I am Ren Drakemore, age 9, second prince of the Kingdom of Arcadia, currently on a journey to the Kingdom of Hyperion—where Lady Willow just outed a fae.

It happens so fast.

In a fraction of a moment, the fae's voice erupts into a deep, monstrous growl, sweeping through the room like a shockwave. The very air trembles with it, and a biting chill rolls out from her words, smothering the hearth's warmth and raising goosebumps along my skin. Her mask of humanity slips —yellow eyes blazing with primal fury.

Instinctively, I cast a translucent shield around myself, tight to the skin like a second layer of armor. I hear the loud clang of a heavy bolt sliding into place on the front door, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the drapes swing shut as Willow unleashes a rapid series of spells, sealing the room against entry, observation, or escape.

My mind, enhanced to process at superhuman speed, barely registers it before Willow launches at the hostile fae's throat. Her arms transmute in an instant into the massive, obsidian-skinned claws of her true self. The fae's monstrous expression twists in surprise, a hint of fear flashing across her glowing eyes as Willow's talons wrap around her neck.

The fae lashes out, claws raking into Willow's arm in a frenzy, trying to tear her away. But the flesh she strikes turns to black smoke as it's ripped, reforming instantly—her efforts futile against the vise-like grip. Willow's hold is no mere physical restraint.

As I raise my own hand to cast a spell, I see a surge of energy flowing from the ensnared fae into Willow's clawed hand.

She's using a version of Drain Touch.

Of course. She taught me—when fighting a fae, you strike at their energy, not their body.

My hand is outstretched, spell ready at my fingertips, prepared to cast whatever support my mentor might need. But the sight before me gives me pause.

The sinister smile stretching unnaturally wide across Willow's face, the triumphant gleam in her eyes, and the fae's desperate, terrified grimace as she writhes in pain—all of it tells me enough. Willow has the situation well under control. And of course she does.

Then comes the screech—piercing and feral, like a wounded tiger caught in a trap. I wince as the sound stabs into my ears, forcing me to recoil.

The room begins to sway. A wave of nausea crashes over me as the shrieking intensifies. The fae thrashes and claws wildly in Willow's grip, but it's useless. The sound is so loud—so sharp—that it becomes disorienting. For a moment, I feel like I might crumple to the floor as the world spins around me.

I barely manage to stay upright, one hand clamped over my right ear, the other swaying in front of me as I struggle to steady myself. But the room isn't what's moving—I am. My balance is distorted, and I stumble, lurching side to side in a clumsy attempt to correct.

Through the dizziness, I catch flickers of what's happening: the fae is shrinking in Willow's grasp, black smoke rising from her as if she's being cooked from within. Arcs of yellow energy crackle from her body to Willow's hand, pulsing in rhythmic bursts.

Her scream gradually weakens.

And finally, as my balance returns and the nausea begins to fade, the spinning world slows. The fae shrinks into Willow's grasp, her body dissolving into a cloud of black mist. The tortured wailing ends abruptly, leaving behind a jarring silence.

Willow stares at her closed fist with sadistic satisfaction, as though the pain she just inflicted had been a particularly exquisite meal. There's a twisted joy in her expression—one that lingers.

With my senses returning, I notice Maribel at the base of the stairs, on her hands and knees beside a fresh puddle of vomit. She must have circled back. Maybe curiosity got the better of her. Maybe Envy insisted. Either way, not much time had passed between her reaching the top of the stairs and the two fae clashing.

However it happened, it's clear she reached her current position by tumbling down the steps—probably thrown into disarray by the same disorienting scream that nearly floored me.

Now she stares up at Willow, frozen in horror. Her pupils are tiny pinpricks, her breathing fast and shallow. Sweat clings to her skin, dripping from her brow as if she had sprinted the entire way—but more likely, she tumbled down the stairs head over heels.

"Now, my dear… what shall I do with you?" Willow growls, her voice still laced with that monstrous edge as she places her clenched fist on the counter before her.

She slowly opens her hand, and as she does, her arms begin to shift—returning to the smooth, porcelain-white facade of her human form. Nestled in her palm, and now deposited gently onto the counter, lies a naked, bright pink woman no more than eight inches tall. Delicate wings—like those of a dragonfly, but far larger in proportion—twitch faintly at her back.

She's sprawled limp across the wooden surface, chest rising and falling with slow, labored breaths. The yellow glow in her eyes flickers dimly—barely clinging to consciousness.

"She… she's a fae…" Maribel manages to say, her voice tight with shock.

Willow's eyes flick toward her for the briefest moment, regarding her with the mild irritation one might give an insect buzzing too close, then returns her focus to the defeated pixie on the counter.

"What do you mean she's an ally?" Maribel mutters to herself, wiping her mouth with her sleeve and staggering shakily back to her feet.

Good luck explaining this one, Envy.

"Lilith will destroy you…" the pixie whispers weakly—but her voice still holds an unsettling confidence, far stronger than expected from someone at death's door. "The Queen forbids fae from interfering with each other."

Somehow, despite her state, a faint, defiant smile curls at the corners of her lips.

"This isn't the first, or even the worst time, I've violated mother's rules" Willow chuckles darkly. "Killing you won't change what fate has in store for me."

"Brilliant little arrangement you've made here," Willow says, her tone now dipped in condescension as she leans over the counter to loom above her. "Disguising yourself as a mortal blood mage... and letting your food come to you."

Behind us, I hear Maribel still muttering under her breath, debating spiritedly with Envy in hushed tones.

"You won't… won't get away with this…" she wheezes, her voice labored and fading.

As her strength wanes, Willow calmly extends her right forefinger and gently presses it to the pixie's chest.

"There. Now that you've calmed down, I'll give you a few of your years back," Willow coos, mockingly sweet. A faint glow of yellow energy pulses from her fingertip into the tiny fae.

The pixie gasps, drawing in a deep breath as the light returns to her eyes. Her body lengthens slightly, growing a few inches.

"And if you remain calm…" Willow adds, her voice dropping into a low, ominous growl, "you can remain… alive."

"I've worked hard to establish myself in this territory," the fairy snaps, sitting up with sudden vigor. She glares up at Willow from where she sits on the counter. "My facade is an integral part of this community. You can't just take it!"

"I'm not here to steal your hunting ground," Willow says, rolling her eyes with irritation. "Nor am I here to kill you. I'm simply traveling with these humans."

She leans in closer, her expression chilling as she smiles down at the pixie. Her voice is quiet—but carries the weight of implied consequences.

"And you will let them rest here safely for the night."

"You… are just staying the night?" the pixie replies, blinking in disbelief. Her gaze shifts to me, brows furrowing. Then her eyes widen in realization, and a sly smile curls across her lips.

"You've contracted yourself to this boy?" she sneers at Willow, her voice laced with scorn. "Oh, how far you've fallen… The great Willow, the God Slayer, bound to a fleshling brat?"

Heat flares in my cheeks, anger bubbling up in my chest. My mana surges as the magic of Drain Touch flares to life in my hand, held out in front of me, glowing with barely restrained intent.

"This brat can finish you," I say through gritted teeth, putting as much conviction into the words as I can muster.

I don't actually intend to kill the weakened fae—but I've learned from Willow. Intimidation is the goal here, not execution. And when it comes to intimidation, Willow taught me that the first person you need to convince you're ready to kill… is yourself. Only then can your threat truly carry weight.

Both Willow and the pixie glance at my glowing hand, their expressions shifting with unease. A heavy silence settles between us. The defiance in the pixie's eyes wavers—just slightly.

Willow is the first to break the silence. "Nothing in the rules about standing back and letting a mortal destroy you, is there?" she says with a mocking lilt. "Best play nice, little one."

"My name is Elm," the pixie replies cautiously, her gaze still fixed on my hand. "And… fine. I'll cooperate."

"Very good," Willow says, shifting into a crisp, businesslike tone. "Now, you will allow this boy and this woman to stay in your inn. You will take no payment from them. You will form no contract with them. You will not speak to them, interfere with them, endanger them, or our companions outside. Nor will you create any circumstance in which others might cause them harm."

She ticks off each condition like a lawyer reading a contract.

"In return, not only do you get to live," she adds smugly, "but I'll return half of what I took from you."

Elm seems to consider the terms for a moment—until a well-timed arc of mana crackles between my fingers. She recoils sharply at the implied alternative.

"Okay, deal!" she blurts out, causing Willow's smile to curl with satisfaction.

I cancel the spell and lower my hand, the glow fading as it falls back to my side. Willow then extends her right forefinger and places it gently back onto Elm's chest.

This time, a much greater surge of energy flows into the pixie. She gasps, breathing in deeply as her body begins to swell, expanding several times in size. Her bright pink skin darkens into a deep charcoal black. Her delicate, translucent wings twist and harden, transforming into leathery, bat-like appendages that unfurl with a sudden snap before folding neatly against her back.

Her fingers elongate into sharp claws, and the yellow glow in her eyes intensifies—burning behind a wide, gleaming smile filled with sharp teeth.

By the time Willow draws her hand back, Elm sits naked atop the counter, transformed. She now resembles a miniature version of Willow's true form—smaller, perhaps only a third her size, but unmistakably cut from the same cloth.

She holds that form for a moment before it's replaced by the image of a heavyset elderly woman with pale skin and red eyes, wearing a kind, matronly expression and a maroon dress beneath a white frilled apron.

"Why didn't any of you tell me she was a ruddy fae?" Maribel asks, animated and indignant beside me.

Both fae turn to her with raised eyebrows.

"You should have warned me!" she continues, still agitated but trying to compose herself. "I mean… I was so rude to her…" Then, glancing at Willow with a hint of guilt, she adds, "That tree wasn't actually a friend of yours, was it?"

Willow's eyebrow twitches as she regards Maribel with annoyance.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"I'm sorry," Maribel says quickly, shrinking a little under Willow's stare.

"Willow is a fae," I say with an impatient sigh, "but as you just saw, she's our ally—and she's using her power to protect all of us, including you."

"Willow is Shadow's mentor and the prince's caretaker," Envy adds telepathically to the three of us. "She is your ally—just as I am."

Maribel takes a steadying breath before answering. "Okay. If Shadow trusts you, then I will too. I've already befriended one monster—what's one more?"

"Let's start with ally and see where it goes," Willow replies coolly.

"That's great," Maribel mutters sarcastically, then turns to me. "And what about you, prince? Are you some kind of monster in disguise too?"

"I'm all human," I say with a chuckle as Willow steps in beside me at the base of the stairs.

"With things resolved here," Willow says sweetly, "I suggest you both get some rest."

As she speaks, the bolt on the door slides open, the drapes unfurl, and the heavy blanket of mana cloaking the room—blocking sound, sight, and magical observation—lifts all at once. The air feels lighter, freer.

"Agreed. Good night, Willow," I say, turning toward the stairs.

I begin to climb, and Maribel scrambles to catch up, falling in step beside me as we ascend to the second floor.

In a hushed voice, she leans in and whispers, "Are we seriously spending the night in a place run by a fae you guys just beat up?"

"I trust Willow completely," I say, turning to her with genuine conviction.

"Fine," Maribel sighs, resigned. "But while we're on the topic of trust, there's something I think you should know about demons."

"What about them?" I ask, surprised by the shift in topic.

"Those Hyperians want you to believe the war is just against the Demon Lord," she says, her voice low and serious. "Like the demon race is innocent—just victims forced into fighting. But that's not true. The only reason the Demon Lord holds power at all is because his people support him. Demons serve him willingly. They believe in his war."

"Don't you think I know that?" I shoot back, irritation slipping into my voice. "Don't mistake me asking polite questions for blind belief."

"Lady Willow taught me to learn everything I can about my allies and my enemies," I continue, pulling off my gloves and placing them in my pocket as I recite the familiar lesson. "Knowing is half of preparation, and preparation is ninety percent of battle."

The last ten percent is suffering. Your preparation determines whose suffering that will be.

"Oh? So that's what the terrifying monster posing as your caretaker taught you, huh?" Maribel mutters with an eye roll.

"Get to know her," I say, chuckling, "and you'll see she's usually right."

I push open the door to the room on our right. Maribel follows. We both stop in the doorway.

Light from the oil lamps in the hall spills past us, casting a soft, uneven glow across the room. There's a single dusty bed against the far wall.

In my exhausted state, I stare at it blankly, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do. Are we meant to share it? That seems… unlikely. Is she supposed to sleep on the floor? That wouldn't be right. But I don't want to sleep on the floor either…

It might not seem appropriate, but if we're being fair, there's only one equitable solution here.

"It may not be ideal—" I begin.

"I'm sleeping in the wagon. With Shadow," Maribel cuts in, deadpan. "Goodnight."

She turns on her heel and marches right out of the room.

Right. That makes more sense.

5 hours later

"Time to wake up, young master," comes Willow's gentle voice, easing me back into consciousness.

My eyes open slowly, and the familiar sight of Lady Willow kneeling beside my bed comes into focus. Her right hand reaches out, gently smoothing my unruly curls.

"Good morning," I mumble, my voice thick with sleep.

I glance around, taking in the unfamiliar room. An oil lamp on the wall casts warm, flickering light that dances across the rustic wooden walls, the worn floorboards, the rickety old bed, and the dusty sheets beneath me.

I sit up and pat down my torso, confirming that I'm still fully dressed. Right—I'd decided not to risk undressing and slipping between those sheets. It was clear Elm hadn't spared any magic on housekeeping. Or maybe the locals here just have a different standard of cleanliness.

"It's still early," I remark, glancing out the window at the dark sky as I rise to my feet. I feel more rested than I did last night, but it's clear I didn't get a full night's sleep.

"Yes," Willow replies from the doorway, her tone turning brisk. "It would be wise for us to leave before more locals wake. Our wagon of goods has already begun to attract the wrong kind of attention."

I follow Willow out of the room and down the stairs to the pub on the first floor. Along the way, the rich aroma of beef stew reaches my nose, and as I step off the last stair, my stomach makes its interest known with a low grumble. At the same time, my ears catch the quiet murmur of conversation.

To my surprise, the room isn't empty. Several simply dressed commoners are seated around the hearth, tending to bowls of stew and chatting among themselves. One bearded man, his weathered skin like tanned leather, glances up and freezes when he sees us. His jaw slackens slightly and his eyes widen, fixed—uncomfortably—on Willow.

Gods… I hope that stare is meant for her, I think, as he nudges the man beside him—a dirty fellow with soup stains down his front—and subtly points in our direction.

"You will not accept food from this place," Willow warns, apparently misreading the look on my face and the direction of my lingering gaze.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I reply dryly, turning my eyes to Lady Elm, who stands behind the counter.

She's speaking with a skinny woman in a tattered dress, patched in several places. Her long hair is tangled and unkempt.

"Please, Lady Elm," the woman pleads. "Bless my family with good fortune."

Elm leans forward on the counter, smiling with a warmth that almost feels real. There's kindness in her amber eyes—just enough to hide the monster that lurks beneath.

"Calm yourself, child," Elm soothes, her voice honeyed and unnaturally sweet. It makes my skin crawl. "For just two drops, I can divine where your good fortune lies."

I glance back over my shoulder as we near the door. The frail woman pricks her finger with a long needle, somehow managing to squeeze out two drops of blood into Elm's waiting palm.

Elm's eyes glow an artificial blue as the blood vanishes. She begins waving her hands dramatically, humming in a way that vaguely resembles what someone might imagine divination to look like—if they'd only read about it in a storybook.

"You will find your fortune by seeking the help of a man in a mask," I hear Elm say in a sing-song voice.

Just before the door closes behind us, she glances my way and offers the smallest of sly smiles.

That's probably not good.

Our wagon waits for us outside—along with the sound of commotion.

Shadow stands ahead of the horses, surrounded by five villagers tugging at his cloak, hands outstretched as they plead for help. Our Hyperion escort are flanking both sides of the wagon, struggling to hold back several more desperate people, all crying out at once.

"Please, give me food!"

"My baby has a fever!"

"Are those healing potions? Please, let me have one!"

"My children are starving!"

Willow strides forward without hesitation and leaps effortlessly onto the wagon, joining a frustrated-looking Maribel, who is swatting at an elderly man trying to climb aboard.

"We have nothing for you!" Maribel snaps, as she pushes him back.

I climb up after her, and from my new vantage point—standing atop the crates—I take in the crowd. The early morning sun streaks across the sky, casting long shadows that reveal even more villagers being drawn toward the noise.

A group of desperate people, being denied what they need while standing within arm's reach of it, is a recipe for disaster. Any cautious and wise person would recognize the danger here and would hurry to get as far from here as possible.

Perhaps a far more cautious and wise person than I, because I am struck with inspiration to use this chaos to my advantage.

Amplify Voice. "Listen here!" I shout, my magically enhanced voice cutting through the noise like a bell. Dozens of heads snap toward me.

"I am Prince Ren Drakemore," I announce, smiling broadly and pull a loaf of bread from my bag of holding.

"I have gifts of food and healing potions—but only for those who approach the sides of the wagon in an orderly fashion."

What follows is anything but orderly.

The crowd surges again, shifting from all directions to both sides of the wagon. People push and jostle, some reaching up with hungry hands, others crying out louder, more desperate than before. Even the onlookers who had been hanging back now rush to join the throng.

Willow doesn't miss a beat. She moves to one side, calmly handing down potions, loaves of bread, and loose fruit from her bag. I take the other, handing down gifts, making eye contact with each person with a polite smile.

It isn't orderly, but it works.

By drawing the crowd away from the front, we clear just enough space for Shadow to get the wagon moving. The wheels creak into motion, pushing us slowly through the gap.

The Hyperion guards hurry alongside, keeping the desperate people from stumbling into the path of the moving wheels.

The throng follows—some walking alongside the wagon, others trailing behind—as we hand out bread and potions as quickly as we can. The raucous crowd clings to us like a pack of dogs, whining and barking, begging for food from our outstretched hands.

It's hectic at first, but over time the numbers begin to dwindle. One by one, people fall away, clutching their prizes, guarding them like treasure as they slip back into the streets.

These people will remember my name—and the generosity I showed them today. I don't expect to call in favors from any of them, but someday, one of them might tell the story of the kind prince from Arcadia. And maybe the person hearing that story will decide to repay the kindness.

Even if they don't… this is still better than the alternative.

Better than using force or fear to disperse the crowd.

"Is it a problem that you gave away so much of your supplies?" Maribel asks, just as the last villager accepts a loaf of bread from me with a grateful, "Thank you, m'lord!"

I watch her go—a sickly, slender young woman with raven-black hair. She waves goodbye as the wagon pulls us apart. I smile and wave back.

But that smile isn't joy. It's a mask. A part of the role I've chosen to play. And with the last of the crowd turning back toward the village, that mask slips, leaving only the ache in my cheeks.

"It's fine," I say with a sigh, settling onto a crate of potions beside Willow. "What we gave was just a fraction of our food and healing supplies."

"That was very kind of you," Daniels says, still a little stunned. "Reckless… but incredibly kind."

"I thought for sure that was going to end badly," Kane adds with visible relief.

His words are met with murmured agreement from Shiro and Thalen.

Maribel's stomach growls, and she rubs it absently, her eyes drifting back toward the village rooftops as they fade into the distance. She's probably just as hungry as I am, having missed breakfast.

After letting her gaze linger for a moment, she turns back—just in time to see Willow holding out a white handkerchief with two honey-glazed biscuits resting neatly on top.

Maribel's eyes brighten as I accept one, leaving the second for her. She takes it gratefully.

"Thank you, Lady Willow," she says, and we both take a bite.

The biscuit is soft and warm at the center, crisp and flaky on the outside, with a gentle, satisfying sweetness.

We left in such a rush," Maribel says through a mouthful of biscuit. After swallowing, she adds, "The food they were serving at the inn… it smelled really good."

"You shouldn't accept food from a fae," Envy's voice whispers into our minds. "They often use food to ensnare and enchant their victims."

Maribel freezes mid-bite.

Her chewing slows noticeably—once, twice—then stops altogether. Her eyes widen as the words sink in. She glances down at the half-eaten biscuit in her hands, realization dawning like a slow chill creeping over her. Then, very carefully, she turns her gaze toward Willow.

Willow meets her stare with a serene, innocent smile.

"You don't need to worry about Willow," Envy adds quickly. "If she wanted to hurt you… she wouldn't need to trick you into eating her food."

An audible gulp escapes Maribel as she lowers the biscuit slightly, still eyeing it with suspicion. Her expression is the picture of inner conflict.

Then she looks at me—just as I'm licking the last traces of honey from my fingers.

"You said you'd trust her," I remind her with a smirk.

Maribel sighs, her shoulders sagging. After a moment's hesitation, she takes another bite and continues eating.

I smile as our wagon rolls farther down the road, Ravengate now well behind us, lost beyond the horizon. I check in with Talon, who's been circling overhead.

"There's a broken wagon up ahead," I remark to Shadow, still viewing the scene through Talon's eyes.

"Looks like an abandoned wreck on the side of the road," Shadow replies evenly. "But I don't see any threats nearby."

"No threats… but there's a lot of blood," I say thoughtfully, ending the connection with Talon. Raising my voice slightly, I glance toward Daniels. "Your men might have a vested interest in investigating what may have been a bandit or monster attack within your territory."

"Yes, that does sound like something we should look into," Daniels agrees, squinting ahead. "How far?"

"A couple miles, give or take," I estimate casually.

"You can see that far?" Shiro blurts out, clearly baffled by the implication.

Maribel snorts with laughter—probably because she's had the same question more than once, but gave up on ever getting a satisfying answer.

"Yes, we can," I reply simply.

"I'm starting to… feel like you… don't really need us to escort you," Thalen mutters between labored breaths, struggling to keep pace with the wagon.

And he'd be right.

A short while later, Shadow brings the wagon to a halt about twenty meters from the shattered remains of what once was another wagon. Broken wood lies scattered in splintered pieces, stained with blood. Dark blotches mar the ground where large pools of it had soaked into the dirt.

From what's left, it looks like the wagon was designed as a cage—likely meant to hold animals. But there are no bodies. No people, no cattle. Just blood and broken timber.

Daniels and his men move ahead to investigate. I watch with interest as they draw strange metal cylinders with wooden handles from the unusual pouches on their belts. They hold them like oddly shaped wands, ready for a fight.

"What are those things?" I whisper to Willow. "Some kind of wand?"

"They're called firearms," Willow replies. "Weapons used by those without magic. They use a controlled explosive chemical reaction to launch a small metal ball at deadly speed."

"An explosive reaction to launch a metal ball?" I blink in surprise. It sounds unnecessarily complicated—something I could replicate with a basic spell. "So... is it a weapon made by an alchemist?"

"They're unique to Hyperion," Willow explains. "They're crafted by artisans known as artificers—people who combine mechanical, alchemical, and magical knowledge to create tools and weapons. Your chronologue is also one of their inventions."

I'm familiar—perhaps even well-versed—in alchemical and magical theory. But mechanical knowledge? I'm not entirely sure what that entails. I don't have the faintest idea how firearms or my chronologue actually function.

But I want to.

The thought that there's an entire category of knowledge I've yet to study fills me with overwhelming curiosity. I don't like the feeling of not knowing.

"There are bits of webbing all over the wreckage," Shiro calls out, using a stick to lift several strands of abnormally thick spider silk. "Looks like a monster attack—probably some kind of giant spider?"

"Think it's still around?" Thalen asks, eyeing the tall grass warily.

"This blood is at least a few days old," Daniels replies, crouching beside one of the dark stains. "Whatever did this is likely long gone."

"And it looks like it made off with at least two people and several animals," Kane adds, inspecting the remnants of the cage. "Judging by the wool, I'd say sheep. If it was a spider, it probably dragged the victims back to its lair—to eat later."

Willow adopts a curious expression—an oddly proud, almost wistful smile—as she stares off into the distance.

"What's that smile for?" I ask, puzzled by the way her mood doesn't quite match the grim scene.

"Oh, nothing," she says, a strange spark lighting her eyes. "Just considering how very large that spider must have grown to have such a large appetite."

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