Elayra’s gaze darkened at Ghent’s request for a different weapon. Her hand twitched, wanting desperately to reclaim the weapon and demonstrate exactly what damage a ‘kinda small’ dagger could inflict.
The kris dagger’s wavy blue blade glinted indignantly at the comment as he examined it, turning it over just right so it caught a brave spear of remaining light.
“How slow are you?” she growled when he questioned what he could do. His disbelieving expression made her want to punch him. But, then, practically everything he did made her want to punch him.
Her eyes narrowed at his following questions. “Seeing as you’ve knocked out the only person” her head jerked irritably toward Drust, “who could’ve probably answered that, you’ll have to shut your eyes and wing it. That’s what you did earlier, isn’t it?” she scoffed. “So stop gawking and—” Her attention snapped to her right. She stumbled away, ready to push Ghent back with her if he did not move fast enough, as a translucent, wispy figure blinked into existence only a couple feet from them.
Its back hunched forward, it gripped its midsection as if in pain. Its body spasmed as its form glitched in and out of existence. A powdery pallor coated its garments, its form covered in leather armor. Dark streaks dripping down half its face made it impossible to get a decent look at its features.
Elayra turned and raised her sword, her thundering heart jumping into her throat.
The masculine form tilted its head back and let out a long, pained howl that merged into manic laughter. Another series of spasmic blinks wracked its form, like a video game character gone wrong. It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, making the eerie silence it left in its wake that much more unnerving.
“Get trying!” Elayra hissed with a new panic. “Unless you want to be skinned alive by earthbound ghosts!”

Ghent's expression soured as Elayra reminded him of his most recent blunder. In is opinion, she was partially responsible for failing to prepare him for the 'trick' ghosts swooping in out of nowhere.
"That was fifty percent winging it, fifty percent luck." With an aggravated groan, Ghent rubbed his pointer finger and thumb over his eyelids. His lack of training troubled him. Mistakes were becoming more and more common; it was a miracle he and Elayra were mostly unscathed by his last few endeavors.
"I need you to walk me through thi--" Ghent's mouth fell open. He staggered back with the help of Elayra, eyes wide and unblinking. Before them stood the largest figure of a ghost yet, one that appeared mortally wounded.
Ghent couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. The dagger slipped from his clammy hand and pierced the earth, just as a blade may have pierced the man's body. The figure was doubled over, his pain evident in body language alone.
When the apparition flickered out, Ghent hoped it would not return, but that was not the case. The howl from the deceased was unlike anything Ghent had ever heard in his life. The sound was laden with agonizing pain and suffering. Without meaning to, Ghent felt sympathy toward him and almost wished he could help, ghost or not.
The feeling didn't last. The howl morphed into a laugh so sinister and horrifying, Ghent screamed and didn't stop until it was gone.
A single leaf fell from a nearby tree. The forest fell quiet once more. Time was at a standstill, at least for Ghent. Face ashen, he slowly turned to face Elayra.
"What. Was. THAT?!" Ghent's voice cracked. He knew darn well what it was, he just didn't want to believe it. It was the ghost of man slain in battle. Possibly one of the three from the story Elayra shared.
Hugging himself as if he wore an invisible straitjacket, Ghent shook his head adamantly and paced, wishing to convince himself what he saw -- and heard -- was another trick. He wouldn't spend a night in Hollow Forest. He couldn't.
Amazingly, Elayra's words had enough power to stop him. Being skinned alive by ghosts was about the worst death Ghent could possibly imagine. At least in that moment.
Trembling, he nodded once to show he understood. Without a word, he dropped down to sit beside the abandoned dagger. Legs folded in a pose better suited to meditate, Ghent shut his eyes. Unlike before, he didn't bother telling Elayra to turn around. An audience was the least of his concerns right now.
Focus. That was the first step. Elayra told him to envision unlocking the gate earlier, and it worked. Hopeful that reaching the Spiritayum was similar, Ghent took a few deep breaths to help calm himself.
If we reach the Safe Zone, we'll be alright. Ghent longed for anything even remotely protected. If we don't, we'll die.
Ghent never released himself from the hug. His grip was so tight, he could feel the pressure of his nails through his hoodie. Calm down, focus, wing it. That was his plan.
It was in Ghent's favor that he had a wild imagination. With no effort at all, his mind conjured up a hazy image of a small, somewhat transparent fox. The only benefit of seeing a ghost up close was that it took little effort to guess what the ghost of a fox would look like.
Seconds turned into minutes. Ghent's body was tense and rigid to fight against his shaking. Dozens of thoughts flooded his mind, each with a fear tacked onto it. The fear fought for control, making his mission increasingly difficult.
Ghent's brows furrowed. Simply imagining a tichari wasn't enough. He needed to communicate.
Hello? Ghent hated how uncertain he sounded in his thoughts. "Is anyone there?"

Ghent’s nod went unnoticed by Elayra. Her gaze shifted fearfully to their surroundings and to Drust. She could not decide which fate she feared meeting more: the ghost's cold, deathly fingers, or the wrath of a Curse-driven Drust.
She looked back to Ghent when the boy suddenly moved. A scowl on her face, she almost expected him to have passed out. Instead, she found him sitting on the ground in a meditative position.
She glanced to the dagger he had dropped, and her eyes narrowed. She could yell at him for that later. As much as she hated it, Ghent was their only hope at getting out of this mess.
“No matter what, Ghent,” she began in nearly a whisper, struggling to keep a tremor from her voice, “focus on contacting them. Nothing else. I’ve got your back.”
She stepped so she stood squarely in front of him. She held her sword at the ready, standing guard. Her eyes darted vigilantly about the trees. The light was already nearly gone. The grayness of the approaching night quickly replaced the last golden streams that had pierced through canopy, threatening to snuff out what little light remained beneath the thick foliage above.
She glanced to Ghent, his eyes shut tight and arms wrapped around himself. Her attention snapped back to Drust as he stirred yet again. He groaned heavily and his arm twitched. It rose jerkily toward his chest.
He was waking up.
Thinking quickly, Elayra swiftly shrugged out of Drust’s large pack and let it drop to the ground. She knelt beside it, her gaze shifting to Drust every other second. She stuck her saber in the ground beside her, then unbuckled the pack. With the visible innards nothing more than a gaping hole, she reached inside. She dug around frantically, searching for something, anything she could use to tie him up.
She pushed aside metal gadgets and wooden boxes. She thought she felt a scabbard that did not belong to his katana, but she spared it little more than a fleeting thought and kept digging. She reached in until even her shoulder was nearly consumed by the pack.
The rough, woolen fabric of his cloak brushed against her hand. Her fingers closed around it, and she pulled it out. It would have to do.
She grabbed her saber then hurried to Drust. She knelt at his feet and once more fed the blade of her sword to the ground, the metal resting between a couple of the vines snaking their way about the forest floor. Scrunching the cloak so it created as thin of a length of fabric as possible, she set to work wrapping it around him.
Instinctively, his legs pulled away. Gritting her teeth, she trapped his legs with the garment then forced the cloak around them.
Drust moaned, the sound long as consciousness sluggishly returned to him. One hand reached up to his forehead, and the other formed into a fist, his fingers scraping lines into the dirt.
Cackles and echoic battle cries began floating through the woods. Unlike the indistinct whispers of the day, these echoed about the trees loud and clear. As she worked, flashes began to appear steadily, yet randomly, between the trees. Wispy figures in the shapes of people appeared and vanished in the blink of an eye. The gentle breeze turned into a stronger, freezing wind. It sent a shiver down her spine as it mussed with Elayra's tangled hair, making it billow about her face and adding another difficulty to her task. Yet, the spirits still kept their distance, as if waiting, watching. But for what? To see if Drust did their job for them?
She shook her head and clenched her teeth harder. It did not matter. She could worry about that when she needed to.
With the garment wrapped around his legs a couple times, Elayra tied its ends together near his knees as tightly as she could. Though it would not hold him for long, she hoped it would be enough to at least trip him up and give her—and Ghent—a few precious extra seconds.
Still kneeling, she turned to face Ghent. She opened her mouth to snap an impatient, ‘Well?’ but she froze, her mouth going slack.
Ghent still sat where she had left him, her dagger embedded into the ground beside him. Only now, his body was as see-through as the spirits that haunted the forest.


Time is a cruel thing, especially when it seems to be working against you. For Ghent, time was not something he had to waste, yet still it moved treacherously around him. Despite his efforts, it felt like nothing was happening. With Elayra’s order to concentrate no matter what now faded, only the quiet surrounded him as he conjured the best mental image of a ghost fox as he could.
An excruciating moment passed after he called out. Nothing. A whole lot of nothing. Or, perhaps, too much of nothing. Even the gentle breeze that had ghosted through the woods did not disturb him. The temperature had even settled into a lukewarm state, making the air unnaturally still and empty.
Without warning, sensations flooded over Ghent. A cool mist brushed against his skin, and a scent somewhere between smoky incense and festering rot toyed with his nose. Foggy white tendrils pulled from the mist and whipped around him amidst a world that had turned slate gray. Voices rushed by his ears, there one second and gone too fast to make out what they had said before another replaced the last. Should he try, no matter how much he may strain, he would find his legs frozen in place, unable to stand, to move anything below his neck.
The emotions seeping through Hallow Forest intensified. Terror and rage soaked into his very soul as if their only purpose in life—or death—was to see him torn asunder from the inside. The tendrils swirled dizzyingly around him, moving faster and faster until the many blurred into one.
“Enough.”
Though the feminine voice was soft, it sliced through the cacophony of thousands of disembodied words. The tendrils recoiled, cowering away from Ghent, and the emotions receded into the depths from whence they had come. A calm settled around him, the tendrils twisting irritably a few yards away from him.
“Not exactly the customary greeting,” the voice echoed around him, “but under the circumstances, I suppose it will suffice.”
Further away, the spectral fog parted, forming a path. A glittering emerald mist swirled amidst the clearing. It condensed before him, until it formed a translucent figure striding slowly toward him. A flowing green dress hugged the figure's curving bodice. She held her dainty fingers steepled in front of her, her long sleeves draping toward the ground. The hem of her dress swirled and shimmered impossibly around her feet, the fabric rustling like windblown leaves.
The closer she grew to Ghent, the more corporeal her form grew. Yet, it never fully shed its pale, ethereal beauty. Her hair, its front drawn behind her head, nearly glowed with the fiery colors of autumn. Her skin was white and as powdery-looking as freshly fallen snow.
She stopped a few feet from Ghent. Her eyes, greener than spring’s fresh buds, stared down at him, their fathomless depths filled with unimaginable anguish. She unhurriedly separated the tips of her fingers, turned one hand toward him, then waved it in front of her in a slow, fluid motion.
More of the emerald mist swirled around Ghent, a cool breath of a wind rising within its spiral. It lasted only a couple seconds before it sunk toward the ground and vanished into the grayness beneath him, the invisible force immobilizing him melting away with it.
The woman returned her hands to their steepled position.
“Welcome, young vinifcium.” Her head nodded fractionally in greeting, her voice simultaneously sweet and sorrowful.

Ghent trusted Elayra. He didn't know why, but he did, and her promise made his daunting task a little easier.
After a wait that threatened to feel agonizingly long, Ghent reconsidered his decision to wing it. Wonderland's version of a fox may have been different. If Elayra described what a tichari looked like, perhaps he could better imagine the creature. It was worth a try, at any rate. The image he conjured obviously wasn't working.
At least, that's what he thought.
Before Ghent got a chance to ask for a description, he was hit by something. It wasn't an object or a thought, it was a smell. A horrible smell, reminiscent of some road-kill he had the misfortune of coming across back in the city.
Resisting against the urge to gag, Ghent's eyes shot open to find the culprit.
Aside from the curious looking tendrils, there wasn't much to see. Either everything around him had changed, or the ghostly wisps were blocking his vision to what was really there.
Holding his breath, Ghent continued to wait, but with the hope that the tendrils would magically gather to form a tichari.
No such luck. Instead, the tendrils hung around, unnerving him with their too-close presence.
This isn't working. Exhaling, Ghent's skin prickled with goosebumps. He wanted to turn to see if Elayra was still with him, but he was unable. To his horror, he lost the ability to move.
"Hey, Elayra?" Ghent's heart flip-flopped. Desperate to prove his body wrong, he struggled to stand, his fears multiplying when the reality of the situation sank in. For reasons unknown, he was paralyzed, and Elayra was gone.
"Elayra?!" Ghent's panic melded into a sensation of rage, then back to fear again. The feelings he unwillingly harbored were overwhelming, clashing and fighting for dominance. Through emotion alone, he experienced what the victims before him felt, and it was more than he could take.
With no other options immediately available to him, Ghent strained to move, his breaths panicked and uneven. No matter how much he tried to focus on moving, he couldn’t budge, and he couldn't remember a single focus word.
Finally, Ghent gave up.
The tendrils seemed to take pleasure in the defeat of their victim. They sped up, colliding like the emotions tearing him apart. Ghent didn't know whether to scream out in anger or break down crying. It wouldn’t make a difference in the end. No one was there to hear.
But someone was there. Someone who offered a single word to put an end to his nightmare.
Everything seemed to go quiet. A blanket of calm fell over Ghent. He looked to see who he had to thank for the assist, and was rendered speechless at the sight of the approaching figure. The mysterious woman had an unearthly beauty about her, to the point where she didn't seem real.
Ghent wasn't sure if the woman was an illusion or a ghost. He stammered out the beginnings of a request, but he didn't have to finish. With a wave of her hand, the woman granted him mobility again.
"Don't get me wrong...I-I appreciate the help, but..." Ghent began to stand, struck by sadness in the woman's green eyes. It was a haunting kind of sorrow, one that carried over into her voice. His heart sank with the realization that she have been a victim of Hollow Forest.
Remembering himself, he took a breath and straightened. His legs felt wobbly, but he couldn’t have been more grateful to be on his feet. "Who are you?"

The woman’s woeful gaze followed Ghent as he stood. Despite the tremble in his voice, her expression never wavered, making it impossible to read anything beyond the stain of grief.
She blinked slowly at his question. Around her, the whispering wisps darted near, then curled away, as if afraid to get too close.
“I am Smaya,” she answered, her voice even in its melancholy. “The guardian of Hollow Forest and those trapped in this between place.” The tips of her multi-colored hair wafted and curled in a phantom breeze.
A few more clouds of mist gathered as near to Ghent as they dared. Their forms condensed into vaguely human shapes. Some looked burly, others emaciated. Some crouched, sneaking closer to get a better look at the living boy in their midst. The closer they got, the more details became visible, and their hollow whispers grew louder.
Leather and metal armor. Some wounded and bloody, others not. Most were men, with a couple weathered, warrior-looking females among them. Gnarled, scarred faces. Faces that looked intact, their expressions showing a mix of curiosity and anguish.
Smaya lazily waved a hand in an arch in front of her. The spirits burst back into indistinct tendrils that slithered off to join the others swirling amidst the grayness.
“You must excuse them,” she said through a mournful sigh. “It has been many years since a vinifcium last graced the Betwixt, let alone this prison.”
In the spirits’ absence, flashes of color ghosted across the landscape. Snippets of translucent trees, plants, and earth faded in then out of existence. For a split second, the insubstantial form of Elayra flickered into sight a few feet from where Ghent stood. She leapt hastily forward, reaching out for what looked indistinctly like her sword, but before Ghent could make out more, she vanished inside more swirling fog.
“Even those of us born of the Spiritayum have long awaited your return.” Smaya’s emerald eyes never strayed from Ghent. They sought out his as she continued. “On behalf of the Spiritayum and those trapped within the Betwixt, welcome home, young Madrail. Welcome to Wonderland.”


Movement from Drust caught Elayra’s eye. Without hesitation, she began to stand and reached for her saber, but she acted too late.
Drust’s bound feet kicked her in the chest, making her tumble backwards. Winded, she struggled to suck in a breath for a precious moment as she scrambled to her feet.
She spun to face Drust. Just enough light remained for her to make him out. He swiftly sat up and reached to pry his feet free. His angered snarls joined the distant shrieks and howls that had begun to echo through the trees.
Elayra glanced between Drust and her saber still in the ground scarcely a foot from him. Taking a breath and hoping the Knight was too preoccupied with the cloak, she made a lunge for the sword with her better arm.
Drust’s attention snapped toward her. In the instant it took for her to clear the space between them, Drust tucked his feet in and sprung for the sword. Or rather, Elayra.
Her fingers centimeters from closing around the sword’s hilt, Drust slammed into her. She shouted in a mix of surprise and pain as they both toppled to the ground, her head just missing an elm tree.
He gripped her shoulders, simultaneously keeping himself up and pinning her down. His face hovered above hers, leering down at her. Though the falling night had drained the world’s colors, she could tell that little, if anything, of his pupils remained. The dark veins pulsated with a vengeance out from the corners of his eyes.
“Such a stupid little princess, aren’t you?” A gravely undertone saturated his voice. A shudder ran down Elayra’s spine.
As she had predicted, Drust had woken up very much Curse-driven.

Ghent responded with a slow, thoughtful nod. An introduction in return wasn't necessary; Smaya already seemed to know who -- or what -- he was. Her eyes conveyed unimaginable anguish, but answers too. He was sure of it.
The wheels were turning in his head. If the guardian of Hollow Forest was as powerful as he hoped, maybe she could point out the nearest Safe Zone. Hopefully via a route that didn't contain ghosts.
As if reading Ghent's thoughts, a group of spirits decided to gather into an audience all around him. Each face was distinctive, and worse than the next. One was missing an eye, a few had blades still embedded into them. They were a dismal, haunting sight...and they were closing in on him.
"Don't..." Ghent’s throat tightened. He staggered back, arms raised defensively in case he should need to protect himself. Their whispers mingled together in a mess of dialog, their words lost to him.
"Don't come any closer!" Voice shrill with panic, Ghent sought out Smaya through the crowd of dead. He wanted to ask for help, but he couldn't form the words. Thankfully, he didn't have to.
With another wave of her hand, the ghosts were gone, leaving behind a rather traumatized, speechless Ghent.
Still reeling, Ghent's focus switched to the flashes and flickers of color dancing across the endless gray around them. The form of a human took shape, one he recognized as Elayra. The silhouette didn't offer a good look at her face, but she seemed to be reacting to something. To someone.
In a flash, the image of Elayra was gone, the emptiness filled only by Smaya's words.
Welcome home. Ghent shook his head in denial. This wasn't home. This was the beginning of a never ending nightmare.
“I-I'm sorry, but I really have to go back.” Fearing what was going on in his absence, Ghent locked eyes with the woman. “I don't know how I got here, but I need to find a Safe Zone. Can you help us?”

Smaya’s head tilted gently to one side when Ghent shook his. A small, bitter-sweet smile pulled fleetingly at the corner of her lips. When the boy met her gaze, she blinked once, slowly.
She sighed, the melancholy sound reverberating unnaturally loud in the powdery quiet that settled around them in the Betwixt. “So young and naïve. How cruel the fates have been,” she finished through another sigh.
“Yet, it is by fate you arrived here, young vinifcium,” she unhurriedly answered his uncertainty. “Fate and your own will and concentration. But I cannot lead you to a ‘Safe Zone,’” she said the phrase carefully, her lips quirking once more, “for I cannot reside long outside the Betwixt. But the tichari can.”
She placed her thumb and pointer finger in her mouth and blew. A sweet, yet shrill whistle echoed around them, ringing even once she stopped. It faded slowly into the distance, lasting far longer than any natural whistle.
A flash of silvery blue burst into life a few yards behind her. It darted about, growing closer as it wove through the wisps of spirits. The tendrils coiled and danced away from the streak of sparkling electric mist, avoiding the light as it slunk and bounced about them playfully, full of life and energy.
It floated to a stop near Smaya. The elements gathered around it in a wavering cloud, then settled, forming into a small fox the same silvery blue. It came to little more than a foot tall standing, the edges of its form soft, blurred. Its mist steamed from its body and poured from the end of its fluffy tail, leaving a ghostly afterimage of it as it swished behind the fox.
Silver and blue sparks crackled on its fur as it strutted toward Smaya, then sat at her feet. The creature turned its glowing white eyes up to Smaya. Its large ears twitched in every direction, picking up sounds only it could hear. It let out a fizzing, inquisitive yip.
Smaya bent and reached down to stroke the fox. Its fur crackled beneath her touch. “Deliver this young man,” she glanced to Ghent, and the fox did the same, “and his two companions safely to one of the Hollow Sanctums.” She straightened, still looking down at the fox.
The tichari sat straighter, and gave a short, birdlike yipping yowl in confirmation. It stood, turned to Ghent, and trotted over to him, leaving a short, glittering trail behind it as it moved.
Smaya looked back to Ghent. “Return to your realm, and Margen will show you the way.”
The fox stopped a safe distance from Ghent, staring up at him. Its head cocked to the side and it whined, pawing impatiently at the ground.
Smaya returned her hands to their steepled position in front of her, her draping sleeves billowing with the movement. “I will do what I can to keep the forest’s trapped souls from harming you on your journey. But I cannot hold them back for long.”


Elayra grit her teeth and swallowed hard against her fear. “But the best warrior you’ll ever meet,” she growled in response to Drust’s insult.
Hoping the cloak still wrapped around him compromised enough of his balance, she did not give him time to respond. Swiftly, she wrapped her legs around him, gripped his arms at the elbow, and used all her strength to yank him to the side.
Despite his resistance, he snarled as one of his arms buckled, making him lurch forward. Incapable of effectively adjusting himself fast enough, Drust’s full weight fell on her. The pain in her right shoulder flared, before she shifted him to the side and weaseled out from beneath the rest of him.
Not bothering to try keeping him from rising, she scrambled on hands and knees to her saber. She gripped it, a scarce second of triumph blossoming in her at the security the weight of the weapon brought with it. She scrambled to her feet as Drust at last freed himself of the cloak, kicking it from his legs.
Elayra faced him, sword held defensively across her front. She spared Ghent's translucent form half a glance as Drust stood, his knees slightly bent. The boy's body glowed gently amidst the darkness, unmoving save for the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Silently pleading him to hurry up, she quickly returned her attention to Drust.
Despite her slight advantage with a weapon, she tried to not allow the confidence it lent get in the way. She knew all too well what he could do even without a blade.
Drust glowered down at her. He bore his clenched teeth angrily, his stance teetering on the edge of feral. His neck twitched violently to one side.
For second, she dared to hope it was a sign that enough of his true self remained to fight against the Curse. Alas, if it did, it was not enough; Drust's stance remained unwavering, ready for the attack.

"Then you know where to find one?" Ghent perked up, his senses alert with anticipation. The whistle echoed into the darkness as he looked around, anxious for a tichari to answer the call. He didn't want to return empty handed. If Drust didn't kill him, Elayra would.
The call was soon answered. Ghent's breath caught in his throat when he spotted the burst of color, followed by one of the most incredible creatures he had ever seen. His imagination hadn't done it justice.
"Oh, wow..." Ghent didn't plan to speak, but his amazement escaped past his lips. He stared at the fox in wonder, marveling at its surreal, sleek -- and, undeniably cute -- appearance.
Ghent felt an undeniable urge to pet the tichari as Smaya had, at least until the crackling sound reached his ears. Thinking he would be electrocuted by its fur, he reluctantly kept his hands to himself.
Suddenly, the tichari looked right at him. Ghent swallowed, unnerved by its stare. New to interacting with a creature of Wonderland, he slowly raised his hand in a dazed sort of wave. The day just kept getting stranger.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Right." Thanks to Smaya's reminder, Ghent lowered himself to a seated position. He hoped returning to the realm would prove less terrifying than leaving it.
"Hang tight, Margen. I need to focus us back." The sentence sounded weird to Ghent, even as he said it. He wondered if the concept of magic and ghosts would ever feel normal to him.
There was a long, heavy pause. Ghent wrapped the drawstring of his hoodie around his finger, reluctance visible on his face. He knew he needed to get back to Elayra, but he was afraid. He had every reason to fear a second round of being immobilized and emotionally tortured.
Smaya's voice put an end to his fears. Her offer was an offer to keep the souls of the dead at bay.
"You'd do that?" Ghent felt the pressure lift from his chest, his mind racing with possibilities. Aside from a Curse-ridden Drust, ghosts were his greatest concern. "Yes! Er...I mean...that would be great. I -- we -- would really appreciate it. Thank you, Smaya. Really."
Feeling an unusual sense of determination, Ghent closed his eyes and cleared his mind. His thoughts felt clearer, his worries less than before. He imagined the clearing just as he left it. The terrain, the trees, even the occasional dust motes.
With Smaya's help, he had hope they would make it out of Hollow Forest alive...but he couldn't help but fear what he may return to.

No matter what, Elayra had to keep Drust’s full attention. Prevent him from taking too much notice of Ghent’s ghostly form.
“Drust,” she began, deciding to at least try talking him down. “You need to fight against this.” Her voice mingled with the distant cries of the dead. His head straightened to look to her. “You’re stronger than the Curse! Whatever this place is making you feel, it’s wrong.” She swallowed, unsure if she wanted more to convince him or herself of the statement.
Drust’s head twitched violently to the side and an almost choked snarl floated through the gray darkness.
Holding her breath, she forced herself to relax her sword and take a small step toward him. “Listen to me, Drust.” Her gaze flicked over the shadowy mass of his face. “Not the forest. Not… not her. But me.”
Drust’s shoulders rose in a deep breath and he bent his head.
Elayra eyed him suspiciously, cautiously, and took another partial step forward. His silence unnerved her, his voice the only easy tell in the dark for if the Curse remained in control.
“We’re going to break this Curse. For you. For everyone.” False confidence strengthened her voice.
Drust clenched his fists. He released them, and his entire stance relaxed.
She inhaled, daring to hope. Elayra took another uneasy step forward so they stood only a sword’s length apart. “And we’re going to do it together. The two—three of us.” She cast Ghent half a glance. “We need you, Drust!”
“Yes. You do.”
Before Elayra could fully register the malicious, gravely undertone still in his voice, Drust struck out like a viper.
She tried to jump back and raise her sword, but he grabbed her left wrist, the blade pointed away from him. He slid his hand closer to hers as she threw a right hook at his jaw.
Drust tilted and blocked her punch with a raised forearm. He knocked her right arm to the side and twisted her left hand. Elayra gasped through her teeth and relinquished the sword to him to keep him from snapping her wrist.
The moment he released her, she ducked down and kicked out at his knees as well as she could. The near complete darkness made it difficult to predict his movements and turned the two into little more than fighting black blurs weaving through the small clearing. Sparks of phantom energy flashed through the woods, granting quick, eerie glimpses tainted with green, gold, and white.
He hopped back with snarl. Her shoe grazed his trousers. He struck out at her legs, then, as she pulled away and straightened, he landed a side kick to her stomach.
The wind knocked from her and she stumbled back into a tree. The bruise on her back protested. Before she could suck in a breath, Drust pinned her against the rough bark. She grit her teeth as he placed the blade of her saber against her throat.
“Because you’re no warrior.” He made a sound somewhere between a tisk and cluck, his words stiff. “Can’t even keep your sword.”
“Snap out of it, Drust!” she hissed.
“Can’t keep your mouth shut.” He pressed the blade harder, and she closed her mouth. “Can’t go two steps without wreaking havoc. Always bickering. Arguing. Threatening your pathetic companion. If the Queen doesn’t kill him, you will!”
Elayra swallowed, the action uncomfortable beneath the blade. “I won’t,” she breathed, her voice betraying her in a tremble. “You know I won’t. Just like I know this isn’t you!”
“You. Know. Nothing!” he finished in a low, hair-raising growl.
He removed the sword from her throat. She tried to push him away and kicked at him. But he was too close and his strength pressing against her too great for her to create enough force to deal any significant damage.
A phantom flash of sickly green glinted malevolently on the blade as Drust turned his hand with the saber. He raised it and aimed the pummel at Elayra’s temple.


A small, grim smile pulled at Smaya’s lips at Ghent’s eagerness. “You called on the Spirataum, young Madrail. The call of a vinifcium will always be answered.” She watched as he closed his eyes. “Concentrate on returning yourself. The tichari have their own means of traveling between realms.”
With a gentle sigh, her body turned into emerald mist. The ghostly tendrils around her coiled further away, some even dipping as if in a reverent bow. Even Margen turned toward her, stretched out, and bowed his head to his paws in a respectful farewell.
“There is much you must know.” Her disembodied voice echoed around the Betwixt, whispering between glittering speckles. “Yet so little time.” The mist coiled upward then dispersed with a gentle rush. “May we meet again,” the fading remnants of her voice uttered, “son of Hatter.”
Even with Smaya gone, the tendrils kept their distance from Ghent. One ventured a little too close to Margen, and the fox spun around and nipped at it playfully. An electric bluish-white light buzzed down the coil. It recoiled then raced away.
As Ghent concentrated, a cold chill seeped down his spine before washing over him. The gentle light of the Betwixt filtering through his eyelids gave way to the darkness of night. Noises filled his ears. Banshee screeches and the screams of the fallen. Brave war cries and the last fearful whispers of the dying. They came in a garbled mush, as if his head had submerged underwater. But they remained only sounds, their emotions kept at bay.
One voice rose above the others, Elayra’s voice, more solid than the cries of the spirits, yet just as muted: “Just like I know this isn’t you!”
The ground felt suddenly real beneath him as if it had risen to greet his return, the grass chilled and vines hard.
The veil filtering sound disappeared as he fully returned to the physical world. The cries of the dead vanished. But in their wake, Drust’s voice, thick with the Curse, broke through the night:
“You. Know. Nothing!”

Using Smaya's promise as his source of motivation, Ghent made progress in freeing himself from fear. The freedom offered his mind the ability to focus on what he needed to, granting him an escape from the between world.
He shivered involuntarily, the cold chill spreading from his spine to every part of his body. Leaving the ghostly realm was working far sooner than he expected it to.
Any inner peace Ghent experienced was disrupted by the return of the voices and whispers. Distressed by their pain, Ghent pressed his hands against his ears in a futile attempt to block them out. He couldn't feel what they felt, but he could still hear their suffering, and that was almost just as bad.
Reminding himself of Smaya's promise, Ghent took a deep breath and lowered his hands. He couldn't dwell on the dead anymore, he had to worry about the living. Elayra needed help.
As the voices mingled and changed, he became increasingly disoriented. He didn't feel himself move, but he felt as if the world was reshaping itself around him. It was a strange, bizarre sensation, somewhat similar to how it was when traveling through the portal.
Elayra's voice cut through the darkness, her tone different than what he was used to. She sounded distressed, or at least close to it. The words weren't directed at him, but someone else. Ghent shivered as another chill raced down his spine. Drust was definitely conscious.
Ghent was afraid, but he didn't open his eyes. He wasn't ready. He was hardly an expert on how the Spiritayum worked, but his inner voice told him he wasn't where he needed to be.
Eventually, the earth seemed to fall away from him, replaced by the familiar roughness of entangled vines and grass.
“You. Know. Nothing!”
Gasping, Ghent's eyes shot open. Drust was awake, angry, and armed.
The knight stood across the clearing, sword in hand. His form blocked Elayra from immediate view, but Ghent knew she was there, cornered and pinned with no means of escape.
Ghent’s stomach knotted. Keeping Drust in his line of vision, he moved his hand across the ground until his fingers brushed against cool metal. The dagger he dropped before entering the Spiritayum was still there.
Fingers wrapping around the hilt, Ghent rose with shaky legs, adrenaline pumping. He could hear the scuffle between them. Elayra was trying to push the madman away.
Time had officially run out. There was no time to think, there was only time to act. Ghent’s first steps were wobbly. His sneakers barely made a sound as he moved forward, his pace quickening with each step.
Inexus. The focus word crossed his mind, but Ghent pushed the thought away. The spell was too unpredictable, and he didn’t think Elayra would appreciate being thrown again. Magic wasn't the answer.
As Drust lifted his arm, Ghent sprinted toward him in one last, giant leap. From where he landed, he was in range to stop the knight. At least, that was his intention. He was hardly a match for Drust, but that didn't stop him from trying.
In a single movement, Ghent wrapped his arm around Drust’s upper arm in an attempt to stop him from bringing the weapon down on Elayra. The difference in height was inconvenient, but the action was doable, even if Ghent practically had to stand on his tiptoes in order for it to work. Using the same hand, he pointed the dagger up towards Drust’s throat.
"Alright, DROP IT!" Ghent pulled back on Drust's arm tighter, the blade he gripped moving half an inch closer from the movement. "I'm serious, Drust!"

Elayra grit her teeth and closed her eyes, bracing for an impact that never came.
Drust snarled loudly as Ghent’s arm wrapped around his before he could bring the hilt down on Elayra.
At the sound of Ghent’s voice, she gave a small gasp and opened her eyes. She almost wished she had kept them closed. The sight of his awkward, poorly balanced position lit by the tail of the green flash made her groan.
“You idiot!” she muttered, her words nearly drowned out by an echoic battle cry as a luminescent ghost rushed through the trees a couple yards away. It collided with another, and the two vanished in a puff of vapor.
Drust’s arm scarcely moved when Ghent tried pulling further back on it, the Knight undaunted by the dagger pointed toward him.
“I’m serious, Drust!”
A menacing, twisted smirk jerked the corner of Drust’s lips upward as another phantom light flashed by.
“Is that even possible?” Drust asked tightly, the Curse-induced grate in his voice sending a shiver down Elayra’s spine.
In little more than the span of a blink, Drust attacked.
He leaned back from the dagger’s point and took a single swift sideways stride away from Ghent, putting more space between them. He straightened his trapped arm as he moved, letting it slide between Ghent’s pathetic hold. He shoved Elayra aside to the ground, shifted his weight onto his left leg, and struck out with a powerful side-kick aimed at Ghent’s torso.

Ghent’s eyes shifted, the commotion of the nearby battle diverting his attention. Repeating Smaya's promise in his mind, he gripped the handle of the dagger tighter, focusing on Drust once more. He continued to hold the knight hostage, inwardly sighing at Elayra's less-than-enthusiastic response to his efforts.
"At least pretend you're glad to see me," Ghent grumbled to her, stiffening at Drust's reply. The icy, dangerous sound in his tone made it clear he was not intimidated nor willing to comply with the demand.
Before Ghent could muster the courage to respond, Drust reacted.
The agility of the man didn’t seem possible. Shouting in surprise, Ghent made a move to stop him, but Drust had already shoved Elayra and retaliated with a kick impossible to dodge.
The kick sent Ghent sprawling backwards, creating a few paces of distance between them. The force of impact hurt, but it didn’t compare to the feeling of having the wind knocked from his lungs. He managed to sit upright, leaning forward as he gasped for breath to return.
Staring down at the dagger he managed to retain, Ghent's mind spun. He wasn’t a stranger to a brawl or two, but this was different. This was Drust. Armed or not, he didn't stand a chance.
Dropping the weapon against the ground with a gentle clink, Ghent decided to try what Elayra failed to do. He needed to make Drust listen to reason.
"DRUST!" Between gasps, Ghent shouted to get his attention. He wanted to keep the knight's attention away from Elayra. "LISTEN!"
Hoping Drust wouldn't go in for a second strike, Ghent pushed himself up to stand.
"Elayra's right, this isn't you," he paused, studying the feral appearance of the man driven mad by the Curse. "Well. It kinda is. But...you're worse than before."
Stealing a paranoid look behind his shoulder, Ghent faced him again, keeping Elayra in his line of vision as well.
"J-just listen, okay? I found a tichari. He'll lead to the nearest Safe Zone, and the guardian of the forest promised to help with the ghosts." Ghent spoke hastily, wishing to get his message across to the madman before it was too late.
"If you give in to the Curse...we'll never make it out of here. It isn't too late for us to work together."

Behind Drust, Elayra clenched her teeth and hopped to her feet as quickly as she could. Another wispy flash lit their forms for little more than a second.
Drust sneered at the dark shape of Ghent lying prone on the ground. “Imprudent, fickle weakling.” He readjusted the saber in his hand.
Elayra took a quiet step toward him and crouched. Drust raised the saber, ready to bring it down on Ghent as the boy sat up, gasping.
She sprung at his dark, imposing form. She locked her legs around his torso and hooked her elbow around his neck. Ignoring the ache in her shoulder, she reached over and grasped his arm as close to the saber as she dared, derailing the strike before it could begin.
She felt the muscles beneath his shirt tense. He let out a crazed, snarling shout as he stumbled back from her sudden, unexpected weight.
He quickly recovered and gripped her wrist. He pried it from his throat. Keeping ahold of it, he twisted his weapon-wielding arm to try shaking her off. Elayra tightened her leg hold and struggled to not release his other arm.
“Come on, Dr—!”
Her hissed words cut off as he leapt backwards, slamming her into a tree. She gave a shocked gasp. Her hold slackened, and she slipped from him. She sunk to the ground with a moan, incapable of telling if the darkness around her came from lurking unconsciousness, or the depths of the forest’s night.
Freed of Elayra’s weight, Drust spun wildly to face her.
“DRUST!”
With an aggravated snort, he glanced over his shoulder at Ghent. Deeming Elayra the lesser problem for now, he turned fully when Ghent stood. He glanced to the discarded dagger, the action lost to the darkness between phantom lights.
Drust snorted at Ghent’s less-than-promising start. He stepped forward as the boy glanced away. He held Elayra’s sword at the ready. Its blue blade glinted in another ghostly flash.
Though Ghent’s words bled together in a rush, Drust hesitated. His neck twitched. The motion radiated down his arm, and his grip tightened on the saber’s hilt.
When the boy finished, Drust stared at Ghent. The second stretched into an eternity. The darkness hid his eyes. The phantom flashes provided scarcely enough light to make out more than a guessing glimpse of the pulsating lines snaking from the corners of his eyes.
His lips pulled back into a snarl. “Adorable notion.” He raised the sword and stepped to lunge at Ghent.
A flash of crackling silver and blue whizzed between them. The phantom lights cowered away, fleeing like frightened pixies. Unlike the flashes, its light shone brighter and a bouncing train of electric mist trailed behind the newest spirit.
With a surprised shout, Drust startled back as the streak twirled in a quick funnel mid-air, then rushed back toward him.
Snarling, he bent, bracing himself for impact. He raised the sword and slashed at the streak. The crackling light flitted easily back then flowed forward.
It stilled for scarcely a second in front of Drust. The font half of a blue fox materialized at the head of the mist, nearly nose-to-nose with Drust. Without giving the Knight time to react, the fox sneezed. A puff of glittering indigo particles burst from the creature’s snout.
Drust stumbled back, snarling, but it was too late. His knee bucked at his attempt. He teetered unsteadily on his feet, his eyes fluttering. His heel snagged on a vine, and he tumbled backward.
Before he could hit the ground, more of the mist swirled to life behind him. The glow of the cloud crackled and intensified when he hit it as if surprised at his weight. The man laid there, his chest rising and falling with the steadiness of sleep.
Margen swirled once in the air, his form blurring back into mist with the speed. Satisfied, he trotted down to ground level in front of Ghent.
As the tichari's pace slowed, the mist formed into the familiar, silvery blue fox. Unlike in the Betwixt, here, his form took on a translucent, ghostly appearance. Blue and silver strands of electricity occasionally sparked through his body. The glow radiating from his fur illuminated the space around him like a living lantern. Mist rained upward from his back and swishing tail, only to dissolve into the air.
Margen came to a stop in front of Ghent. He cocked his head and gave a crepitating yip. The sound rang with a hollow echo from his throat. His incandescent white eyes glanced from Ghent to the forest and back with a gentle whine, as if asking, “Ready, slowpoke?”

The silence was deafening, and the suspense was excruciating.
While the knight considered the words, Ghent stood rigid, his focus trained on where he assumed Drust’s eyes were. The shadows made it impossible to get an accurate idea of his expression, but the show of hesitation sparked a feeling of hope in Ghent. If he was lucky, he reasoned with what little sanity remained.
Please Drust, Ghent silently pleaded with him, his eyes flickering to Elayra again. Concern for her crossed his features, but he was quick to avert his attention. He didn't want to remind the knight of her presence.
Any remaining hope was shattered with two words.
"Adorable notion."
Ghent felt the air leave his lungs all over again. His mind screamed at him to run, but his feet were anchored to the ground. Shock robbed him of his senses and left him unable to react. In that heart stopping moment, he was convinced he would die.
Hollow Forest was denied another victim, thanks to Margen. The nimble creature showed up in the space between the males, acting as a barrier between sword and boy.
Ghent couldn't move. He acted as a useless bystander, gaping as the creature made quick work of their current foe. The tiny sneeze from Margen lead to Drust tripping, which ultimately ended with him falling unconscious again. It happened so fast and effortlessly, Ghent wondered if Margen was better suited to save Wonderland.
Silence fell over the group again. Trembling, Ghent approached slumbering knight and nudged his leg with the tip of his sneaker. The state of sleep hardly made Drust appear less threatening, but it was definitely an improvement.
"Margen..." Ghent whirled to face him. Overcome with gratitude and admiration, he knelt to be more level with his ghostly rescuer. "Good boy!" he praised the fox as one might praise a beloved pet. "Margen, you were incredible! You saved my life!"
Chuckling lightly at Margen's impatience, Ghent nodded and stood. His entire body felt shaky, but he didn’t care. His body was still in one piece. "Alright, alright, we're..."
His voice faltered when the realization hit him. Caught up in the chaos, he had forgotten about Elayra.
Quickly, Ghent turned around, hoping to see the girl on her feet. She wasn't. She remained where Drust left her, her frame looking smaller than usual against the tall, looming tree.
Without another word, Ghent dashed past the knight and Margen, inwardly cursing himself for not leaving the Betwixt sooner.
"Elayra?!" When he was close enough, Ghent dropped to his knees beside her. To get an idea of her condition, he reached to brush some of her hair out of her face.

Margen watched Ghent as the boy went over to the slumbering Knight. The cushion of mist Drust had landed on, keeping him afloat a couple inches above the hard ground, flickered with the gentle motion caused by Ghent’s nudge.
The fox cocked his head at the sound of his name. His tail swished slightly quicker. The tichari’s brows rose and the corners of his long mouth pulled down at the simple, typical praise used for a pet. All the same, he perked up proudly, his large ears standing a bit straighter, at the compliment that followed.
When Ghent agreed, the fox turned, ready to traverse the forest. The fox paused when Ghent’s words trailed off. He turned around, his ears ever twitching, and gave a curious, confused whine.
Its gaze flicked to the fallen girl. In understanding, Margen trotted to the side and sat to wait.
There was no doubt in Elayra’s mind: she was unconscious. She struggled to force herself to awaken. There was no telling what Drust would do with her down for the count, to her or to Ghent. Especially to Ghent.
She stirred slightly as, all too slowly, the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant cries of lost souls returned to her. She swore she heard her name, but she could not be certain. She sensed movement around her, heard the gentle scrabble of hurried footfalls.
Something brushed against her face, snapping her fully back into awareness.
With a sharp gasp, she startled and her hand shot up and gripped Ghent’s wrist. The other reached to draw her dagger, unsure what new threat she would face, but her fingers came up empty.
Breaths heavy in anticipation, it took her a moment to fully register her surroundings. Ghent kneeling beside her, half his face illuminated by silvery blue light. Drust laying on a bed of twinkling mist. A tichari watching them from a few feet away, impatiently padding at the forest floor.
How hard was I hit? She released Ghent and shook her head, unsure if she believed what she saw.
Her gaze settled on Margen. “You… actually… found one?” she asked incredulously, deciding to first address the easiest of the oddities before her. Her voice came out a bit weaker than she expected.
Margen’s ears twitched toward her. He blinked, the white of his eyes winking out for a fraction of a second.
“And… took out Drust?” She had to still be unconscious. But the pounding in her head and ache in her back promised her otherwise. Her eyes narrowed as she remembered Ghent’s ability with magic. Her attention snapped to him. “How?” she demanded curtly, pulling one leg toward her in preparation to stand.

"Whoa!” Ghent pulled his hand back, but wasn't quick enough to avoid Elayra’s grasp. When she reached for an invisible weapon, he grabbed her arm in an attempt to stop her. “Elayra, it’s okay!" he insisted, saying what he could to make her realize she was no longer in immediate danger. "It’s just me!”
Once released, he dropped down to a seated position, blinking once at the question. "Found one what? You mean Margen?" He followed her gaze toward their ghostly guide, a light smirk tugging at his lips. Smaya had been the one to summon the creature, but he didn't have to tell Elayra that. Not immediately, anyway. "Would you be impressed if I said yes?"
He was startled out of his smugness by the intensity of Elayra’s stare.
“I know what you’re thinking, but I didn’t use magic on Drust." Sensing the ever-present disapproval from her, he made sure to deny having any part in the knight's current condition. “Margen did."
With his name cleared and the blame foisted off on his rescuer, Ghent’s expression turned unusually serious as Elayra moved to stand, an action he didn't think wise.
“This is the part where I offer to help, but you get angry and turn me down," he sighed at her stubbornness, speaking as if they were characters in a film. Slowly, he shifted his position so he was kneeling again, but he didn't stand.
"Let me help you, alright?" Being quite stubborn himself, he offered her his hand. "You're hurt, and we don't have much time. I'll explain on the way.”

Elayra’s shoulders sank with a sigh of relief at Ghent’s reassurance he had not used magic. One less thing she had to worry about. For the span of a breath, a shocked awe returned to her face at the impossible thought Ghent had subdued Drust without magic.
Maybe he’s not so useless after—
“Margen did.”
She blinked at him, confused. She opened her mouth to ask who Margen was, but quickly put it together. Her awe was replaced with a disappointed frown.
So much for that. Her gaze shifted to Drust, the gentle, steady movement of his chest just visible in the light of the cloud beneath him. She nodded as everything finally fully fit into place.
“Sleeping mist,” she muttered. A mild magic even the Knight could shake off once broken.
She glanced to Ghent when he spoke. “Smarter than you look, Featherhead,” she growled at his prediction.
She pulled her other leg in and tried to stand, Ghent’s sigh sounding in her ear. She inhaled through her teeth when the shift in weight at fighting against gravity sent a spark of pain down her back and made her head throb harder. She fell back the few inches she had managed to rise. She leaned back against the tree trunk, glowering out into the forest night.
Elayra closed her eyes for just a moment as Ghent spoke again, her teeth clenched. She opened her eyes and looked to the hand he offered.
“Since when do you know how to take initiative?” She tried to offer a small grin, but it came more as a grimace. Without waiting for an answer, she grudgingly reached out with her better arm and gripped his offered wrist instead of hand for a more secure hold.

"Since two seconds ago," Ghent joked, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. It wasn't far from the truth. He never took the initiative if he could help it. It was easier to have somebody else in charge.
He didn't say anything when Elayra opted for his wrist rather than his hand, he was just glad she accepted help for once. Rising, he allowed her to hang onto his wrist as much, or little, as she needed to. He waited until she was on her feet, and even then he didn't move away. He nearly expected her to collapse.
"All good?" Ghent tried to sound casual, as if Elayra had merely skinned her knee. Inwardly, he was panicking. What if she had a concussion? Was she bleeding? Head injuries weren't something to be taken lightly.
"You took a bad hit," he reminded, his indirect way of telling her not to overdo it. "So...if it's hard for you to keep up, just say so...and, uh..." he rubbed the back of his neck. "We'll...figure something out."
For the sake of time and personal safety, Ghent left it at that. As far as he could tell, Elayra didn't have a concussion. She seemed a little banged up, but well enough to move. At least nothing had been broken. He didn't want to think about what would happen then.
"Sorry about the wait, Margen," Ghent gave him a thumbs up, thankful their guide's patience hadn't run out. "Lead the way, we'll be right behind you."

Elayra snorted and her brows rose in a silent, ‘Sounds about right.’ Her expression hardened as her muscles tightened in preparation for another attempt at standing. She used Ghent’s offered arm to help get herself on her feet as he, too, rose. She added her weight to his slowly to avoid pulling him down with her if he was not fully prepared.
As soon as she was on her feet, she released his wrist. She fully straightened. Her head gave a fierce throb and the world spun around her for a second. Grinding her teeth, she reached out for Ghent’s shoulder to keep from stumbling back to the forest floor.
She took a deep breath as the trees stopped wavering. Once again, she released him and tenderly prodded the back of her head. She winced when she found the beginnings of a bump forming beneath her hair.
“Fine,” she growled to his question, unsure if her frustration stemmed more from being knocked out, having a lovely lump growing on her head, or that she had needed Ghent’s—Ghent’s!—aid.
She glanced to Ghent, scowling at his next statement. “Oh, really?” she began, her voice thick with sarcasm. “I hadn’t noticed. Thanks for reminding me, Featherhead.” The expression deepened as the older boy continued. “I said I’m fine!” Alas, an unconvincing waver in her voice lessened the conviction she had wanted.
She gasped and reached for her empty scabbard as a whining keen pierced the night. Anguished, echoing shouts of the fallen warriors weaving about the trees joined it in a crescendo of agonized despair.
Ghostly forms wisped in and out of existence, flitting through the night. Yet, they did not venture as near as Elayra expected.
Taking a steadying breath, she carefully went to her discarded sword and dagger. She replaced them in their sheaths. She heaved a deep breath, realizing exactly how naked she had felt without her trusty weapons at her side.
In the lull in his duties, the tichari contented himself with digging through the vines and grass, pouncing on any shadow that moved. Margen looked up eagerly at the sound of his name, his milky eyes watching the boy expectantly.
Using the light of the fox’s mist-bed, Elayra collected Drust’s pack as Ghent gave the tichari the thumbs-up. Holding it in her better hand and being careful to not throw herself off balance, she placed the pack on the unconscious man’s chest. The magic bed glittered a bit brighter for a second at the added weight, then returned to its gentler glow.
The fox gave an excited crackling yip in understanding at Ghent’s gesture. It twirled around, its bushy tail leaving a swirl of crackling sparks in its wake. With little more than a quick glance to Elayra, the fox bounded ahead. Each step brought him a little higher into the air as if climbing an invisible staircase until it leveled out at the height of Ghent’s chest.
The fox’s glowing form swayed lazily onward. Spirits lurking ahead of him rushed in streaking flashes to move out of his way, giving him, Elayra, and Ghent a wide berth. The bed of mist floated behind him, carrying Drust. Bushes and weeds bent out of the way of the fox’s magic only to spring back into place once the cloud passed.
Elayra’s gaze lingered on Drust for a moment. She took a deep breath when Ghent followed after the tichari. She stepped beside Ghent and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder to make him pause.
“Thanks,” she muttered toward her shoes, not wanting to look him in the eye while admitting she had needed his help in more than just getting to her feet. “For… well. Stopping him,” she nodded toward Drust, “from putting my lights out. Sooner,” she added bitterly.
“Don’t get me wrong. You’re still a spineless oaf,” she continued, ruining the awkwardly sentimental moment, “but I’d say that was a decent step in a good direction. Horrible stance aside.”
She gave his shoulder a quick, firm pat then hurried to catch up with the tichari. She watched her feet, carefully picking her way around the blanket of vines draping over patches of the forest and hugging many of the trees. The tichari’s light turned their path into an eerie mix of shadow and blue-white light. She walked slower than normal, her feet still a bit unsteady even without the plant life to worry about.
As they walked, Elayra listened to Ghent’s account of encountering the Betwixt. She interrupted only once with a shocked, “You met an actual Guardian?”
Despite Smaya’s promise to him, Elayra still could not help but flinch every time one of the spirits got too close. She even felt the negative emotions reduced around her, their nagging sensations less biting than before Ghent spoke with Smaya.
The temperature dropped fast, the dead sucking even the warmth from the trees. Elayra shuddered, her breath beginning to leave her nose in puffs of fog.
Thankfully, led by Margen, it did not take them long to at last find one of the coveted Safe Zones. Without the tichari, Elayra had the sinking suspicion their journey would have ended in Hollow Forest.
The trees gave no indication of letting up, their trunks and the spirits seeming to go on forever with no reprieve. Then, she took another step after the electric fox, squeezing between two bushes that had parted for Drust.
Without warning, the forest pulled out in front of her like stretching taffy. The darkness of the woods and Margen’s glow merged into one mass of bleeding color. As quickly as it had begun, everything snapped back into place like a rubber band breaking.
The disorienting effect made Elayra gasp and stumble forward. She reached out for a tree—or Ghent, should he stand closer, balance intact—but missed. She fell to her knees at the edge of a clearing that had not been there a second before.
Forgot about that, she thought with a shake of her head. She glanced up at the sound of a startled, metallic yelp.
A second tichari stared at the newcomers from the opposite side of the clearing. It watched them for a moment, its ears larger than Margen’s. Lowering its head, it dropped a stick it had carried in its mouth, tucked its tail between its legs, and dashed toward the trees. A trail of mist more white than blue left a short imprint of its sprightly form behind it.
Margen let out a commanding bark as he trotted toward the smaller tichari. The other ghostly fox slid to a stop and turned its attention to its superior with a soft whine.
The two shared a quick conversation of barks and grunts. The smaller whined again in protest, but the sound cut short when Margen gave another demanding bark.
The second tichari let out a snort, glittering mist rising from its snout, but nodded. It bowed its head to its paws, then zipped off into the trees.
Elayra glanced around the clearing, searching for any other unexpected guests.
No more than four yards in circumference, the circular clearing remained otherwise empty. A circle of stones surrounded a fire pit at the clearing’s center, its innards charred from long past use. A stack of wood and kindling waited a safe distance from the fire pit. The grass grew lush and short as if someone had come out with a lawn mower.
Best of all, the gut-wrenching emotions of the forest had completely vanished the moment she crossed into the Safe Zone. Even the wails and screams of the ghosts sounded distant, their forms little more than oblivious, blurry wisps outside the small pocket of safety.
Drust’s glowing bed floated closer toward the fire pit. It slowly parted down the middle, letting him drop to the ground. The Knight groaned and stirred, but did not wake.
The remaining mist formed into four large balls of light. They hovered around Drust for a moment, then streaked upward toward the dome of leaves creating a canopy above them. They hung there, creating a connect-the-dot box. They glowed and pulsated with tiny, nerve-like lightning, illuminating the clearing with their eerie electric blue light.
Margen turned toward Ghent, his head and tail held straight and proud. It let out a quick, content yip at its job well done and nodded toward the fire pit.
Elayra glanced from the tichari, to his lights, to the pit. Understanding, she nodded her thanks to the fox then got slowly to her feet. With her pack still under Ghent’s supervision, she knelt cautiously by Drust.
“Know how to stack wood for a fire?” she asked Ghent as she pulled the pack from Drust. She kept a wary eye on the man, unsure whether the tichari had undone its sleeping spell yet or not.

"Okay, okay! You're fine." Ghent backed off, throwing up his hands in exasperated defeat. Either his help was demanded, or it was vehemently denied. There was no winning with this girl, she was completely and utterly impossible.
Distancing himself from her wrath, his attention was drawn to the peculiar bed of mist Margen had conjured in order to transport Drust. He hadn't taken the time to observe it closely before, but Ghent decided he wanted one too. He mentally added the bed to his Wonderland wish list, second only to the Mary Poppins bag.
Not long after he began to follow Margen, Ghent felt Elayra grab his shoulder. He stopped in his tracks, giving their surroundings a quick look. They weren't in any immediate danger that he could see, so he figured Elayra was going to chew him out or lecture him. Probably over the fact that he'd dropped her dagger.
Contrary to what he expected, Elayra did something he didn't think possible. She thanked him.
Ghent blinked. He didn't know how to react. His mouth dropped open, but no words came out.
“Oh, that...” Ghent cleared his throat, rubbing at his arm. He looked to Drust when she did, grateful for a reason to delay eye contact. He was glad there was barely any light, his face felt hot. “You did the same for me, so...I’m the one who should be thanking you,” he admitted with a side glance, feeling oddly charitable for once. If Elayra could play nice, so could he.
Spineless oaf? Ghent’s face scrunched in disapproval. An oaf, he was willing to let that slide. But spineless? At least he hadn’t fainted, or run away screaming, which is exactly what Mrs. Saxon’s son would have done. He shot her an unamused, 'really?' sort of look when she pointed out his stance. He knew it was bad, but did she have to point it out?
"Way to ruin the moment, Blondie," he mumbled dazedly, watching as she passed him by. Maybe she wasn't so impossible after all.
It wasn’t long before Ghent caught up and began going over what had happened in the Betwixt. He went into great detail, using crazy hand gestures when describing the tendrils. He covered everything, except for the part where he almost cried. That was unimportant.
He smirked to himself when Elayra expressed her disbelief. Apparently, his meeting with Smaya was more of an honor than he had realized. He gave a solid nod, feeling mighty important. “Yup,” he answered, straightening his shoulders. “It was kind of a big deal. For her, I mean." Despite his boasting, Ghent didn't want to be put in a situation that terrifying ever again. The memory of being torn apart by sheer emotion, coupled with the drop in temperature, made him shiver.
Just as he began to complain about how cold it was, Ghent stumbled, arms flailing for something to grab. His fingers snagged a low hanging branch, but it broke underneath his weight and he fell to his knees. The dizzying way the world around them seemed to distort and expand was both nauseating and frightening. As soon as it began, it was over, leaving him thoroughly baffled.
"What the heck was that?" Ghent took his time getting back up. He readjusted his pack, pleasantly surprised as the mini version of Margen came into view. It hadn't occurred to him that there was more than one tichari in Hollow Forest. He added a tichari to the very top of his Wonderland wish list.
While the two creatures conversed, Ghent checked back on Elayra. He was surprised to see she had fallen too. He began to ask if she was alright, but the words caught in his throat. Something was different about this place. There was no fear forced upon them, no sorrow sinking into their very being. The only emotions they had to worry about were their own. And maybe Drust’s.
“We made it,” Ghent breathed, venturing forward to get a better look. Visually, it wasn't anything spectacular, but after their journey it was the most beautiful place he ever saw.
He looked up as the tichari summoned the four spheres of light. He had to look away after a bit, blinking away the blotches in his vision. "Margen, if tichari get paid, you deserve a raise. And a promotion," he rubbed at his eyes, but that made the blotches worse, so he waited for them to fade and gave Margen two thumbs up. The creature more than earned it.
"Of course I do!" Scoffing at Elayra's question, Ghent plopped down near the stack of wood. It felt good to sit, but it also reminded him of how tired he was. He ached all over, especially where Drust had kicked him. “It’s just like Jenga,” he mumbled to Margen, grabbing two pieces of wood. “How hard can it be?”
While Ghent had the surprisingly ordinary task of stacking wood, he cast a nervous look in Drust’s direction. He didn’t like the idea of him waking up, Safe Zone or not. “Shouldn’t we tie him up?” he asked skeptically, purposely setting aside the largest piece of wood in the pile. He wanted something to club Drust over the head with in case he got violent again.
“Hey Margen, if Drust starts going crazy again, get ready to sneeze,” Ghent instructed their guide, adding another piece to his Jenga-inspired woodpile. “I don’t trust him. And you shouldn’t either, Blondie. I’d move away from him if I were you.”