“By Geb’s cracked bones, make it worse! Why?” Tarik cursed. His voice turned muffled while he nursed his aching, bleeding tongue.

  Dahlia’s violet eyes narrowed—a slow, deliberate motion, like a cat watching an insufferably stupid bird, moments before pouncing. When her head tilted slightly, she exuded the distinct air of someone holding back the overwhelming desire to smack a slow-witted pupil over the head with a book.

  “Really?” Dahlia asked, slow and exaggerated. “Think, Tarik.”

  Tarik cringed. The force of supreme beauty, with magic cascading around her, had insulted him and thought him dumb. That hurt more than he could explain, which was strange, since he barely knew the fairy at all. Each waft of her scent, each twist of her violet lips, each contemptuous glance of her luminous eyes made his heart ache inside his chest, and she looked down upon him as if he were an insect.

  Besides, she’d already shown she would act in ways that were not within what most of Nantes would consider moral.

  “They didn’t finish the ritual,” Dahlia explained, enunciating each word as if Tarik were a very dense child. “Which means I can take it over and twist it against them.”

  Annoyance vanished from that wonderful face. In its place, her eyebrows twisted sharply, her eyes took on a shrewd and calculating look, and she gazed thoughtfully at the blood-drenched river and the still-smoking coals of the ritual braziers.

  “The Inquisition man the fortress down the river—Riverguard Keep—yes?” Dahlia asked.

  Tarik bit his lower lip, smart enough to see where this was going. He sighed.

  “They do,” Tarik agreed.

  Dahlia smiled—and it touched her eyes this time. An old saying whispered through Tarik’s mind. A deal with the fey is a dance on a blade—graceful, beautiful, and bleeding before you know it. Pink and gold fairy dust churned in the air around her.

  “Excellent,” Dahlia said. She clapped her hands together, preparing to summon a wonderous gift into the world, rather than the horrors she considered unleashing.

  “I see three paths before us.” Dahlia held up a single, black-nailed finger. “First, I could turn the Scarlet Benediction into a Crimson Tide—an enchantment upon the Silvervein that would ensure any Inquisitors who dare to approach are ensnared, drowned, and devoured.”

  Tarik grimaced. That sounded more like a curse than an enchantment.

  A second finger rose.

  “I could raise an army of blood and suffering to unleash on the Inquisition. I imagine it would create a permanent birthing vessel—wights, revenants, spectral warriors, all the good stuff. An eternal, unrelenting host whose only goal would be to ensure no Inquisitor ever walks these lands again.”

  Dahlia smiled, enjoying the mental images that danced through her head.

  Tarik visibly paled and shook his head no.

  “Finally,” Dahlia lifted a third finger, “you and I could work together, shunting the ritual into the Bramblewood to create a cursed forest where the trees become the final judges of those with ties to Horus. Living death, waiting eternally for those who would risk the thorns of the Bramblewood.”

  Tarik groaned. The options were all worse, as Dahlia had promised.

  The druid asked a question he couldn’t work out the answer to.

  “Can you not make things… better?” Tarik asked, reluctantly.

  A single purple brow arched over Dahlia’s right eye, her face conveyed an expression somewhere between mock pity and delighted cruelty.

  “Oh, you mortals.” Dahlia laughed, her left hand resting over her heart in mock sympathy. “You sweet, foolish druid. That was never an option.”

  Tarik stared at her, hearing her words but not comprehending them.

  “But… why?” Tarik asked.

  Dahlia sighed. A slow, indulgent thing, as if Tarik’s confusion were a delicious meal and she intended to savor every single bite.

  The fairy stepped closer, her violet eyes gleaming like twilight caught in a crystal—a textbook definition of fey magic. Tarik swallowed at the lessening of space between them.

  “Because I am Fey, Tarik,” Dahlia said gently, as if she were forced to explain to him that the wind could not be caught, that water was indeed wet, or that fire burned—undeniable, unshakable truths.

  Dahlia’s eyes lingered upon the Cloak of Banyan upon his shoulders, and Tarik could almost hear the cogs of her mind turning, wondering what exposure to Nyxaria Tarik had survived to come away with such a prize. When she spoke again, it was with the certainty of a creature bound by rules and an existence a human could not hope to comprehend.

  “We do not make things better. We make them… interesting.”

  A light breeze stirred, and the metallic tang of spilled blood and the fading embers of Malzareth’s ruined ritual warred with the intoxicating scent of jasmine, violets, and death that clung to Dahlia.

  Tarik exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching and then working as he chewed his lower lip. Frustration dominated his voice when he spoke.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “But that doesn’t—”

  Dahlia raised a finger, cutting him off before he could protest further.

  Her smile deepened—wicked and knowing, her words a silken snare meant to tangle him. This was how rabbits felt, fleeing the hawk.

  “You, of all people, should understand.” Dahlia gestured at the world around them—the crimson stained river, the tangled roots of nearby trees drinking deep of sorrow, the spectral remnants of the dead who lingered at the edges of sight, and the distant cries of the tide of Shadows butchering the Inquisition across the river in River Home.

  “Nature does not seek fairness. It does not heal for kindness’ sake. It devours the weak, breaks the strong, and constantly demands change.” Dahlia’s black nails drifted lazily through the air, and for a moment, Tarik swore he could see the invisible threads of fate being plucked by her fingers.

  “And so do I,” Dahlia said. Her smile widened. “Now… which option shall we take, O’ Guardian of Nature?”

  Tarik spoke without thinking.

  “Could… I make a pact with you. To, you know, fix it?” Tarik asked.

  Dahlia froze. Her expression flickered—not in shock or anger, but in a sharp, glittering curiosity that was far more dangerous. Tarik had her full attention for the first time since their conversation began.

  A grin inched across her lips—not the mischievous smirk or mocking amusement—no, this was something else entirely. Something hungry. Something terrifying. Dahlia’s violet eyes gleamed like dusk reflected on a blade’s edge. She tapped her nails, once, twice, then a third time against her lips as she studied the Tarik, the Ashroot Druid puzzle.

  “A Pact?” Dahlia repeated the word, and the way it twisted on her tongue—like a feywine aged in shadows for centuries—made Tarik immediately regret the words.

  Dahlia’s posture shifted, the air around them grew denser and tighter, and Nantes shivered as if caught in that precise moment before a storm broke.

  “Yes.” Tarik said, then swallowed. “A bargain, a contract, whatever you call it.”

  Dahlia stepped forward slowly, then stepped forward again. Violets and jasmine overpowered his nose, and the strange scent of death felt almost overpoweringly erotic. Especially when her final step put her chest against his, the fairy looked down at him, eyes glowing against the black night behind her.

  “Oh, Tarik, do you know what you’ve done?” Her voice shifted into something softer, an intimate tone he’d never heard before—but in the world of the wilds, Tarik knew that tone. It was the same with which the spider spoke to the fly.

  Tarik felt it—the curves of her chest against his. The intoxicating scent drove his mind into idiocy faster than any alcohol he had ever consumed. No mushroom had ever provided him a high this spiritual, this transcendent, and he had eaten so many of them. He had leaped from the frying pan onto the plate, and Dahlia seemed delighted.

  “Yes,” Tarik answered. He smiled, despite himself. “I know what I have done.”

  Dahlia’s brows lifted; that had not been the response she expected from him. Then, eyes gleaming, she waited. Extending just enough slack for him to fumble into a hilariously lousy deal, or to hesitate and perhaps realize his mistake. But Tarik didn’t.

  Instead, Tarik squared his shoulders and spoke with a measured, steady voice. He did not plead or feign ignorance; it seemed he had done this before, so much for his seeming innocence.

  “I know the rules of Fey bargains, and I know that if I don’t set the terms first, you will.” Tarik pressed on in the silence.

  Dahlia took a step back, then tilted her head. A subtle motion, but it was meant to draw attention away from her fingers rubbing against one another. It was a lazy motion, her fingers barely twitched, but Tarik caught it. She was even more interested, or perhaps worse, challenged. Tarik had to press on, quickly, before she turned this back upon him.

  “I want Riverwatch restored. The land cleansed, the water pure. No curses. No lingering death. No hauntings. The Scarlet Benediction undone.” Tarik spoke with vehemence, born of sincere moral beliefs.

  Dahlia blinked once, twice, and a third time. Then, to his mild horror, she laughed. The laughter was rich and musical, and it could have quickly become a waltz, shifting between delight and something pure and utterly wicked.

  “You think too small,” Dahlia chided him.

  “I think carefully,” Tarik disagreed.

  For a brief moment, her grin faltered. Tarik exhaled nervously.

  “And since we’re discussing this like reasonable people, I’d also like to propose a cost that isn’t my soul, name, lifespan, or firstborn.” Tarik rushed the words out once he had started.

  Dahlia clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Spoilsport,” she murmured.

  “But if you want something, I’ll hear your terms,” Tarik said. He felt that was more than reasonable.

  Dahlia’s smile returned, slow and sharp.

  “Oh, Tarik, my dear little druid,” her eyes gleamed, her voice sweet as honey and sharp as knives, “I think we’re going to have fun with this.”

  Dahlia smiled—not in kindness, but in a dangerous, disarming way that suggested she had already won before Tarik knew what was at stake. She lifted a hand, palm up, as if presenting something unseen between them.

  “Very well, I accept your terms,” Dahlia said.

  Tarik blinked. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy. It was too easy. But, he had to be sure.

  “You swear on it?” Tarik asked. His skepticism must have shown through.

  Dahlia tilted her head before lifting her right hand, three fingers raised—a gesture older than kings, older than this land—the start of a Fey oath.

  “I swear by my name, my nature, and upon the Soulweald which bore me,” Dahlia said. The weight of it settled into the air between them, making the moment real… and binding.

  Tarik exhaled slowly, then grinned. The deal was made. That hadn’t been so bad.

  Dahlia leaned forward, her luminous violet eyes reflecting the silver moon. “You will give me something small in return. Nothing you need. Nothing that will harm you.”

  Tarik’s stomach clenched as if someone had punched him. Why hadn’t he remembered to force the price before the vow? He had been there, on the cusp, and then the next moment she was swearing without the price first declared. How had he made such a blunder? Anxiety ripped the lining of his stomach to shreds while Dahlia watched him with a smile. Damnable Fey!

  “I want the sun, Tarik,” Dahlia said with complete sincerity.

  Tarik looked at her. The words didn’t make sense. He frowned. “What?”

  Dahlia laughed, breathless and delighted. It was as if the entire back-and-forth had built up to this one moment, and his confusion had been a lovely part of the payoff.

  “Not all of it, you silly druid.” Black nails tapped against her chin as she feigned deep thought. “Just… a little piece. A fraction.”

  Tarik’s lips parted, a refusal forming on his lips—but she still spoke.

  “You won’t miss it, I’m sure. You’ll still feel its warmth, still see its light. But a sliver of it will belong to me, forever.”

  Tarik hesitated. This was a trick. Fey never made things simple. But—what was a fraction of the sun to him? He was no priest of Ra. He wasn’t a sun-mage. He was a follower of Geb. He was a druid of the land, of the rivers, the forests, and the roots that ran beneath the earth. The sun, while important, held no dominion over him. Forests could thrive in shadow, and glades could rise even in the deepest of depths.

  What would he lose? Most likely, his ability to cast solar spells, but Tarik rarely accessed that power.

  It was a small, reasonable price. Tarik met her gaze and ignored the voices that said he could walk away.

  “….Fine.” Tarik agreed.

  Dahlia’s violet lips parted slightly.

  “Good,” she said. Her hands reached out. She felt cold, not warm. She lifted his hand, and her purple lips pressed against the back of his hand—and though she wore no lipstick, her lips were imprinted upon his skin, a visible manifestation of the pact he had made.

  A permanent mark that he would never be rid of, even in death.