iron dais, bright and polished smooth. Pinkish bones are littered about the platform, along with bones orange with rust. A huddled shape shifts and squirms among the discarded bodies, hefting up femurs and bashing them against skulls. Helod and Olohne watch and listen as the creature works.

“So you’ve come as promised, Helod of the Elemental Order,” the creature says, tapping out a brief tune with their macabre percussion set. “Complete with daughter. Complete with father.” Helod remains silent.

The Iron Faerie stops their drumming and rises to their feet. They rise and rise and rise, towering over the men on legs hewn from iron bones, skulls as their knees. The Fae’s feet stay firmly planted as their upper body rotates around, metal screeching together until they face the Elemnist. They peer down with yellow eyes like lanterns full of malice and wonder. Their barred teeth snap together as though chewing through a thought.

“Do you know my name?” they ask, though their jaws remain clenched shut.

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“Zenomi,” Helod says, gripping his staff tighter, “of the Iron Wood.”

Zenomi’s jaws fall open, remaining motionless as a metallic screech pours from the rust in their throats. They’re laughing.

Once they stop, Zenomi squats down on reversed legs. The Iron Fae brings their face close to Helod’s, a rush of air pushing and pulling against his skin.

“What is it you require of me, Elemnist?” Zenomi says, eyes burning in the dark.

“Nothing,” Helod says. “I would bargain with you.” Elemnists know full well that the Iron Fae never does favors. There is always a tradeoff—a price. Zenomi’s jaw snaps open again, more “laughter” pouring out.

“You are in luck then,” Zenomi says, “I was about to leave for Nuaranth-by-the-Sea, for another seeks my aid.” Nuaranth, that great city state of light and shadow. Helod wonders who might seek the Iron Fae in such a metropolis.

“You offer no aid, Iron Fae,” the Elemnist Olohne utters. Zenomi’s head snaps to look at him, eyes falling on the still bundle. They reach out with iron hands, pinching the blankets that swaddle the dying youth.

“Your business is with me, Fae” Helod keeps his eyes forward.

Zenomi returns their unblinking attention to him, tilting their head to the side. “What is it you want, Elemnist?”

“My daughter is sick,” Helod says.

“Your daughter is dead,” Zenomi interrupts. He ignores their interjection.

“You will restore her.”

The Iron Faerie sits back, legs rotating around their hips so they match their human guests. “In exchange for what, exactly? Favors are never free, Elemnist.”

Helod closes his eyes and lets out a breath. “Whatever your heart desires.”

Olohne looks at him, aghast, but his attention remains locked to Zenomi. Their eyes blaze with interest, head tilting forward, the rust in their neck groaning in protest.

“Anything my heart desires?” Zenomi repeats. “Anything at all?”

“Yes,” Helod says.

“Your skin?” Zenomi asks.

“Yes.”

“Your eyes?” Zenomi pries.

“Yes.”

“Your heart?” Zenomi presses.

“Yes.” Helod closes his eyes.

“Your Elemnistry?” Zenomi demands. When Helod doesn’t answer, they straighten up, looking down at him.

Helod sighs, keeping his eyes closed. “If it’s what you desire,” he says, “then even my Elemnistry.” Zenomi’s jaw snaps open, more deranged laughter pouring out. The walls tremble and bones rattle across the dais.

“Now that is an offer I can’t refuse.” Zenomi’s jaw jerks shut. “Allow me to uphold my end of the bargain first, Elemnist, so you don’t feel cheated.” Once again, the Iron Faerie reaches for the swaddled bundle with pinching fingers. Olohne shies away, feet rooted in place. He looks down to see the gnarled roots of iron trees wrap around his ankles and, while he’s distracted, Zenomi plunges a digit through the infant’s chest. They pull their arm back and insert their finger into their jaw, oily tongue slurping up the crimson blood.

“Olohne,” Helod says, “how is she?”

Olohne remains silent, his face pale and mouth agape. The bundle in his arms wriggles and writhes before it wails, loud cries reverberating off the metal walls. Helod sighs and lowers his head.

“And now it’s time for you, Elemnist,” Zenomi says, pulling the finger from their jaws. With a swift motion, Zenomi of the Iron Wood impales Helod of the Elemental Order through the chest. They extract their finger, and Helod’s heart, and return to sucking on their digit. The Elemnist falls over on his side, dead.

“Monster!” Olohne says, holding the infant close. “You killed him. That wasn’t part of the deal!”

“He offered me anything,” Zenomi says, chewing on Helod’s heart. “So I took everything.” The Iron Faerie leans forward, boring their yellow eyes into Olohne’s. “You better get out while you still can, Elemnist.”

Zenomi tips back their head with a laugh, the tenebrious tones shaking the walls, knocking debris loose from the ceiling.

Olohne turns and sprints back the way he came, mouth wide open in a feral scream. Chunks of iron and quartz and porphyry stone fall behind him, collapsing the hall and caving in the entire structure. Yet Zenomi’s metallic screeching still rings loud in his ears. He stumbles back out into the light of day, falling to his knees, ears ringing, the ground trembling beneath him.

Olohne looks over his shoulder, but the Iron Wood Court is gone, leaving only a pool of milky water behind. Zenomi’s laughter will remain in his ears for the rest of his laugh. He shakes his head and looks back at the bundle.

“Oh no.” Olohne’s eyes tear up. He opens the blankets and reveals the chubby face of a crying infant, her wails loud across the open plains of the red rock wastes. Olohne’s tears fell from his saggy cheeks and wet the girl’s face. “Oh no, no, no. I’m sorry Helod.” He holds her close, tears running down his face. “I’m sorry. I’ll take care of her, I promise. I’ll take care of Maewys.” He pulls back and looks at her, squirming quietly in his grip.

“Maewys,” he repeats, cheeks still wet. “Don’t make the same mistakes we did. Don’t believe the lies of the Iron Fae.”