They ran like this for what felt like hours, their frantic pace driven by desperation. Finally, they burst out of the cave and into the ruined entrance in town. The scene before them was haunting: the mangled remains of the guards lay scattered, blood pooling in slick, sticky patches across the ground. Strips of sinew clung to jagged rocks, and streaks of black ash marked violent explosions that had left the stone walls scorched and smoking.

Henry staggered to a halt, doubling over to catch his breath. As he straightened, his eyes lingered on the carnage. He blinked, really taking it all in for the first time with fresh eyes. It hit differently now. This world had reshaped how he saw things—stripped away the normal, the mundane, and replaced it with something raw and violent.

And he hated it.

A bitter thought clawed its way to the surface. Part of him wished the hospital illusion hadn’t been one. To be back with his mom and sister, living a life free from the shadow of cancer—it had been everything he’d ever wanted. A dream come true.

But instead, here he was, cancer-free but trapped in a waking nightmare, running for his life alongside an unhinged, pint-sized fairy.

He glanced at Elara, who was darting ahead like nothing could stop her, even the gruesome aftermath of battle. Evil Tinkerbell, he thought grimly.

“Hey,” Elara snapped, her wings buzzing as she hovered a few feet in front of him. “Don’t just stand there gawking like a dazed idiot. We’re not safe yet.”

Henry tore his gaze away from the wreckage, swallowing hard. “Yeah, no kidding.” He straightened up, forcing his legs to move again, even as his mind screamed to stop.

"Let’s go save my sister," Henry muttered, more to himself than to Elara, though she gave him an approving buzz of her wings as if to say, Finally, some resolve.

As they started moving again, Henry couldn’t help but marvel at his own endurance. Hours of running, and yet his legs still felt strong, his breath even. Back in the hospital, just walking across a room had been a struggle some days. Now? He felt almost...invincible.

He glanced down at the Wand of Arraiza, held loosely in his hand. Its once-glimmering surface had dulled to an ominous, muted sheen, almost as if it mirrored his own doubts and fears. But even in its darkened state, it was a blessing. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was keeping him alive, transforming his frail, cancer-riddled body into something capable of surviving this nightmare.

Surviving, he thought grimly. Not thriving. Never thriving.

"Hey, hero," Elara called out, fluttering ahead with her usual manic energy. "I hope you’re not daydreaming again. I need your head in the game, or we’re both mist food."

“I’m not daydreaming,” he shot back, gripping the wand tighter. “I’m thinking.”

“Thinking? Oh no.” She smirked over her shoulder, her tone laced with mock concern. “That’s never good.”

Henry rolled his eyes but didn’t respond. His sister was out there, somewhere in this hellscape, and every second they wasted brought her closer to danger. Whatever dark power the Wand of Arraiza held, whatever it was doing to him, he didn’t care. If it meant saving Sarah, he’d use it until there was nothing left of him.

"So, which way to save my sister?" Henry asked as they stepped out of the cave into the early morning mists. His voice was firm, but the tightness in his chest betrayed the anxiety gnawing at him. The cool air wrapped around him, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic, something wrong.

In (world name), dawn was sacred. As the first light touched the land, spirits emerged from the unseen folds of reality, their translucent forms flickering like candle flames against the thinning darkness. The mists recoiled from their presence, swirling and shrinking back as if repelled by an unspoken command. It was the only time the city’s inhabitants could safely corral what lingered—gathering the residual magic like fishermen pulling in a morning’s catch. They had long since woven this ritual into their daily lives, harnessing the subdued mist for modern conveniences, for power, for survival.

Elara, however, did not seem interested in the sacred nature of the moment.

"Which way?!" she cackled, zipping around Henry’s head in frantic spirals, her iridescent wings thrumming like a swarm of bees. *"Oh, Henry, Henry, Henry, that’s the question, isn’t it? Left? Right? Up? Down? Through the belly of a mist-beast? Oh, wait, maybe we tunnel underground and pop out on the other side like a pair of moles—ooh! You’d make a cute mole! Little whiskers, twitchy nose—"

"Elara," Henry ground out, rubbing his temple.

She gasped theatrically. "Oh, but wait! What if the best way is the worst way? What if the road to saving your sister is paved with broken promises, lost limbs, and unspeakable horrors?! What if—"

"Elara!"

She stopped mid-air, hovering upside down, her curls bouncing as she blinked at him. "Oh. You wanted an actual answer."

Henry exhaled sharply. "Yes. That would be nice."

Elara grinned, flipping upright mid-air. "Alright then, serious mode, ultra-super-duper life-or-death decision time! Drumroll, please—" She beat the air with her hands in an exaggerated drumming motion before abruptly pointing toward the distant city walls, still shrouded in lingering mist. "That way! But, fair warning, Henry, there's about a seventy-two percent chance of catastrophe! Seventy-five if you hesitate!"

"Elara!" Henry snapped, running a hand through his hair. "Just tell me—my sister is in danger, isn't she?"

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Elara clasped her hands together, fluttering closer with an impish smirk. "Ohhh, well, if that’s what you were asking, the answer is easy! The best way to save her is…" She paused dramatically. "To just go back the way you came!"

Henry stared. "What?"

"Kidding! Kidding!" Elara cackled, darting away as if avoiding a swat. "I mean, you could do that, but if you actually want to help her—" She zipped around him, vanishing and reappearing in the air like a game of whack-a-mole. "—then you’re going the wrong way, dummy! This way!"

Henry barely had time to process her words before the wand vibrated in his grip, its etched symbols flickering like a heartbeat.

[Oh yes, let’s definitely trust the hyperactive sprite who thinks ‘serious mode’ involves imaginary drum solos.]

Henry ignored it. “Elara, focus. Where are we actually going?”

"Already on it, slowpoke!" she called, zipping ahead. "You’re lucky I like you, or I’d let you wander into catastrophe for fun!"

“That’s not reassuring!” Henry muttered, but he followed anyway.

They retraced their steps, weaving through the mist-veiled alleys, until Henry saw something that sent a cold wave of realization through him.

The bar.

The same dingy, run-down tavern he’d passed earlier—the one with the tunnel behind it.

A sinking feeling settled in Henry’s gut, cold and unwelcome. "Wait… Elara, are you telling me this whole time, the answer was—"

Elara pirouetted midair, beaming like a game show host. "Behind door number one? Diiiing ding ding! We have a winner!"

Henry clenched his jaw. "Elara, just tell me—my sister. Is she in danger?"

Elara gasped theatrically, placing a hand over her heart. "Oh, what a loaded question, my dear Henry! The real question is, are we all in danger? Is existence itself a fragile, crumbling construct? Is fate—"

"Elara."

She huffed, folding her arms. "Fine. The answer you're looking for? Go back the way you came."

"What?"

Elara rolled her eyes. "Back to the dwarf who sent you after that shiny little suit of armor, duh!" She twirled through the air, popping in and out of existence like a particularly frustrating game of whack-a-mole. "If we wanna figure out what’s going on with your sister, we need to poke around and see if your short, grumpy friend left behind any clues."

Henry resisted the urge to groan. He’d already been through hell for that armor, and now they had to backtrack? Still, if Elara was actually giving a real answer, it had to mean something.

With a sigh, he stepped forward, following her down into the cave.

“I think Grellish is here,” Henry said, ignoring her jab. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pendant, holding it up as if it would magically summon the man. “I can give him this. He totally got it, right? I mean, he asked for it?”

Elara’s wings stilled for a moment, her face scrunching up in mock thought. “Oh, sure,” she said with a toothy grin. “He totally asked for it. And by ‘asked,’ I mean did not say a single word about wanting it at all.”

Henry groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Great. Just great. I’m about to walk into who-knows-what with a gift he may or may not even want.”

“Relax, hero,” Elara said, patting his shoulder with a tiny, surprisingly strong hand. “Worst case? He hates it and turns us into paste. Best case? We all have a good laugh, and you survive long enough to go save Sarah.”

“Comforting,” Henry muttered, gripping the pendant tighter as he stepped deeper into the chaos. "Really comforting."

“How did you find this again, Elara?” he asked, holding the pendant up and turning it over in his hand.

“Oh, I just took it,” she said breezily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Yes, but from where?” he pressed, his tone sharper.

“A place,” she replied with a mischievous grin, her wings buzzing faintly as she twirled in the air.

Henry let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. “A place. Great. That clears everything up.” Talking to Elara was always like pulling teeth—teeth that were actively trying to bite you.

“What else do you need to know? I took it. You have it. Done and done,” she said, crossing her arms as if the matter was settled.

“Fine.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Where do you think he is?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” she said, her grin widening. She pointed across the room to an absurdly large jar tucked in the corner, its surface covered in a layer of grime and faint mist residue. “He’s inside that overly large jar over there. Can you believe the mist monsters didn’t even look inside it? Amateurs.”

Henry froze, staring at the jar as the words sunk in. “Wait—you’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Elara said, her tone suddenly chipper. “And by the way, you’re the one opening it. I’m small and fragile and lazy!” She fluttered backward, just out of arm's reach, her grin never fading.

Henry ran a hand down his face, groaning. "Of course. Why wouldn’t he be in a giant jar? This just keeps getting better."

The glass was thick, warped slightly at the edges, making Grellish’s small, hunched form look even more distorted inside. He was curled up against the curved walls, his normally bristly beard tangled and unkempt, his stubby fingers clutching at his knees. The dwarf wasn’t moving.

Henry approached cautiously, gripping the pendant in one hand and the Wand of Arraiza in the other. The jar was sealed tight, thick wax pressed along the lid like some crude preservation spell. He had no idea how long Grellish had been in there or if opening it would immediately result in a very angry, very violent dwarf attacking him.

"Alright, Grellish," he muttered under his breath, "please don’t be angry. Or murderous. Or both."

With a grunt, Henry pried at the wax, feeling the resistance give way with a sickening squelch. The moment the seal broke, the jar shuddered like it had been holding back something alive. Henry barely had time to take a step back before—

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE ANVIL-GODS HAPPENED TO MY FORGE?!"

The lid shot off like a cannon, narrowly missing Henry’s face. A puff of acrid smoke burst from the opening, and before Henry could react, Grellish launched himself out of the jar, landing on the floor in a sobbing heap.

"Look what they did to the forge! It’ll never be fixed now!" Grellish wailed, his shoulders shaking violently. His entire beard trembled, his burly frame shuddering like a child who’d just lost their favorite toy. Tears—actual, shiny dwarf tears—splattered onto the stone floor.

Henry froze, eyes wide. He hadn't even known that dwarves could cry, let alone like this.

"Uh…" He cast a desperate glance at Elara, silently begging her to take the lead.

Elara, of course, did the opposite of that.