Elayra’s grip tightened on her saber in the silence that followed, surprised at Ghent’s relative lack of physical reaction. Drust waited, his fingers curling and uncurling with impatience.
Elayra glanced between the guys, the man towering over Ghent simply from kneeling. Even from across the fire, she could see the defiance twisting Ghent’s face, could practically hear his arguments against Drust’s demands.
The Knight’s eyes narrowed in warning at the unvoiced thoughts displaying on Ghent’s face. His neck gave a half-suppressed twitch.
Elayra’s gaze bore hard into the boy, silently demanding he hold his tongue. Ghent was still a new variable, new stressor for Drust to acclimate to, and vice versa. Which was asking a lot under even the best of circumstances. Even the wrong tone could further aggravate the man’s Curse-amplified anger, be it truly at Ghent, himself, or both.
To her relief—and shock—Ghent managed to calm himself down enough to try talking sense. Even if his words were strained and agitated.
“To think I was worried you’d figure out how to listen,” Drust growled, returning slowly to a sitting position. He moved stiffly, forcing himself into the less threatening cross-legged pose. “I said most of, boy. Not all. The value of keeping some of that isn’t lost on me. And as I said. White Knights don’t need to eat as much. Take what you need.” He nodded to the bundle. “I’ll store the rest.” He jerked his head toward his pack.
Slowly, Elayra mimicked Drust. She reluctantly unwrapped her hand from her saber. She adjusted its length behind her as she returned to her spot on the grass.
“Toatunt jerky.” She nodded to the bundle waiting for Ghent to pull off its twine. She picked up the last remaining bit of the thicker chunk she had started on. In some areas, the speckles of orange rose a bit higher than the vivid red, creating small, wart-like humps. “You won’t need much. It’s more filling than it looks.”

"If you say so." Ghent was frustrated by Drust's refusal to his idea, but hardly surprised. White Knight or not, he didn't know how the guy could go an entire day without eating. "Feel free to change your mind, though." He leaned forward to grab the bundle by the fabric, pulling at the twine until it opened.
In the middle of the cloth, Ghent was met with the peculiar sight of strangely colored jerky, a closer view at what Elayra was eating.
"Oh. Cool," he answered her, as if he knew what a toatunt was. He sniffed at the jerky, unable to judge the flavor by smell alone. "So, what is that...Wonderland's version of a cow?" Before waiting for an answer, he tore off a big piece with his teeth.
Ghent's expression went from impassive, to confused, to grossed out. The more the flavor soaked into his taste buds, the less he liked it. It tasted like something his mom would pick up from the health food store. It tasted like the health food store.
He regretted taking such a big bite. He couldn't swallow the bizarre tasting jerky without choking. He wanted to spit it out, but he forced himself to chew the rest. The raised bumps on the jerky brushed against the inside of his mouth. This definitely wasn't cow.
Finally, it was over. Ghent swallowed down the rest of it and coughed, as if that would somehow rid the flavor from his mouth. He placed the half-eaten piece of meat back with the others and reached for one of the cans of Pepsi, amazed by Elayra's ability to eat the stuff without showing signs of disgust.
"Seriously, what the heck is a toatunt?" Ghent pulled back the soda tab with a crack, bringing the can to his lips. He couldn't decide what was worse about the jerky; the texture or the flavor. "A Wonderland boar or something?"

Elayra smirked at Ghent’s cluelessness about what he was about to put into his mouth. His willingness to try it without an answer only enhanced the effect.
“Not exactly.” She bit off another bit of her jerky, chewing slowly as she watched Ghent, wondering what his reaction to it would be. From what little she had experienced, the food on Earth was far different from what she was use to.
Her smirk turned into a mischievous grin when he finally took a bite, his reaction priceless.
Drust, uninterested in what the boy thought of the meat, returned to his knees and reached into his pack once more.
Elayra opened her mouth, all too eager to answer Ghent as he eagerly sipped at one of his strange beverages.
Drust raised his hand to silence her. He cocked his head toward Ghent, not quite looking at the boy. “It won’t kill you,” he growled. “Or poison you. So in this case, eat first. Then worry about what it is.”
Elayra looked overly dejected, her lip curling in a mock pout at being denied the pleasure of informing the boy.
Drust turned back to his pack. “We’ll take watch tonight in shifts. Since I’ve gotten the most sleep,” he added with a glower, “I’ll take first watch. Ghent,” he glanced to the boy, “second, and you,” he looked to Elayra, “third.”
Elayra shifted uncomfortably. She hated the idea of leaving a watch shift to Ghent. Either they would all be eaten in their sleep, or be woken at every rustle.
“Since it’s his first time,” she began slowly, trying—but failing—to keep her distaste from her voice, “maybe he should take a shift with one of us?”
Drust paused, his katana half way out of his pack. He considered her for a moment, then shook his head. He looked over his shoulder to Ghent as he fully removed his sheathed sword, its length greater than the average katana.
“It’s a simple task. Stay awake,” he began laconically. As he spoke, he placed his katana on the ground beside him, then reached for the pile of wood nearby. “Keep the fire fed.” He tossed the log with into the flames. The fire flared up in a burst of thankful sparks. “Wake us if anything enters the clearing. You’ll know if anything living tries to get in. The Safe Zone’s walls will shift. Think you can handle that, boy?”

The soda wasn't enough to mask the aftertaste. Ghent smacked his lips and grimaced, eyeing Elayra with the utmost suspicion. She was going to tell him something terrible, he just knew it. Why else would she look so happy?
Before the news was broken, Drust intervened. Ghent wasn't sure whether to be grateful he was spared the truth, or angry he was denied it. He sniffed at his dinner a second time, bringing the jerky closer to his face. There was no mammal on Earth he could compare it to. Perhaps some things were better left unsolved.
"You guys are cruel, you know that?" Ghent took a smaller bite, his hunger winning out. He made it a point to chew on one side of his mouth, an attempt to keep the jerky bumps away from his tongue. The method helped a little, but did nothing to prevent the flavor from resurfacing.
Ghent clutched the soda, cringing as he swallowed the rest of the mystery meat. He already hated the food of Wonderland.
At Drust’s mention of getting the most sleep, Ghent snorted a laugh mid-drink before turning it into a fake cough. The image of Margen knocking Drust out cold was still vivid in his mind, a sight that he didn't consider funny until he realized Drust was probably angry about it. The moment of amusement was short lived, replaced with concern at the mention of keeping watch.
Ghent set the drink aside, his heart giving a nervous flutter. They were in the Safe Zone, why would they have to keep watch if they were safe? Unless…they weren’t.
Elayra's suggestion of staying awake in pairs was certainly better than having to stay awake alone. Ghent began to agree with her, but he lost the nerve once Drust's katana made a reappearance.
"It's okay, Blondie." Ghent spoke up, hoping to keep the peace. If tending to the fire would keep Drust from stabbing them, he figured it was worth it. "I can do that, Drust. No problem." He shrugged with one shoulder, taking one last bite of his dinner.
Ghent answered before the instructions were finished. He stopped chewing, the jerky packed into his left cheek like a chipmunk. The Safe Zone suddenly felt a lot less safe.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa," Ghent held up a hand to stop the conversation. "What do you mean, ‘if anything living tries to get in?’” He cast a quick look behind his shoulder, the color draining from his face. There was nothing but darkness and trees, a perfect camouflage for predators. "How can anything come in!? I thought this was a Safe Zone, not a Semi-Safe Zone!"

“What, boy?” Drust snapped as Ghent held up a hand. The Knight placed the katana on the ground beside him. His scowl deepened at Ghent’s first question. “I mean just that!”
“We got in, didn’t we, Featherhead?” Elayra answered through an impatient sigh, her piece of toatunt jerky finished. She rubbed the back of her neck, the dull ache there finally beginning to turn into a headache.
Drust eyed her for a moment.
She glanced to him, before looking back to Ghent. She decided to elaborate both for the boy's and Drust's sake.
“Safe Zones keep the spirits and the emotions out, but these places still let in anything living. And some Spiritayians, like the tichari. Nothing living’s stupid enough to travel Hollow Forest at night, but her beasts don’t make the habit of putting brains before orders.”
She paused long enough to reach into her backpack again. This time, she retrieved a water skin.
“It’s unlikely they'd find us,” she continued. “The tichari steer clear of them, and they can’t see our fire. This place won’t disperse the smoke above the trees,” she jerked her head upward, then winced as the motion angered her budding headache. The light of the fire scarcely reached the treetops. Darkness blanketed the thick canopy stretching unnaturally above them, “and nothing outside the clearing can see the light. But…”
“Be prepared for anything,” Drust put in.
“And always expect the worst,” she finished. “Better to be safe than dead, don’t you think, Featherhead?”
She wiggled the cork of her water skin out with a satisfying pop.
“Wait, girl,” Drust demanded as she raised the water skin to her lips.
She could not stop a glare at her guardian. “Yours has the same water as mine,” she complained as the man reached into his pack again. “There's nothing —”
His sharp stare brought her words up short. He pulled a small, worn leather pouch from the dark depths of his pack, then tossed it to Elayra.
The girl caught it in her free hand. With a confused, suspicious glance to Drust, she sat her water skin upright in her lap and pulled the pouch's drawstring open. She removed a bottle reminiscent of a glass inkwell. Only instead of ink, a substance that looked like someone had dumped glitter into strawberry milk swirled around inside. It filled only a small bit of the inkwell.
Elayra blinked at the bottle in surprise. “Where’d you get this?” She unscrewed its dropper stopper and sniffed at the opening. It smelled a tangy mix of pine, grapefruit, and brine.
“A daejinn.”
Elayra stared at him with open-mouthed horror. “You called a daejinn? When—”
“Enough!” he growled with firm finality that shut down any further questions from her. He took a deep breath. “I'm not the one who called it.” He nodded to her water skin, the motion half intentional, half twitch. “Two drops.”
She nodded. Though she itched to get answers, the fear of further aggravating him won out. She drew some of the liquid into the stopper.
Drust sat beside his katana, closed his eyes, and took a few more deep breaths.

"Well that's just great." Despite the heat of the fire, Ghent shivered, his delusions of safety replaced by fears of the unknown. "Hanging out with you two, I always expect the worst," he grumbled, folding the cloth over the remainder of the jerky. He didn't want to see, let alone think about whatever it was he just ate.
After tying off the twine, he passed the bundle back to Drust, mumbling a sheepish 'thanks' before turning to his backpack. He started to put away most of the scattered food items, leaving out the hard candy and a couple of candy bars to appease Drust.
His attention was suddenly diverted to the exchange involving Elayra's waterskin.
What, is water not substantial enough? Ghent came close to rolling his eyes, his inner voice heavy with sarcasm. From what he could tell, Drust was even harder to please than Elayra. Why would he object to her drinking water?
Taking one last swig of soda, Ghent crushed the empty can in his fist, his eyes darting between the two as they seemed to argue over the curious looking bottle. He hadn't known Elayra for long, but he had a feeling it was rare for her to show that much emotion over something. She almost seemed...worried.
Brows furrowed, Ghent tossed the can aside with the abandoned snacks, completely lost. What was a daejinn, and why did the idea of one seem to bother her so much? He waited for someone to fill him in, but no one did.
“Um…what was that all about?” Ghent asked finally, perplexed by the entire situation. “Is that stuff medicine?” he nodded to the bottle, wondering of its significance. Whatever it was, Elayra seemed more concerned of where it came from, rather than what it was used for. “And what's a daejinn?”

Elayra sighed heavily. She held the bottle up carefully, delicately, as if afraid even looking at it too hard would shatter it.
“King’s Curative. Supposedly, the only thing it can’t cure is death. Takes a lot of magic to make.” She looked to Drust. “Don’t you think we should save it?”
“You were knocked out, girl. You may have a concussion.” He glanced to Ghent and took the bundle of jerky the boy had returned. “We can't risk its side effects.”
“I feel fine… Mostly fine,” she amended grudgingly, sure the first lie would not go well. “It'd be a waste.”
Drust snorted as he tossed the bundle into the depths of his still open pack. It disappeared inside, devoured by the enchanted fabric.
“Then stand.” The man rose swiftly to his feet, his expression hard.
Elayra blinked up at him. Craning her neck to keep an eye on his face nearly made her dizzy and her neck ache. She had expected some sort of rejection, but the demand to stand was not a part of it. She glanced to his katana, thankful he had not grabbed it. But that meant little.
Heart pounding a bit faster, Elayra carefully set her water skin and the King’s Curative aside. Keeping a wary eye on him, she forced her aching legs to move as quickly as they would let her.
She gasped when the movement made the throb in her head worsen and spread. Her world spun and she nearly lost her balance, the clearing going momentarily fuzzy around the edges.
Drust reached out to steady her with a firm, but gentle—for him, at least—hand. He watched her sit back down, the girl scowling.
“Two drops.” This time, the order sounded less severe. He returned to his own indentation in the grass beside the fire.
The argument drained out of her. He had made his point. She retrieved the discarded items. Not wanting to look at either of her companions as she gave in, she focused on removing the inkwell’s dropper stopper. She put two careful drops into her water skin, then snugly restoppered it. It did not look any emptier than before.
“Daejinn,” Drust began, his attention returning to Ghent, “are Spiritayian cats. Born of the spirit realm. They have more free rein in our physical world. Compared to most other Spiritayians.”
“They… make deals," Elayra began quietly, staring down at her water skin. “The stronger ones can do about anything, but…” She took a breath. Her voice came even softer as she continued, the sounds of the fire threatening to drown it out. “Their services always come at a price.”
Her grip tightened on her water skin. She shoved the cork back into it and shook it to mix in the King’s Curative. She sighed, realizing it was barely half full.

"Are you serious?" A day ago, Ghent would have laughed and called Elayra a liar. He leaned forward to get a better look at the bottle, amazed something so small could contain so much power.
"Save it?" he scoffed, "I think we should sell it." He locked his hands behind his head, leaning against his backpack like a pillow. "Do you even realize how much that'd be worth on Earth?"
Before more could be said about the King's Curative, Drust spoke up, startling Ghent as he often did.
Stand? Ghent wasn't sure if he heard the man correctly. He looked in Elayra's direction, watching for her reaction to the sudden demand. What was Drust going to do, challenge her to a fight? Ghent wouldn't put it past him. Not after the day they had.
"It's only two drops, Blondie." Ghent spoke up from his spot on the ground, unmoving. From his position, Drust looked like a skyscraper. A really scary, Curse-ridden skyscraper. "Drust's right. You hit your head pretty hard back there, y'know."
Despite being rather comfortable, Ghent sat up as Elayra stood, seeing the unmistakable look in her eyes. "She's gonna--" he began, but Drust got to her before she could collapse.
Ghent breathed a secret sigh of relief once Elayra sat back down. He listened as Drust elaborated, his face scrunching up at mention of a daejinn being a cat. Hopefully they didn't shed as much as William.
"If they've got that much power, why don't we ask one of them to kill the Sorceress for us and call it a day?" Ghent said it as a joke, but was half serious. He shifted his backpack around, trying to get comfortable again as she mentioned a price.
"What do they usually want in return? A soul? Catnip? Seems like a fair trade for a miracle potion." Ghent shrugged with one shoulder, his eyes narrowing in a combination of suspicion and curiosity. "What kind of deal did you make with one, Drust?"

Drust sneered at Ghent’s joking inquiry, while Elayra's grip tightened on her water skin.
“You think no one’s thought of that, boy?” Drust spat as Elayra took a swig of her water. “They’re still bound by their rules. Spiritayians can only do so much. Go only so far to directly alter events of our physical realm. She is out of even their abilities.”
When Ghent finished, Drust snarled.
“I didn’t. Make. The. Deal!” he repeated to Ghent as Elayra’s glower turned to the boy.
“Is everything a joke to you?” she hissed, struggling to not shout at him. Her voice overlapped with Drust’s. “Selling something that could save us from certain death, treating the daejinn like—”
“Enough,” Drust growled, interrupting her. He closed his eyes for a moment.
Elayra’s glare shifted to him, then to the fire.
“Their price varies. But yes. It could be as simple as an herb, or extreme as a soul. Or worse.” He sighed deeply, resigning himself to telling the tale Elayra had wanted. “Ellheim made the deal for the Curative.” He glanced toward Elayra.
Her gaze lifted back to him in surprise.
“We traveled with a group of Omitten.” He looked back to the fire. “Ellheim’s son, Alden, made a deal with the strongest of the daejinn. He tried exactly what you suggested. But the daejinn couldn’t. Once called, a request must be made. The deal he made instead resulted in him being mortally wounded.”
Elayra looked away and bit her lower lip, swallowing back a guilty lump. If not for her, Alden would have never summoned the beast in the first place.
“Ellheim traded his freedom for the Curative to save Alden.”
Elayra inhaled. “He became the Cat’s pet?”
Drust gave a stiff, jerky nod. “Some fates are worse than death. Becoming a daejinn’s pet among them,” he explained in an attempt at warding off a potential question from Ghent. “Alden wanted nothing to do with the cause of Ellheim’s decision. No reminders. He gave the Curative to me. We left camp before he returned.”
“You… never told me that,” Elayra’s soft voice trembled slightly. “I knew Alden had lived, but…”
“I saw no need,” he answered flatly. “You learned what was necessary from your mistakes. But you,” he looked to Ghent, “have much to learn. We’ll forgo combat training tonight.” He shifted and rose to his knees to dig into his pack. “But it’s best you familiarize yourself with a few focus words and your weapon.”
“His weapon?” Elayra eyed him, relieved for the change in topic. Though, not too relieved. The thought of Ghent having any kind of bladed item made her fear for the safety of everyone in Wonderland. Not to mention her sanity.
“A gift. From Hatter.” When he removed his hand, he held not a weapon, but a small leather-bound book.
He tossed it to Ghent, careful to avoid the flames. Though it lacked a title, faded gilded swirls decorated the corners of its worn brown cover.
“Your father’s notes. From when he first learned magic. Come to me if you have questions. I’ll do my best to answer.” He looked back to his pack, hesitating. With a heavy sigh, he reached back inside.
This time, he had to dig down deep. The pack swallowed his arm up to his shoulder.
Overtaken by curiosity, Elayra sat up straighter, ignoring the twinge it sent down her back. A hand subconsciously rested on the hilt of her saber, a gift of its own from her mother.
This time, Drust had to stand to remove the item from his pack. Nearly six feet long, a staff with a sheathed blade at either end emerged. Made to resemble a light ebony wood, a slanted crease had been embedded into the short shaft, creating the illusion of two slivers melded together.
“Hatter cast a linking enchantment on it. It should respond easily to you. Once it gets to know you.” He pulled one of the sheathes from a blade.
Elayra gawked at it. Jealousy shimmering in her eyes, she watched it as Drust turned it, examining the weapon with a trained eye.
The black blade glinted in the firelight, the thickly serrated edges lined in shimmering blue. A slit speared down its center, creating a pair of deadly-sharp prongs at the top. What looked like an oval sapphire glittered at the base of the blade just above where it connected to the shaft.
Apparently satisfied with it, he replaced its sheath.
“The blades can be separated by force of will.” He gripped the shaft in both hands and tilted it so the crease in the metallic wood shone in the firelight. “With all enchanted weapons, you’ll need to gain its respect.”
He stepped toward Ghent. His expression hardened, his gaze boring down on Ghent.
“Remember, boy,” he began, a stern edge in his voice as he held the weapon out to Ghent. “This is a tool. Not a toy. It has the power to defend, and to kill. It cares not whose blood it tastes. Treat it with care, and it will be good to you. Treat it poorly, and it will turn on you.”
This is not a good idea, Elayra thought, shifting uncomfortably.
All the same, she could not stop eyeing the weapon, her fingers itching to hold it, to feel its weight, its power. As grateful as she was for her own weapons, his was in a league all its own.
She tried to mask her envy in another long swig from her water skin.

Ghent cringed, the harshness in the response reminding him of his near-death experience. If Drust didn't make the bargain for the Curative, who did? He rested his head against his backpack, unsatisfied with the answer. Something wasn't adding up.
Elayra's question was met with another one-shouldered shrug. Ghent wasn't sorry for his behavior. He picked at his canine tooth, feeling a piece of leftover toatunt jerky jammed somewhere between his teeth. He didn't know how Elayra kept her sanity without joking around.
Here we go. Ghent almost rolled his eyes as Elayra began to list his latest offenses. He propped himself up on his elbow, ready to speak up, but Drust interrupted the girl before he could.
Ghent simmered down, anxious to hear more of the story. Ellheim's name wasn't familiar, but he remembered the Omitten. He glanced to Elayra as Alden was mentioned, his attention snapping back to Drust as he spoke of Alden trying the very thing Ghent had suggested.
Mortally wounded. Ghent's heart sank. He noticed Elayra adverting her gaze, her reaction leading him to believe the memory was painful. Ghent remained quiet, new questions presenting themselves in his mind.
"Pet?" Ghent echoed, the use of the word ripping him from his thoughts. He wanted Drust to correct Elayra, to deny the worst, but he didn't. Ellheim sacrificed his freedom for his son. It was so bizarre and horrible, it was Ghent's turn to look away.
When Drust spoke of Elayra learning from her mistakes, Ghent eyed her with curiosity. Elayra didn't seem capable of making mistakes -- at least not the kind of mistakes he was always making. He couldn't imagine what Drust meant by the statement, unless Elayta played a part in Alden's decision to bargain with the creature.
Ghent didn't have time to play detective for long. He sat up straighter at the mention of Hatter, fumbling to catch the book before it could hit the ground. He turned the book over for a title or name, finding neither.
Still, it was Hatter's. Or it had been. Ghent felt weirdly sentimental. He heard stories, but the man almost felt fictional until that moment. Holding something that once belonged to his father verified his existence.
He took a breath before lifting the cover, but he dropped it shut when Drust stood, wielding a weapon unlike anything he had ever seen.
“That’s for me?” Ghent’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the blade, its deadliness evident to him even from afar. He set the book aside, his gaze never leaving the weapon. He couldn’t decide whether to be delighted or horrified.
“Uh, right! Of course. I’ll be careful.” Ghent stammered over the words, hoping not to sound as eager as he felt. The possibility of his own weapon turning on him was scary, but the thought of being unarmed in Wonderland was scarier.
Aches and pains forgotten, Ghent stood. He reached out to accept the staff, a surge of adrenaline rushing through his body once the weapon was entrusted to him.
"Oh man..." Ghent breathed, his arms dipping slightly due to the sudden weight. He held the weapon so it was level with his chest, hands spaced half a foot apart. He gave a gentle tug in opposite directions, but the halves remained whole, as he expected they would. The staff didn't know him yet, and vise versa.
“Does it have a name?” Ghent angled the staff to get a better look at the gemstone, appreciating the weapon even more from up close. He was so busy admiring his gift, he completely missed the fact that Elayra was envious. "How soon can you teach me to use it? Did my dad ever fight with this?"

Drust snorted at Ghent’s less-than-encouraging stammering to his miniature lecture.
“Veeery reassuring, Featherhead,” Elayra sighed out, voicing both her and Drust’s thoughts.
The man’s eye twitched in response to his younger charge. Ignoring the girl, his gaze followed the boy as Ghent stood.
He hesitated for just a moment when Ghent reached for the staff, but relinquished it to him. With the deadly weapon now in inexperienced hands, Drust took a cautious step back, placing enough space between him and Ghent to act against an idiot’s experimental swing.
The only one left sitting, Elayra watched the weapon exchange hands. She puffed out a breath through her nose and forced her gaze back to the fire. All the same, she kept Ghent in her peripherals, Drust’s worry of an ill-placed movement echoed in her expression.
A voice grumbled in her head against the fairness of it, of him getting such a blade. Sure, it made sense—a well enchanted weapon for the only true magic-user of their group—but still. He was more liable to cut his own head off than an opponent’s. She, on the other hand, could run circles around him, disarm him in a the expanse of a blink.
She grit her teeth. With an annoyed breath, she raised her water skin to her mouth as if its lukewarm contents could drown her woes.
Drust snorted at Ghent’s attempt at pulling the shaft apart.
“He fought with it once. To try it out.” Another smirking almost-smile ghosted his lips. “Your combat training begins tomorrow night. For now, try to connect with it. The magic stored in it has been long dormant. But you should be capable of drawing it out. Find it. As you did with the world’s magic.
“It'll be easier to command than the world’s magic. Once you connect with it. You’ll know you’ve made a connection when you can will it to pull apart. You’ll find its name when you’ve gained its trust. Find its name, and its powers will merge with yours.”
“It’s a vinifcium staff,” Elayra guessed, her words stiffer with envy than she had wanted. She scowled at her voice's betrayal.
Drust nodded. “Hatter’s enchantments played a part in its forging. Making it a vinifcium staff. Vinifcium weapons develop unpredictable abilities. And can grow along with their wielder. But worry about that later. Unless you have more questions, get to it.” He jerked his head toward the bladed staff.

“Sweet…did he kill any shadowmires with it?” Ghent liked the idea of his father testing the weapon beforehand, it made him feel important. He allowed one end the staff to rest against the ground, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He felt like a real wizard.
Ghent soon discovered he was alone in his excitement. His grip loosened on the staff, mildly surprised by the edge in Elayra's voice. Was she actually jealous? He'd been joking earlier, but now he wasn't so sure. She seemed more irritable than usual, if that was possible.
"What’s wrong, Blondie?" Ghent started to twirl the staff with one hand like a baton, an attempt to show off in front of her. "You're not jealous, are you?" He lost his hold within seconds, and the weapon fell to the ground with a noisy thud.
Mumbling an apology to the staff, Ghent bent to pick it up. He didn't have time to be embarrassed; he was too stoked at thought of the weapon – his weapon -- developing new abilities.
Get to it. Ghent's enthusiasm vanished. The staff was no longer something to be celebrated, it was something to fear. How was he supposed to earn the trust of an inanimate object? He never thought he would have to practice on his own so early.
“Oh. Well, okay.” Ghent tightened his grip on the staff. Outwardly, he was playing it cool. Inwardly, he was screaming. He stepped away from the fire, aiming to distance himself a few paces. He didn’t want to risk hurting them if the staff got temperamental.
As Ghent passed Drust, he stopped, an idea striking him.
“Hey, Drust...how much training does it take to become a knight?” Ghent looked over his shoulder, completely serious. If becoming a knight was a title possible of being earned, he could think of no teacher better qualified than Drust. “Do I get cool armor if I graduate?”

“No.” Drust’s gaze followed every move Ghent made with the staff. “He tested it in the palace’s training yard.”
Drust gave a snarling scowl and stepped back when the boy attempted twirling the weapon.
Elayra’s deadly glare bore into Ghent at being called out. She opened her mouth to snap a retort, but Ghent lost his grip and dropped the staff. It just barely missed the fire pit, landing unnervingly close to the flames. She smirked. More condescension rested in that single expression than what should have been possible.
“Jealous of what?” she snarked, glad for the distraction. Even if it did only strengthen her thoughts and wet her itch to rescue the weapon from him. “Your ineptitude, or your stupidity?”
As soon as the boy had straightened with the staff, Drust reached out and gripped the shaft immediately beneath Ghent’s hand, his massive and an unnaturally pale off-white compared to Ghent’s.
A snarl twisting his face, he leaned closer to Ghent, his grip impossibly tight. “Did you not hear what I said?” he snarled. His neck twitched and the veins at his eyes gave a quick pulse. “It’s a tool,” he continued through his teeth. “Not. A. Toy!”
Elayra’s attention snapped to Drust. Her smugness vanished from her face, her mind switching gears to react accordingly if Ghent triggered the Curse.
If you can even stand, she reminded herself resentfully, scowling. She did not yet feel much of a difference from what she had drank of her Curative-infused water. If it was working its magic, she could not say from sitting there.
Drust released the staff with a heavy, growling sigh and stepped away from Ghent. He gripped the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, leaving Ghent to abide by his final order. His head twitched toward Ghent at the gentle sound of the boy’s footsteps on the grass, but he kept his eyes shut for a moment more.
Elayra watched the two of them, her gaze flicking back and forth. Ghent with a weapon still unsettled her far more than Drust's unstable state.
Drust’s eyes opened as Ghent passed him. At his name, he turned his head to look to his charge. He gave a quick grunt and jerk of his head to indicate for Ghent to continue.
The giant of a man turned to face the boy, his dark eyebrows rising at Ghent’s questions.
“The human guards of Heart Palace began training around the age of seven,” he began. His eyes again followed Ghent’s every twitch with eerie precision and swiftness, half his face still visible in his angle to the firelight.
Elayra looked away, her jaw clenching, at the switch in conversation. A switch to what once was. To what she was expected to return, in some shape or form. Again focusing on tuning out his words, she took another drink from her water skin, almost draining what remained.
“They would train for nearly sixteen years. Devoting their lives to the art. Only the strongest and noblest became true knights. The commanders of my ilk—and occasionally myself—were often their judges.” The corner of his lips tugged upward.
Drust crossed his arms, making his muscles bulge slightly against the brown sleeves of his tunic.
“Your fate doesn’t lie with them. Your lot is to take your father’s place as palace vinifcium when the time comes. A title that earns a place in the queen’s council. The right-hand of the White Rule.” He sighed before answering Ghent’s second question. “Yes. The armor of our warriors was a sight to behold.” He snorted. “More importantly, it was practical. And prevented your insides from spilling out quicker in a real battle.”

Ghent gripped the staff a little tighter when faced with Drust’s threatening form. He didn't go out of his way to annoy Drust as he did with Elayra, but he seemed to provoke the Knight by simply existing.
Head tilted back, Ghent studied the pale features unobstructed by shadow, curious after he saw the change in Drust's expression. It was Ghent's turn to raise his eyebrows when he learned of training beginning at the tender age of seven.
“Sixteen years?” Ghent was suddenly aware of his aches and pains again. He couldn’t imagine devoting himself to anything for sixteen days, let alone years. For him, sixteen years was an entire lifetime. He pitied the sap who wanted to reach knighthood with Drust on the judging panel.
“I could become a surgeon faster than that,” Ghent grumbled, mentally scratching 'cool armor' from his Wonderland wish list. He contemplated using the argument that he wasn't human, but Drust happened to address the fact before he could.
Palace vinifcium? Ghent had no idea what the job entailed, or what that meant for his future on Earth. He found himself looking to Elayra for her reaction, wondering if this was news to her as well.
"So, what? I'm supposed to be Blondie's adviser or something?" Ghent suspected she wouldn't like the idea, and he wasn't sure if he liked it either. Drust knew more about his past than he did, and apparently his future too.
"Are you on the council?" Ghent tacked another question onto the first, unsure of how many duties the Knight had. As little as he knew about himself, he knew even less about Drust.

Drust snorted, his lips pulling upward seethingly at Ghent’s comment. “A surgeon needs only to train his mind. Any half-wit scholar can become a surgeon. A knight, no matter their race, must master body, mind, and soul. Very few can become a true warrior.”
Elayra picked up a stick from a pile of smaller kindling as Ghent mulled over Drust’s words. Placing her emptied canteen on the ground, she poked at the fire. Sparks crackled and popped into the air, making known their displeasure at the disturbance.
She let out a snorting laugh at the concept of Ghent being anyone’s adviser. “Not if I have anything to say about it, Featherhead!”
Drust’s eyes shifted to her for half a second, his neck twitching, before fixing back on Ghent. “Just as Elayra will be your queen, and you duty bound to see to it her decisions are put into effect to their fullest extent.”
Elayra silently reprimanded herself for letting their words rise beyond sounds.
Queen, she thought bitterly, poking the fire a bit harder at the reminder. One of the ember-gnawed logs shifted, and the tower she had made collapsed. She glowered at it. Right.
Drust heaved a sigh at Ghent’s additional question. “I was not officially apart of the council. I was Queen Alyce’s personal guard, so couldn’t represent the voice of the other White Knights. But I attended their meetings at her and Hatter’s request. There were nine members of the council. Including the Queen. Ten before the king’s death.”
“None of that matters!” Elayra snapped, her hatred of the subject bursting up from inside her and gaining a glare and snarl from Drust. “None of that will help us now,” she tried to quickly amend, nearly stumbling over the words as she attempted to shove the emotions back to the recesses where they belonged. “Knowing that won’t make him,” she gestured to Ghent with the stick, its burnt end glowing red, “a better fighter, or help him survive here,” she finished, hoping to both cover up her outburst and appease Drust with a reason he would deem warranted.
Drust’s neck twitched as he eyed her. Thankfully, he gave a snort in agreement then returned his attention to Ghent. “Keep the questions pertinent to the present,” he growled to Ghent. “Or get to work.”

Ghent's face scrunched up. No matter how hard he tried, he was unable to imagine Elayra as his or anybody else's queen. He didn't doubt her capability, but he couldn't grow used to the idea. She would always be 'Blondie' to him.
Still, the job deserved consideration. Ghent didn't know if he had a choice in the matter, but he liked to think he did. He tapped a finger against his bottom lip, contemplating the pros and cons of his supposed lot in life.
"If her orders aren't carried out, do I get to throw people in the stocks?" Ghent failed to hide the hint of hopefulness in his voice. "Bet they'd listen if I was carrying this," he added, taking another moment to admire the sharp prongs of his staff.
Elayra's movement caught his eye, her irritation evident with each jab she made toward the fire. Ghent wasn't sure what she was mad about exactly, but he had a feeling it was something to do with the future rather than the present.
Ignoring the girl for his own safety, Ghent returned his attention to Drust. He was impressed, but hardly surprised to learn that the man was once a personal guard. Ghent couldn't think of anyone better qualified. Drust was practically built for the job.
Every answer lead to questions, creating a never ending cycle. Ghent wanted to ask more about Alyce and the king in particular, but he abandoned the idea when Elayra raised her voice at them.
Ghent shut his mouth, taken aback by the outburst. He looked to Drust for his reaction, readying his staff in case things turned ugly again.
After a few tense moments that felt like hours, the tension died down. Ghent breathed a heavy sigh of relief, shooting Elayra a wide eyed 'are you trying to get us killed?' look. Before he got the chance to say anything else, Drust limited Ghent's range of questions to the present only.
"What'd I do?" Ghent was against the injustice of it all, but one look at Drust's expression changed his tune. "Okayyy," he drug out the word, disappointed to have the conversation cut short.
Trudging back to his backpack and pile of discarded candy, Ghent retrieved the journal from the ground. When Drust wasn't looking, he snagged a Hershey's bar and slipped it into the front pocket of his hoodie. It was a risk, but one worth taking.
Gripping the weapon in one hand and book in the other, Ghent straightened. He looked between Drust and Elayra, the silence threatening to become awkward. A spark in the fire snapped louder than the previous ones, urging him to say something.
"Well, I'm going now." Ghent announced, as if he was going on a lifelong journey rather than a few feet away. He hesitated, using his sneaker to get at an itch above his ankle. "To practice. With my staff." After another pause, he finally turned to leave, taking his questions with him.

Elayra returned Ghent’s look with a glare in a silent, ‘I fixed it, didn’t I?’ Despite Ghent’s whining complaint about the restriction, her shoulders relaxed in her own relieved exhale. The change in topic took.
Still standing, Drust watched Ghent for a moment as the boy returned to the fire. With a heavy sigh, he stepped to his spot on the grass. He glanced to Elayra, his gaze settling on the discarded waterskin, its top unstoppered. He gave an approving nod, Ghent’s treasonous chocolate snatching going unnoticed as the man sat.
Another silence fell, leaving only the flames to speak in their ancient crepitating language. Elayra glanced to Ghent, the Wonderlanders awaiting another round of questions that never came.
Elayra’s eyebrows rose when, instead, he declared he was going to get to work. She snorted. If she had known all it would take to shut him up was a limitation to his questions, she would have said something sooner.
Drust looked from the fire to the boy as Ghent turned. “Leave it sheathed. Your goal tonight is to connect with it. Not run one of us through.”
Elayra smirked. Even Drust did not trust Ghent with the staff.
“The palace is more west of here, not south,” Elayra began, looking to Drust, eager to turn her attention to something else for fear idiocy was contagious. “So where are we going?”
“Gardale,” Drust answered without looking from the fire. “A town a few miles from Hollow Forest,” he added for Ghent’s sake. “He’ll need clothes to better fit in here. In case we encounter any omitten.”
Elayra frowned at his unsatisfactory answer. “Great. But what’s the plan? Are we going hunt after her or not?”
Drust sneered. “To think I was worried you’d gained some sense. Only a fool would go after her unprepared, girl. You know this,” his gaze bore into her as unnervingly hard as his voice.
Elayra swallowed and looked back to the fire. She poked her stick at its heart, but with less vigor than before.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she grumbled. She pulled the stick from the heat, watching a small lick of fire lap at the charred wood of its end.
Drust sighed, watching her. He took a breath, his words less harsh when he spoke again. “We’re going to pay Caervolus a visit. He’ll know the best method to bring her down.”
Elayra gawked at him, the flame at the end of her stick momentarily forgotten. “We’re what?”
“There’s a Rabbit Hole in the town that will take us to Mushroom Gorge,” he continued, his voice a bit stiffer and his neck twitching in acknowledgement of Elayra’s interruption. “As long as the White Rabbits didn’t change it before they vanished,” he added through a frustrated, growling sigh. “It’s one of the few not protected by her guard.”
Because it’s in the middle of a forsaken-filled town! she screamed mentally. She managed to keep her mouth shut, instead running her free hand over her face. Remembering the flame eating down her stick, she hastily blew it out.

Ghent didn't make it two steps before Drust cut in, foiling his plan to unsheathe the weapon. He wanted to be annoyed, but he couldn't fault the Knight. The entire day had been a disaster; they didn't somebody getting maimed on top of it.
"I won't," Ghent answered through a sigh. Against his better judgment, he stole a quick glance in Elayra's direction. As he anticipated, the girl was smirking, her expression visible in the firelight.
Ghent continued onward, resisting a childish urge to stick his tongue out at her. He made sure not to wander too far, the possibility of an intruder breaking in still enough to turn his blood cold.
The cackle of a ghost sounded in the distance, a terrible sound made worse by the darkness. Ghent took a cautionary step back, his eyes wide and alert. He stared beyond the clearing, wondering if any ghosts were staring back. It was a terrifying thought.
Elayra's question was overheard next, causing Ghent to turn. It hadn't occurred to him until that moment, but he never thought to ask where they were going. Keeping his movements slow so he wouldn't miss the answer, he sat down, angled so he could see Elayra from the corner of his eye.
With his knowledge of Wonderland still limited, Ghent didn't know what answer to hope for. When Drust responded with the name of a town, he felt overwhelmingly relieved. Anything was better than another ghost-ridden forest.
Keeping his thoughts to himself, Ghent remained still, his staff resting across his lap. He looked down at his clothes when Drust mentioned them, suddenly aware at how much he would stand out if the rest of Wonderland dressed like Drust and Elayra did.
Ghent continued to listen in, content to obtain information without having to contribute to the conversation. He assumed Caervolus was another town, but soon learned it was the name of someone. Nothing more was said about the mysterious man, only that he had information they would no doubt need.
"Rabbit Hole?" Ghent echoed the name underneath his breath. He drummed his fingers against his knee, itching with questions. If the Rabbit Hole was anything like the one in the Disney movie, he had nothing to fear. He wouldn't mind falling in slow motion. It might be fun.
"Mushroom Gorge doesn't sound so bad," Ghent mused, using his sleeve to polish an imaginary fingerprint from the staff's gemstone. He hoped to earn its trust by keeping it nice and clean, which was more than could be said for him. Leaves, dirt, and grass clung and stained his clothes in different areas.
The conversation seemed to stop there. Ghent waited, hoping to learn more about the following day, but their travel plans weren't brought up again. Not by Elayra, at least.
"That means we're almost out of here, right?" Ghent spoke up, unable to stay silent a second longer. "Because I'm not spending another night in Ghostville," he informed them, as if he had a choice in the matter.

Elayra snorted at Ghent’s comment about Mushroom Gorge.
“Sure,” she began, staring at the burnt ember and ash the fire had turned the tip of the stick into. “If you like poisonous mushrooms and blood-sucking caterpillars.” She looked to Drust and opened her mouth to address the Knight, but Ghent interrupted her before she could speak. She scowled.
“It will depend on the spirits,” Drust answered Ghent through a sigh. He shot Elayra a warning glance to attempt silencing the protest against his plan still displayed on her face. “They have some power over this place. They can send us in circles, if they want. If they’re in a good mood, then yes, we could be out of here and nearing Gardale before sunset.”
“Maybe the Guardian here can help with that?” Elayra offered hopefully. If there was anything she shared in common with Ghent, it was not wanting to spend more time in this forsaken forest than necessary. “Ghent contacted her once. Maybe he can do it again, get her to make the spirits help us?”
“Perhaps.” His head twitched to look to Ghent. “A Rabbit Hole,” he began in answer to the muttered question even Elayra had not fully heard, “is an underground tunnel. They were created and imbued with magic by the White Rabbits. The tunnels quicken travel between two places, but the Rabbits often changed the destinations. Before they went extinct from the Curse.” A sneer twisted his face. “If luck favors us, we’ll arrive at Caervolus’ domain by the day after tomorrow.”
Elayra gave a quiet snort. When has luck ever favored us?
“Drust,” Elayra began. Forced caution hung in her voice as she struggled to keep her objections from bursting out and setting off the Knight. “Are you sure he’ll,” she jerked her head toward Ghent, “be ready to face Caervolus by then?”
Drust snorted. “For our and his sake, he’d better be. We don’t have much time, since she has confirmation the two of you are alive. And both in Wonderland. Caervolus is the only one who will know her fatal weakness. Ready or not, we have no other choice.”
Elayra frowned, but didn’t dare push the matter further. Instead, she stared into the hypnotic beauty of the fire, its warmth making drowsiness lurk at the edges of her consciousness.

Ghent didn't react to the news. After the day he’d been through, the mention of the caterpillars didn’t faze him as it once would. He was willing to take insects over ghosts, blood-sucking or not.
His blue eyes flickered toward Drust, the Knight’s words doing little to ease his endless list of concerns.
Oh, so we're relying on Casper now? What kind of ghost is in a good mood?! Ghent shouted in his head. He pressed his thumb and pointer finger over his bloodshot eyes, keeping his sarcasm to himself. If they had to rely on the emotions of the dead, they were doomed. He was sure of it.
As Elayra mentioned the Guardian, Ghent turned his head to look at her. Smaya was the only ghost that didn’t scare him silly, but that didn’t mean he wanted to enter the Spiritayum a second time. He shuddered a breath, gripping the staff tight enough to hurt his palms. He didn't want to go through that again.
“Smaya just helped us, Blondie.” Ghent reminded her quietly, thinking back on his encounter with the eerily beautiful woman. “I don't know if she'd have enough power to help us again.”
Drust’s description of the Rabbit Hole wasn’t exactly what Ghent expected. There was no mention of a long, single tunnel you fell through. Instead there were tunnels. The Rabbit Hole in Wonderland -- the real Wonderland -- sounded like a labyrinth of sorts.
"Great. So if we're not stuck here, we might get lost there. That's reassuring." Ghent muttered, using his sleeve to wipe at his runny nose. He stopped, his eyes narrowing at Elayra’s description of the one called Caervolus.
“Hold on. What am I supposed to be ready for?” Ghent frowned, looking between Drust and Elayra for an explanation. Caervolus was beginning to sound more like a threat rather than a friend. He felt his insides knot with uncertainty, their comments troubling him. “Who is this guy, anyway?”