Elayra shivered as the chilled water rose up to her mid-chest. She waded through the stream to start her search closer to where she and Ghent had surfaced. She took a few more deep breaths, preparing her body for another plunge into the airless world beneath her, then dove down into the gently rushing current.
Still already chilled from her first plunge, the water wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. She forced herself to sink to the bottom, her natural buoyancy making it difficult for her to remain at the river bed. She kept her eyes open, searching for any hint of blue among the blurry murky brown.
She stayed under as long as she could, running her hand over the mud and sand. She held onto anything that felt or looked even remotely like her dagger, or like it could be of any other value to them.
When her chest warned her she needed to head for the surface, she planted her feet beneath her and stood. Sucking in a deep breath, she frowned at the haul of her first attempt. Nothing but a couple broken sticks that had lodged themselves into the mud. Tossing them to the bank furiously, she dove back under.
She lost count of how many times she went down. Small fish occasionally attacked her, but, without teeth, they couldn't do much, even in larger schools. Despite their minor distraction, she picked through the earth carefully, thoroughly. She found many large, loose rocks as she went, rocks she suspected were the evidence of the death that had occurred beneath the surface.
Her heart sank every time she came up empty. Only garbage of lost cities and nature's detritus found its way to her to be unearthed. Her anger grew along with her pile of useless litter.
By the time she’d reached at least a yard beyond the ruins of the bridge, her lungs were spent. Her chest ached from holding her breath for so long so often. Her eyes stung, though she'd given up keeping them open under the water after the first few dives.
With an angered growl, she tossed her most recent find—the backing of a hand mirror, its metal tarnished and covered in gooey weeds and mirror missing—onto the bank. It was useless. And not just the mirror. Despite the weight of her dagger, somehow, it had floated down the stream beyond her reach. The terraflame had frantically stirred the water; she supposed the vines of its tongue could have caught the weapon, dragging it down the agitated current.
Cracked bottles. Rusted cans. The rotting remains of a couple clothing items too decayed to identify. Sticks. Broken hilts. It all created an uneven trail down the riverbank to where Elayra puled herself out of the water.
Face twisted in a frustrated, angered snarl, she trudged back toward Ghent and their things. Some part of her knew it was unfair to blame him. But she hadn't been the one to lose it. He hadn't needed both his hands to get to the surface. But still, the featherhead had dropped it to the mercy of the river, like it was nothing more than a disposable butter knife.
She kicked her finds back into the water as she went, eliminating the evidence of her presence. A few of the bottles shattered from the force, returning to the stream in a glittering rain of shards. The first can made a loud tang that made her flinch. She glanced around, making sure it hadn't aroused any unwanted attention, then made it a point to roll the other couple cans softly back into the water. As minor as it was, she enjoyed the small outlet for her frustration.
She took a few slow breaths, trying to calm herself, to keep her fury at bay. Though she suspected the terraflames were an isolated incident, she needed to keep herself in check.
Socks squelching in her boots, she ignored Ghent as she stopped beside Drust’s pack. She kicked off her ruined shoes, knelt on the grass, then reached inside the Knight’s bag. She paused, finally looking to Ghent. Her scowl deepened as she took him in, gauging how much his clothes had dried. At least it looked like he'd taken care of his wounds as she'd ordered.
“Your clothes need to dry,” she grumbled. She pulled a pair of trousers from the pack. Their ends were crudely tailored to better suit Drust’s height, the fabric worn and rough. “Take yours off and put them in the sun.” She tossed the pair of pants to him with more force than necessary. “Drust should be back soon, but use these for now.”

Ghent mentally counted each time Elayra disappeared underneath the water. One, two, three times. He wondered how many attempts it would take her before she found the dagger or gave up. When she emerged for the fourth time, he looked in her direction. From what he could tell, she was in the correct location. He hoped she would find the weapon soon, if only for his sake.
The boy secured the bandaging around his wrist, watching in amazement as the collection of debris steadily grew on the bank. Sticks, a mirror, an assortment of bottles and cans…at least Earth wasn’t the only world with pollution.
Forcing his attention back to his injuries, Ghent began to clean at the bloodied marks around his neck. He winced as he heard the girl emerge from the water a fifth time, her agitation evident even in her breaths.
Finally, the blonde gave up. Ghent swallowed uneasily as she began to make her way toward the bank, her hands empty. Finished with the moondrop milk, he fit the stopper in its place and returned the bottle to the box. He wanted to be done and out of the way before she got back.
A loud clang sounded nearby, making Ghent's heart do a somersault. He whipped his head around to find the culprit, scowling when he realized Elayra was responsible. He almost scolded her, but changed his mind when he saw her take her frustration out a bottle.
Taking a breath, the boy braced himself for Elayra’s wrath. The lost dagger would undoubtedly be a source of tension for a while. He didn’t make eye contact as she approached, his mouth set in a grim line. He glanced at her when she stopped and regretted it instantly. The contempt in her eyes spoke volumes.
Unnerved, Ghent looked away. He didn’t see the point in pleading his case. If saving Elayra's life wasn't enough to cut him a bit of slack, nothing was. He only hoped his silence would be enough until she cooled down.
The silence was broken by Elayra, who pointed out that he was still wet. Ghent's mouth fell when she ordered him to remove his clothes, but then she tossed a pair of pants at him.
“Er…” Ghent contemplated pointing out the obvious. The pants wouldn’t fit him. He wasn’t even sure if they’d stay up. He lifted the too-long trousers in front of himself, the legs unraveling. The fabric seemed to go on forever. Casting a skeptical look in Elayra's direction, he held the pants up higher to show her the length. “Aren’t these a little big?”

Without waiting for Ghent's response, Elayra plunged her arm back into the bag. Her movements were jerky, heated, as she tried to recall what Drust’s spare daggers looked like to call one to her from the pack’s depths. She thought he had a stiletto, but she wasn’t entirely sure if it had been his, or borrowed.
Her search and thoughts stopped at Ghent’s complaints. A Drust-worthy sneer curled over her lips as she glowered up at him.
“Would you rather just stand around in your damp underwear?” she snapped. “They need to dry. We can’t leave them behind, but they’ll make everything else in your pack wet.” Her hand closed in a fist inside Drust’s bag. Instead of grasping air, she recognized the shape of a hilt against her palm. “So shut up,” she pulled it out and pointed the sheathed tip of the dagger she'd found threateningly at Ghent, “and figure it out.”
She slapped the top flap of Drust’s bag shut. She looked to the stiletto dagger as she slid the blade from its thin metal and leather scabbard, examining it with a critical eye.
It was nice enough, she supposed. The silvery metal turned the hilt into a spiral, ending in a small, elegant round pummel. Its blade’s length matched what she’d grown accustomed to, only significantly thinner. Its edges glinted in the sunlight, sharp enough for use, but, in Elayra’s eye, it was due for a date with a whetstone.
She tested its weight in her hand. Even with its entire metal construction, it felt lighter than her lost weapon. It felt… wrong. Like she was betraying her other dagger. Betraying the trust of who it once belonged to. More importantly, betrayed Drust by losing it.
Her lips tightened and she gripped the hilt and scabbard harder. It shouldn’t matter this much to her. Not like this, at any rate. And yet, it did.
Until the moment Ghent had confirmed the news, Elayra hadn’t realized exactly how much she cared where the dagger had come from. Or, perhaps, it was the when. A right of passage of knowing Drust trusted her enough to pass on such a fine, meaningful weapon to her. It felt as if she'd lost some small part of herself.
With a growling huff at her unwanted emotions, she threw the stiletto toward the first-aid box. The force embedded over half its blade into the earth an inch from the box. Right where she’d aimed. At least its balance was decent enough for throwing.

Ghent’s face flushed. Elayra had the uncanny ability to make him feel like an idiot. He stared at the sheathed dagger being pointed at him, his expression darkening.
“Fine.” The response was bitter, clipped. He didn't want to spend another second in her company. Clutching the lengthily pants at his side, he stalked away from the girl, never looking back.
Ghent’s footsteps became slower and more reluctant the closer he got to the woods. He looked around tentatively, staying alert for any indication of danger. He checked behind each tree and shrub as he passed it, his paranoia multiplying now that he was alone. He hated that he felt so vulnerable without Drust and Elayra nearby.
Finding a spot he deemed suitable for changing out of his clothes, Ghent disappeared behind a collection of tightly packed trees. He hung Drust’s pants on a low hanging branch and started by removing his hoodie. The fabric was soaked and heavy from water, but Ghent barely noticed. He was too busy mulling over his latest fight with Elayra.
Why did she make such a big deal out of it? Ghent shook his head, still baffled by her reaction. He tossed the hoodie aside, and it landed with a muffled thump.
Grumbling, Ghent grabbed the hem of his faded Batman t-shirt and worked to pull it over his head. His skin felt cold and clammy underneath, an uncomfortable sensation that made him miss the warmth of Drust’s cloak. He wrung out the shirt and hung it next to the pants, planning to put it on again before he rejoined with Elayra. He didn’t feel quite confident enough to be in her presence half-naked with nothing but ill-fitting trousers.
His eyes trailed down to his torso, and he scowled. An ugly bruise resided where Drust had kicked him during their first of many fights.
“They’ll kill me before the stupid queen does...” Ghent mumbled dejectedly. Realizing what he’d said, his hand shot up to his mouth. He hadn’t meant to insult their enemy out loud.
Ghent gulped. He looked over his shoulder, double-checking that his comment hadn’t summoned a shadowmire – or worse – her.
After a tense pause in which he barely breathed, Ghent exhaled. He peeled off his socks and sneakers, looking around as he did so. He added them to the pile before working on removing his clingy jeans.
Ghent wrung out one pant leg, a few unsatisfying droplets of water dripping from the stubborn material. He tossed them aside and looked down at his boxers, hesitating. Before he had a chance to remove his last article of clothing, a realization dawned upon him.
He could use magic.
Ghent blinked, amazed at his inability to remember a gift so extraordinary. It was the obvious solution to his problem. It could become the solution to most of his problems once he learned more focus words.
“It was Ignis-something…” Ghent folded his arms across his bare chest, thinking back to the campfire in the Safe Zone. He conjured fire once without trouble, he was fairly certain he could do it again. He mumbled a few words similar to the focus word until one sounded right. “…Igniculous.” That was it. He’d bet his staff on it.
Stepping over his pile of discarded clothing, Ghent eyed the trees for a branch thick enough to use as a torch. If all went according to his wild, harebrained scheme, his clothes would be dry before Drust got back.

Elyra heaved a sigh when Ghent moved away. She didn’t want to look at him. To deal with him. She scowled as a thought that meant she had to interact with him struck her.
“Just don’t…” She glanced up to Ghent just in time to see him duck behind one of the trees of the woods. She let out an exasperated groan and gripped the bridge of her nose. “Go into the woods,” she finished her statement in a grumble.
She glanced to his weapon still laying discarded on the ground. He'd gone off without his weapon.
“Whatever,” she grumbled to herself. If he was going to be stupid about it, he deserved to be eaten.
But he doesn’t know any better. The annoying reminder snuck into her mind unbidden. Her lips puled down, loathing the truth of the words. It was evident enough in what she'd experienced that he’d lived a life far different from hers.
A life filled with safety and family.
She let out a groaning growl, and shook her head. It didn’t matter. He was [i]here[i] now. He needed to adapt, or die.
Still, she kept an ear open for any sign of trouble. The last thing she wanted was to lose him. And, though she wouldn't admit it aloud, she now had a score to settle, a debt to repay. He had, after all, saved her life.
Walking on her knees to the first aid kit, she grabbed her saber and placed it beside her. Ready for action at the slightest disturbance, she cast frequent glances to the tree Ghent had vanished behind.
Elayra reached up to her neck to check if the bleeding had stopped on its own. Pulling away, she scowled at the light splash of red tinting her fingertips. The river had also prevented the thornbites from clotting. Which meant she still had some work to do before Drust returned.
Drust. She looked again to the trees, this time to roughly the last place she’d seen their guardian. Judging by the slight shift in the shadows’ angle, she guessed his half hour mark had passed.
She shook her head and took a breath. He’s fine, she tried to reassure herself. She couldn't stand when he was late, good excuse or not. And it might not have been half an hour yet.
Wanting to focus on something else, she reached for the first aid box, opened it, and removed the wad of bandages. She pulled the stiletto from the ground and wiped the blade off on the bottom of her dress-like shirt. She cut off a portion of the bandages, dampened the cloth with the moondrop milk, then carefully dabbed at the wounds encircling her neck. She felt the gentle, not-quite-stinging tingle of it beginning to work.
As she finished, she looked back to Ghent’s tree, frowning. It shouldn’t be taking him this long to change.
Collecting her sword, she stood. “Everything okay?” she called, cautiously stepping toward his trees. She caught the faint mutter of his voice, but not his words. Her eyes narrowed.

It didn’t take long for Ghent to find something he deemed suitable to use as a torch. The cluster of trees provided plenty of options for him to choose from, including a thick, twisted branch that resembled the leg of a table he'd seen at the Book Barn.
Bracing one foot against the base of the tree, Ghent jumped up and grabbed onto the branch near its center. He began pulling to the left, but the extra force wasn’t necessary. The branch snapped so effortlessly, he fell onto his butt.
Adding a sore tailbone to his list of woes, Ghent shot the decaying tree a dirty look. He examined the width of the branch, analyzing his find with a critical eye. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do in a pinch.
Pushing himself to his feet, Ghent prepared to block out his surroundings in order to focus. The magic usually answered his every call, but this was the first time he would use a focus word without Drust or Elayra at his side.
“Whatever. I’m Hatter's son.” Ghent bristled suddenly, irritated that he’d become so dependant on the Wonderlanders. He gripped the soon-to-be-torch tighter and let his opposite hand hover near the end of the branch. It was his hope that the flame would catch despite the lack of a fire starter.
Igniculous. Igniculous. Igniculous. Ghent repeated the focus word in his head a few times before attempting to say it out loud. He sensed a shift in the air, it was as if an invisible force was urging him to say the word that hadn't yet left his lips. “Igni…”
Before Ghent's plan could commence, Elaya’s voice sounded from around the corner.
Ghent almost screamed. His first instinct was to hide the branch behind his back like a guilty kid. “Uh, yeah!” he called back immediately, afraid that if he didn’t respond fast enough, Elayra would take it upon herself to investigate.
“I’m just…” Ghent stalled, searching the clearing for an excuse. “Standing around…in my damp underwear,” he cringed as he said it, having no choice but to use Elayra’s choice of words from earlier. Hopefully, it was enough to scare her off.
A pause. Ghent could see his heart beating in his chest.
"So. Uh. Go guard our stuff!" Ghent's urgency may have come across as rude, but he really wanted Elayra to leave.

Elayra’s suspicion only grew when Ghent answered a little too quickly.
Her brows rose as he continued, his answer less than reassuring.
“[i]Seriously?[i] How long does it take you to change?” She rolled her eyes with a small shake of her head. Her expression turned into a scowl at his last order. “I’m not your personal bandersnatch, Featherhead!”
All the same, she turned from his hiding spot and returned to their backpacks. She shoved the tip of her saber back into the ground with a bit of extra irritation-fueled force.
“If you’re going to take all afternoon, I’m changing.” She knelt down beside her pack and opened it. She pulled out a plain set of grayish pants that had once been black, and a thin, long-sleeved off-white shirt.
Elayra wrong out her hair as well as she could, then changed out quickly, tossing her wet clothes to the ground. She shivered as the warmth of the dry garments replaced the chill of the river-laden ones. She hadn’t realized how cold the water had made her.
She rubbed her hands together for the extra warmth, then secured the sheath of her newly acquired stiletto into her replacement pair of boots. She looked longingly to her discarded shoes, the now useless sheath of her blue-bladed dagger hidden inside.
She snatched the boot from the ground and pulled out the sheath. Anger at the simple loss heated her chest. She posed to throw its small scabbard in the water after the dagger, but she hesitated. With a huff, she instead tossed it into her backpack.
She glanced to the sopping mess of her water-logged clothes, then to her current mostly clean shirt. She sighed heavily. The color wasn’t exactly the best for blending in with the woods.
She cast a glance to Ghent’s chosen tree, then plunged her arm back into her pack.

“Give me a minute, Blondie! I had to make sure Voldemort wasn’t creeping in the bushes!” Ghent responded in a harsh whisper, using his preferred codename for the Queen. He stood rigidly, his breath hissing between his teeth as Elayra made another Wonderland reference. He squinted up at the sky in frustration, but didn’t bother asking her for clarification. He suspected a bandersnatch was some type of servant.
As soon as Elaya’s footsteps faded in the direction of the lake, Ghent sighed in relief and his posture loosened. He brought the branch out from its hiding spot and looked behind his shoulder as an extra precaution. He had been left to his own devices.
The forest was eerily quiet. Ghent scratched at the side of his jaw with the tip of the branch, ridding himself of an invisible itch. After a long moment, he decided to proceed with his plan.
”Guess I should hang these up…” Ghent mumbled to himself while he collected his jeans and Batman t-shirt from the ground. He started to hang his articles of clothing up one by one, using the same branch that hosted Drust’s trousers.
Igniculous… Ghent let the focus word marinate in his brain while he worked. He knew his plan would be put into action the second he said it, and he couldn’t afford to mispronounce something so crucial.
After his clothing was hung up, Ghent took a step back. He extended the branch toward the jeans and began to focus on what he wanted, and where he wanted it. His eyes lit up with childlike excitement when he felt the familiar pull in the air surrounding him. The magic was ready, and so was he.
“Igniculous!”
A burst of flame shot forward, catching the end of what was now a torch. Ghent stared at the fire in amazement, the bright orange flames reflecting in his blue eyes. Under different circumstances, he may have been content to stare at his creation until it shrank from existence, but he had an important task to complete.
Droplets of river water dripped from Ghent's clothing. He raised the torch ever so slightly, bringing the fire as close to the denim as he dared. A small, smug smirk tugged at the corner of his chapped lips as the flames licked at the fabric. He couldn’t wait to emerge from the trees, dressed in his newly dried clothes. He imagined Elayra’s face shifting from anger, to disbelief when she realized his wardrobe was dried to perfection.
Every so often, Ghent moved the branch away from his jeans to check the drying progress. The process was taking longer than he would have liked, but it seemed to be working, and so he continued. It didn’t take long for him to grow bored of the repetitiveness.
Ghent began daydreaming. He wanted to think of a witty remark when he tossed Drust's pants back at Elayra, something to further annoy the irritable princess. While he plotted and schemed, he failed to realize that his method of moving the torch every so often had encouraged the flames to travel. . .
After a few minutes, Ghent felt a gradual warmth near his bare shoulder. It wasn’t until his skin became hot that he was snapped out of his trance. His eyes slid to find the source of the heat, and he screamed.
The fire had begun to devour the fabric of Drust’s pants.
”HOLY--!” Ghent staggered back. His mouth fell open. He sputtered a few times like a fish out of water as his mind screamed at him to do something.
Swearing underneath his breath, Ghent grabbed his wet t-shirt and started beating at the flames with one hand, while gripping the branch with his other. The movement jostled the torch so much, the fire shrank and spread, threatening to burn him and the rest of the forest if he wasn’t careful.

Hand still in her pack, a gentle, out of place rustle from the woods made Elayra pause. Slowly, she withdrew her hand from her pack and reached for her saber.
Senses shifting into practiced alertness, she opened her mouth to call to Ghent. Before she could, the distinctive shuffling of something nearing took her full attention.
She jumped to her feet, her sword drawn and heart pounding in her chest.
Now what? She was beginning to wonder if Ghent had been cursed with bad luck.
Eyes scanning the thicker parts of the woods, she took a cautious backstep toward Ghent’s tree. She strengthened her fight stance, ready to call out to Ghent, as movement only a few yards from her caught her eye.
She breathed a heavy sigh of relief as she picked out Drust’s camouflaged form amidst the trees. With his hood down, only his face stood out against nature’s color palette.
It was just him, not a new threat. Most importantly, he was back. And he looked okay, if a bit troubled. Lowering her weapon, she met him halfway.
The giant of a man stopped as she reached him, the strap of a newly acquired backpack over one shoulder. He quirked an eyebrow upward as he looked her over.
“Long story,” Elayra answered his unspoken question. “I’ll explain later. What kept you?”
Drust’s pale lips pulled downward. “They’re on edge today,” he answered darkly.
Elayra inhaled, struggling to hide her nervousness at the news behind her usual mask. The day really couldn't get much worse.
Drust’s neck twitched as he glanced over his shoulder toward the direction he’d come. Looking back to her, his brows furrowed as he sniffed at the air. “What’s burn—?"
A shocked scream rent the air. Two pairs of eyes snapped up to the tree Ghent had chosen as his shoji screen.
Drust reacted instantly. He tossed the backpack to the ground, freeing himself of its minor burden, and drew his katana as he raced to the tree. Elayra followed a beat behind him. The Knight reached the tree well ahead of her.
Katana held in ready defense, he slid to a stop as he tried to make sense of the chaos that greeted him. Ghent, adorned in only a pair of boxers, was using a shirt to battle a fire—a fire that looked like he had set himself—licking up a pair of pants. Drust’s pants, if the Knight wasn’t mistaken.
He leaned back as Ghent’s makeshift torch nearly whacked him. In the boy’s distraction, its hungry flames grew dangerously close to the leaves of a broken, dying branch hanging lower than the others around it.
With a snarl, Drust gripped the torch just above the boy’s hand and yanked it from Ghent’s grasp. Keeping the burning end low to avoid catching anything else on fire, he shoved his elbow, hard, into Ghent to make the boy back off, speared the pants with his blade, and pulled them off the branch. He tossed them to a patch of ground more earth than grass, then stomped on them, grinding the lit portions into the soil. The dirt worked with his boot to slowly put it out as Elayra caught up to the action.
Her eyes widened as a smoldering leaf of the dying branch fully caught fire.
“Drust, the tree!” she shouted as the leaves surrounding the first ignited. The rank stench of burning fabric and foliage filled the air, strands of smoke twisting upward like souls being released to the heavens.
Drust glanced to the burning branch. His neck twitched twice, and his mouth curled into a tight snarl. The black veins at the corners of his eyes pulsed steadily, slowly spreading. The webbed red of the Curse dominating his irises threatened to spread through the whites.
“Extinguo!” he growled at Ghent, still busy trying to fully snuff out the first fire. “Use it! NOW!” he finished in a roar, a gravely undertone fighting for dominance with the last word, like a second voice lurking beneath his own.

"Crap, crap, crap!" Ghent continued to beat at the flames with his shirt, working like a crazed lunatic as he fought to rectify his latest, and arguably most absurd mistake yet.
The flames sputtered and shrank as the dampness of the fabric made contact, but it wasn't enough to secure victory. Each time Ghent brought the shirt away in order to swing it again, the fire would spring back to life, fighting for dominance. This pattern created an endless game of tug-of-war that the deadly element was sure to win.
Out of nowhere, Ghent felt someone grip, then rip the branch away from him, the bark scraping his palm due to the jerkiness of the action. He reacted with an indignant shout, more from surprise than pain. He turned his head sharply, horrified to see Drust towering above him, the fire reflecting in his curse-ridden eyes like a demon from hell.
"Drust!" Ghent's voice shook. Before he could react further, the Knight's elbow sent him staggering backward. The boy accepted the shove, too stunned to take offense or object as he normally would. His gaze flickered toward the still-burning pants, a sick, sinking feeling in his gut. Hopefully Drust didn't value his pants the same way Elayra valued her dagger.
I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die... Ghent winced as Drust's katana pierced the fabric, the sight of the blade making his skin crawl. I'm TOTALLY gonna die! He gripped his hair with both hands, playing the role of a useless bystander while the Knight worked to stomp out the flames.
Unfortunately, the pants weren't enough to satisfy the fire's appetite. The tree was next on the menu, although Ghent's focus was on Drust so he hadn't noticed yet. Overhearing Elayra's shout, he turned, brows raised. In the confusion, he forgot he was living out a scene from a cliché nightmare, standing in the presence of others half-naked.
Baffled, Ghent tilted his head back to see for himself and inwardly screamed. The leaves were shriveling up and disappearing from view, victims to the flames devouring them. Embers and fragments of leaves and fluttered down around them, some coming too close for comfort.
Another voice. This time, Drust was the one to snap Ghent out of his trance. The irritable Knight gave a focus word to use, with little time to use it. 
"O-okay, okay!" Ghent was a mess. He lifted his arms, fingers outstretched, and winced. He preferred to practice saying focus words before using them, but he suspected Drust wasn't in the mood to play teacher. He swallowed hard, his eyes wide and unblinking. He needed to concentrate, but he wasn't sure how. There was too much at stake, too much noise, and Drust was on the warpath.
Overwhelmed by the magnitude of the situation, Ghent abandoned his pose to cover his ears with his palms. He squeezed his eyes shut as if that would shut out the chaos, desperate for a moment to connect with the world's magic. The magic was still very much there; he could sense it, feel it. He imagined reaching out to it as if it was a physical object rather than an invisible force, and he focused on what he wanted. He wanted the fire to go out.
When he felt a familiar pull, Ghent's eyes flew open and he lifted his arms toward the tree a second time. "E...EXTINGUO!"
Hopefully, Wonderland's magic would answer his desperate cry once more.

Elayra’s heart sank the moment she realized the forest’s fate relied on Ghent. Ghent, huddled on the ground like a child cowering from his worst nightmares. Elayra growled her irritation, wanted to scream, to slap some sense into him.
Drust’s neck twitched again. Impatience glinted in his eyes as the boy hesitated, covering his ears. But the rare sensation of the world’s magic swelling to meet the boy’s silent commands kept the Knight silent. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the magic's presence, instinct preparing him to be ready.
He shot Elayra a warning glare when the girl stepped toward Ghent, her frustration—and even a tinge of fear—dusting her face. Catching her eye, he jerked his head, gesturing for her to back off as he stomped out the last of the flames on the pants.
Knuckles further whitening from his tight grip on his sword, Drust backed off in the opposite direction as Ghent opened his eyes and extended his hands toward the rising flames.
He cringed at Ghent’s stutter, the Curse turning the motion into a snarling a frown into a snarl. But at least the boy said it right, otherwise.
Elayra held her breath. She took a few extra steps asway, glancing between Ghent, Drust, and the tree. If Ghent's attempt went wrong, Drust could easily get hurt in the crossfire.
For the eternity of a heartbeat, the flames greedily continuing their feast. Yet, the aura of the magic pulsed around and through Ghent, the ancient force in no rush to obey this hasty, timid command.
As if releasing a resigned sigh, the magic dispersed from the boy, riding the invisible wings of his vocal and mental command.
Drust inhaled, sensing as it condensed around the flame of the torch. The fire on both it and the tree flickered. It changed to an enchanted shade of blue, their centers darkening to near black as the magic worked through Ghetn and took control of the element.
Instead of petering out as they should have, the flames gave a crackling hiccup in echo of the boy's stutter, and pulled from the wood. Only singe marks remained behind as they merged together, hovering mid-air between tree and torch. With a flicker, they shot into the sky and burst into a single firework.
Elayra stared up with cautious awe at the colored sparks. They drifted down, fizzling out harmlessly before reaching the treetops. With the danger neutralized and the spectacle gone, anger flooded back through her with a vengence. Her furious scowl turned to Ghent.
“How stupid are you?” she shouted, guessing at what had caused the fire. She pointed the tip of her sword toward Ghent’s bare chest. “Change your clothes! That’s all you had to—”
“Silence!”
Drust’s gravely voice sent a shiver down Elayra’s spine. Her grip on her sword tightened. She turned to her guardian, her animosity at Ghent shifting into survival mode. She moved to put herself better between Ghent and Drust, ready for a fight.
Gaze firmly on the ground, Drust jammed the tip of his katana into the dirt beside him. Chest heaving, he went to one knee. His empty, free hand tangled in his messy dark hair, his fingers and wrist twitching, nails digging into his scalp.
Elayra’s heart pounded in her throat. He was fighting. Fighting it harder than she’d seen in years. Without taking her eyes from Drust, she gestured for Ghent to go back to their packs.
Taking a deep breath, she sheathed her sword, cursing herself for thinking things couldn’t get worse. This was Wonderland. If there was one thing her home was good at, it was throwing new obstacles at them. Doing her best to push back the thought, she took a cautious step toward the Knight.
“Drust—”
He raised his gaze to her, snarling, the colors of the Curse nearly consuming his pupils.
“Go,” he growled, voice strained, it's dangerous undertone wavering uncertainly. He pried his hand from his hair to point to where he’d found her between the tree and stream. “Wait.”
Elayra hesitated. If she obeyed, leaving him to his own thoughts, he could sink fully into the Curse. But if she didn't...
“Drust,” she started again, her voice exuding a practiced calm she didn’t feel. She struggled to find the good in the situation, to find some way to diffuse the negative excitement feeding the Curse. “The tree’s fine, and I’ll tailor—”
She gasped as Drust’s snarl deepened, and he sprung to his feet. His grip on his sword twitched open, letting it fall to the ground as Elayra reached for hers.
The girl didn’t have time to draw it. Drust grabbed her wrist tightly in one hand, yanking it from the weapon, and the collar of her shirt in the other.
“Think, girl!” he spat through his teeth. The Curse's colors pulled back from his pupils for an instant. Exasperation mixed with a silent plea for her to put something together he didn't have the restraint to say aloud, momentarily pushing out the hazy, mindless fury. His neck twitched as the colors pulsed closer to consuming his gaze, deepening his snarl as he rolled his chin down. “I. Gave. You. An. Order!”
With a growling exhale, he closed his eyes, his grip trembling, and tossed her away from him in the general direction of their packs.

Ghent tilted his head back, stunned that the spell had produced something so akin to the fireworks on Earth. The sight was nostalgic somehow, enough to earn the smallest hint of a smile from him. He turned to see what his companions thought of his work, but his relief was quickly doused by dread. Drust and Elayra were furious.
Ghent gulped. He eyed Elayra like a dog waiting to be scolded. He was certain that she would be the first to address his latest failure, and he was right.
'How stupid are you?' Ghent's mouth twisted into a grimace. His own retort caught in his throat when she pointed her sword at his chest, the tip mere inches from his flesh. "The pants wouldn't..." he wanted to point out that the pants wouldn't have fit him, but Drust's voice cut through the air like a hot knife through butter.
He's losing it. Ghent exhaled. Unwilling to contribute further to Drust's mental decline, he did his part by quickly shutting up. He avoided eye contact as Elayra took the reigns, unsure how to feel about the princess coming to his aid yet again.
Ghent tensed as Drust took a knee. The sight of the man battling his demons was a terrifying thing. It was even more terrifying not knowing if -- or when -- he would lose that battle.
"Should we..." Ghent trailed off, his voice no more than a whisper. Something about this time was worse than times before. Much worse. He looked to Elayra for help, as he had no experience with appeasing the man. 
Rather than pose a solution, Elayra motioned for Ghent to return to their belongings. A nagging sense of self-preservation told Ghent to follow the order, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her with the madman.
"Elayra," Ghent whispered again, mindful of his volume. "Drust...he needs his space, you should listen to what he..."
Too late. Elayra's decision to stay backfired.
Ghent recoiled as Drust jumped to his feet. The Knight dropped his sword, but that brought Ghent no comfort. Drust was deadly even without a weapon, and now he had Elayra by the collar.
"Elayra!" Ghent forced himself to run toward them. He was seconds away from intervening, but Drust acted first. The Knight tossed Elayra away from him, as if ridding himself of the temptation to commit murder.
Ghent never broke his stride. The scene had changed, but his mission had not. He hurried over to Elayra, stooped, and grabbed her by her upper arms. Once he pulled the princess to her feet, he released one of her arms, and tugged her along with the other. He shot her a warning look, his expression tight and unusually serious.
"Shut up before yourself killed," he hissed, "okay?" 

Elayra stumbled back. She kept her balance until the heel of her boot hit a clod of earth, and she fell. She pulled her legs toward her to push herself up, but hands gipped her upper arms, helping in tugging her to standing.
Surprise flashed through her at the assist, but irritation quickly replaced it as Ghent adjusted his grip and pulled her toward their packs. She stumbled a couple steps from the sudden change in direction, but swiftly righted herself.
“Shut up before you get yourself killed, okay?”
“I’m not the one who nearly set the forest on fire!” she growled back, her volume matching his, hoping to avoid Drust’s notice.
She wrenched her arm from him and quickened her pace. She cast a quick glance back toward the tree, Drust’s kneeling form barely visible behind it.
At their packs, she snatched up the one the White Knight had tossed aside. Different colored stains dappled the rugged fabric, some more faded than others. It had an odd, musty smell, but otherwise seemed to be in decent condition.
Opening it, she rummaged through its contents. Though not enchanted, Drust had managed to shove a good amount into it, including a few pilfered changes of clothes, while leaving room to spare.
“I think this is yours.” She spun toward Ghent and tossed the pack toward him, not caring if he saw it coming at him, let alone if he caught it or not. “See if anything in there fits. Unless you like parading around in your boxers.”

"No," Ghent agreed through grit teeth, "but you are the one who gave me the longest pants in Wonderland..." he kicked at a stray pebble as he walked, frowning all the while. He missed taking his frustration out on the various cans and bottles left around the city. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not Slenderman!"
Ghent came to a stop after Elayra did. He eyed the pack, wary of its contents.
"Hey. Those didn't come from a dead person, right?" Ghent wrinkled his nose at his own suggestion. The thought of wearing a dead person's clothes felt like a bad omen, and the last thing he wanted was to attract bad luck. Or, worse luck, as he felt his luck had been nothing but bad since stepping foot into Wonderland.
Before Ghent could inquire -- or complain -- further, the pack in question was tossed at him. He didn't expect this, so the brunt of it hit him in the chest while scrambled to catch the lopsided bundle. 
Bristling, Ghent steadied himself, irked by the entirety of the exchange. He opened the top of the pack wider, bringing his face down to sniff at its contents. The clothes smelled musty, but his tolerance to bad smells had risen after being subjected to Miles' vehicle. Now that the clothing had passed the sniff test, he reached inside, making a mental note to check for traces of blood. 
"Huh?" Ghent lifted his head, Elayra's words almost going unmissed. "What are you..." he stopped. Heat crept over his face. In the chaos, he had forgotten that he was still in his boxers.
"Y'know, on Earth, we value a little thing called privacy," Ghent quickly yanked a pair of trousers out of the bag, his cheeks flushed. He grabbed what he assumed was a shirt next, his misgivings about the clothing now behind him. "So, uh. Turn around, will you?!"

“Those didn’t come from a dead person, right?”
Elayra only shrugged. It wouldn’t surprise her if they had, but it made no difference. Goods were goods. Though, goods from a dead man cultivated less thief’s guilt.
She scowled when Ghent actually sniffed at the inside of the backpack. She opened her mouth to snap at him for caring about something so insignificant, but closed it again with a glance toward Drust. His hearing was uncanny, and right now, she needed to be careful, with how hard the Crimson Curse was fighting against him.
Still, she couldn’t help but hope there’d be something foul-smelling inside the pack. The universe could at least give her that satisfaction. But, alas, he approved of the smell.
Then, the universe made up for it; pink rushed to Ghent’s cheeks at her observation about his boxers. A corner of her mouth quirked contentedly.
Elayra snorted at his comment about privacy, her gaze firmly fixed on his face. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. ‘Privacy’ seems to end in fire, explosions, or blood with you. If not all three.”
Despite her words, she reluctantly turned so he wasn’t in her direct line of sight. She crouched in front of her backpack, debating on if she should keep her bow at the ready. Weapons were common enough; neither the Forgen nor Forsaken would take special note of those.
She glanced to Ghent’s backpack. While the Curse-ridden might appreciate its skull pattern, it was misplaced in their world. Too clean despite its travels. Too un-Wonderland.
“Put what’s left in your Earth bag into that one when you’re done.” She reached into her bag, rummaging around for her arrows. "Then get rid of the old one.”
She extracted her hip quiver from the pack, filled with blue-fetched arrows, and sat it beside her. “The Curse in Drust will help keep the full Curse-ridden from noticing us right away, but they tend to latch on to… anything… unusual…” Her voice faded. She looked suddenly toward the victimized tree, two-and-two clicking.
The Curse was acting stronger in Drust, but now it wasn’t only because it was fighting harder for control.
“Snark dung!” she cursed quietly. She got to her feet as Drust slowly stepped out from behind the tree, his Katana sheathed at his back. His neck and fingers twitched as he slowly neared. He curled his fingers jerkily into a fist. “He’s giving it more control!”

Ghent squinted at her. He considered teasing her, saying that she must have wanted to watch him change, but she turned before he had the chance to dig his own grave. 
After a pause, he returned his attention to his new-old clothes and started to dress.
Selecting the shirt first, Ghent worked his arms through the long sleeves. The fabric was somewhat coarse, thin in some spots, and itchy in others. He found that the neckline was cut in a V shape, which could be pulled closed thanks to two leather cords laced between the fabric. The back of the shirt was plain, save for a hood he hadn't noticed before. The shirt was something he could see Henry wearing at a Renaissance Festival, except that Henry refused to wear anything blue, for some unknown reason. 
"Earth bag..." Ghent snorted lightly at Elayra's name for the backpack. His smirk dissolved at the order. He wasn't attached to the backpack itself, but what it represented. It was the last thing he bought before leaving Earth. 
Ghent sighed, silently chiding himself. A secondhand backpack was the least of his problems. 
Before Ghent could work on his pants, he stiffened, a sharp itch between his shoulder blades demanding his attention. Scratching with one hand, he tugged at the shirt with the other to keep the source of the itch away from his skin, the sensation agitating him. It seemed that even the clothes in Wonderland were against him.
"At least it's warm. And dry," Ghent mumbled to himself. He dropped his hand to his side and scowled. The same couldn't be said for his boxers, but he didn't exactly have anywhere to change out of them. So, they remained.
Quietly fuming at the injustice of it all, Ghent worked both feet through the legs and pulled up the charcoal-colored pants. To his relief, the pants fit around the waist, but they were a little long. Not as long as Drust's pants, though.
Ghent moved over to his backpack and crouched down in front of it. He found that the fabric was less coarse than the shirt, something he was immensely grateful for. He hoped that the length of his shirt would help hide the fact that his underclothes weren't fully dry.
"Giving what more control?" Ghent caught the end of Elayra's statement. He peered over his shoulder at her, brows raised. He couldn't tell if she was talking to him, or to herself, but he didn't have time to question her. Drust was heading their way.
Hurriedly, Ghent emptied the contents of his backpack and shoved everything into the bag as instructed. He gripped the empty backpack as he stood, stiff as a board, like a cadet facing a sergeant. His eyes flickered between the Wonderlanders, a too-familiar feeling of panic settling in. The feeling urged him to say something.
"The..." Ghent blanched. Drust had sheathed his weapon, but he didn't exactly seem calm. His fingers were curled into a fist. "The clothes fit," he stammered, a weak attempt to pacify him -- and the Curse.

Unthinkingly, Elayra glanced toward Ghent when he addressed her discovery. She cringed, ready to look away, but thankfully, he’d dressed. Alas, she didn’t have time to answer before Drust neared.
She watched, begrudgingly impressed, at how quickly Ghent dumped the contents of his old pack into the stolen one. She turned her attention to Drust. He stopped about two sword-lengths from the teens. The Knight gave Ghent a quick once-over as the boy stammered over his words.
Drust nodded jerkily—or perhaps it was just a twitch. Elayra wasn’t certain. The dark lines snaking from the corners of his eyes spread outward like roots, reaching and pulling back as Drust fought to keep the Curse manageable.
He grunted his approval. He jerked his chin toward the thicker line of trees. “In town, stay close,” he began, his voice clipped and strained. “If we’re lucky—” He cut himself off with a sneering humorless chuckle at the concept of them being ‘lucky.’ Gritting his teeth, he pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, the other at his temple, and took a deep breath.
Elayra rested her hand on her saber's hilt, making the action look as unthreatening as she could. “We don’t need luck. We have our skills,” she offered.
Drust snorted. “No matter what,”—his neck twitched violently—“Get. To. The. Rabbit Hole. Understood?” He raised his head, his eerie eyes shifting from Ghent to Elayra.
Elayra met his gaze. The black-webbed red of his irises had turned his pupils nearly to pinpricks, the colors at war.
“Understood,” she echoed. She nodded slowly, trying to convey that that applied to more than just his order.
He snorted, his lips curling into a sneer. Not waiting for any other answer from either of them, he strode toward the trees.
Not wanting to keep Drust waiting, Elayra deftly attached her quiver to her belt. Abandoning the idea of taking the necessary time to pull out her bow, she closed her pack and shouldered it.
She hurried to Ghent, grabbing his wrist to get his attention. “He’s giving the Curse more control,” she whispered, at last answering his earlier question. “If it’s stronger in him, it’s more likely we’ll have extra time before the Curse-ridden realize we’re Omitten.” She glanced uneasily after Drust, then looked back to Ghent. “You need to be careful.” She looked away with a quiet huff. “We both do,” she admitted.
She released him, and quickened her pace after the White Knight.

Ghent held his breath as he waited for Drust's evaluation. The sight of the Knight's eyes up close sent a sharp, unpleasant shock through his entire being. His throat tightened at the memory of being lifted in the air by him. Drust, he decided, was more terrifying than a shadowmire and terraflame combined.
Drust's chuckle made Ghent's skin crawl. He imagined the Knight might give a similar-sounding laugh if he decided to brandish his sword, finally giving in to the Curse...finally ridding himself of the two teenagers he must have felt entrapped with.
Ghent shivered. He wished his intrusive thoughts and overactive imagination would take a hike. 
"Uh...understood," Ghent coughed lightly, his lungs disagreeing with the lack of oxygen. He bit his own tongue as he dropped his chin, too unnerved to maintain eye contact for longer than he already had. His foolishness meant he would have to wonder about the Rabbit Hole in silence, the workings of Wonderland and its means of travel still very foreign to him.
Finally, Drust stalked off. Ghent exhaled, shouldering his new bag as Elayra approached him.
"Huh?" Ghent turned his head toward the princess. His eyes fell to her hand gripping his wrist, and he flushed slightly, still embarrassed after all that had transpired. He met her eyes again and blinked, waiting for her explanation.
"Like...on purpose? Or..." Ghent trailed off, allowing Elayra to supply an answer herself. He bit the inner pocket of his cheek, his expression unusually contemplative. He wondered about their odds, their chances of traveling through the town undetected. 
"I'll be careful," Ghent answered, strangely agreeable despite his track record. "I know I messed up back there, but don't worry..." he rubbed at his neck, careful not to disturb the bandaging. "I have no desire to stand out, or mingle with the townsfolk around here...not after what I've seen of this heck hole."
After collecting and checking his belongings -- his bag, his father's book, and his staff -- Ghent hurried after Drust and Elayra, scratching at an occasional itch courtesy of his new shirt.

No matter how many Curse-run cities she visited, she would never get used to the stench. Even on the outskirts, the rotten twang of old meat soured the sweetness of baked goods. Perfumes and flowers mingled with decay, sweat, and sewage.
Elayra crouched behind a low, crumbling stone wall. It had once marked the boundaries of the magic field of the town’s defenses. Now, it was just another withering reminder of what once had been.
With no need to hide, Drust stood beside her, scanning the decrepit one- and two-story homes at the edges of town. Other, taller buildings towered behind them in the town's depths.
Bits of the color and architecture hinted that they were once proud things. Now, time had eaten at them, and the denizens had taken to using whatever was laying around to make repairs.
Across the weed-choked lawn, half of a wall of the house in front of Elayra had fallen victim to a said repair. Cracked mirrors and piano keys were mounted into oddly pinkish mortar. Some of the sharp edges of the glass stuck out dangerously like quills. In spots, hardened feathers dripped from its roof in place of shingles.
If not for the whisper of manic laughter carried on the wind, it could almost be mistaken as intentionally artistic, rather than the mindless work of the insane.
A thin alley gaped between the repaired home and its neighbor, waiting to serve as the trio’s entrance. Above, the sun had turned the sky into a battle of fiery colors, staining the town.
She grimaced. They were cutting it close.
The Forsaken were one thing—rabid as they were, they were typically fairly predictable. Dare she even think, easily avoidable. But the Forgen…
“We have maybe twenty minutes before the Forgen get extra rabid,” she whispered, glancing to Ghent. “Once the workday’s over, the Forsaken usually just go home. But the older Forgen are left to their own devices. Remember. If it looks even remotely under fourteen, avoid it. Once we’re inside—”
“Keep quiet,” Drust snapped without looking to his charges.
Elayra’s mouth shut and she reached for her sword. She scanned their surroundings, trying to find the reason behind his command.
“And keep your eyes hidden,” he finished.
She scowled, realizing he’d only been finishing her instructions. Biting back her frustration, she nodded. “If you make eye contact and they don’t see the Curse in you, they’ll attack. And if one of them senses something's off…”
“Hive mind. Any nearby will know.” Drust’s head twitched down, then to the side. His shoulders spasmed as if his ticks were communicating with each other. A growl rumbled in his throat. He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Limiting her breaths, she drew her hair around her face like a vail.
“We need the center of town.” Drust’s hands clenched and unclenched. “It’s not far. But far enough.”
Drust gave the overgrown lawn a last quick sweep, then stepped easily over the half-wall.
Elayra hesitated the length of a heartbeat. She looked to Ghent, her jaw and shoulders stiff, and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring nod. She vaulted over the stone wall, then paused to check that he followed.

Ghent smelled the town before he saw it. He cursed underneath his breath, covering his nose with his sleeve. It didn't take long for the foul air to kill his appetite, warding off any previous desire he had to raid his pack for food.
They continued onward, the air quality never improving. Ghent used his sleeve to act as a filter until he realized that he was only delaying the inevitable. He dropped his arm to his side, breathing in as little as he could. 
Eventually, the trio came to a wall, or what remained of one. Ghent crouched because Elayra did. He peered over the wall, hoping to catch a glimpse of the infamous town. His eyes moved from house to house, each structure more haphazard than the last. The buildings were old and falling apart, some barely standing. A few of the houses reminded him of a kindergarteners craft project, with an assortment of different materials cobbled together to create a bizarre illusion of a home.
"Those definitely aren't to code..." Ghent squinted at the feathers. He overheard a crazed laugh, which caused him to drop back behind the wall as if he'd been shot. Neither Drust nor Elayra seemed to react, which was both comforting yet concerning. Crazed laughter must have been normal in Wonderland.
Ghent sighed. Twenty minutes wasn't very long, and he doubted they could run without drawing unwanted attention. He nodded stiffly, hoping against hope that they would avoid crossing paths with any of the town's inhabitants. "Like I said, I have no desire to mingle with--"
Drust suddenly snapped at them to keep quiet. Ghent sat up straighter and gripped his staff tighter, fearing the source of the laugh had spotted them. His scowl mirrored Elayra's when he realized Drust was only finishing her sentence.
"No mingling, no kids, no eye contact..." Ghent grunted as he pushed himself up, his muscles stiff and sore. He watched as Elayra vaulted herself over the wall with the proficiency of a gymnast, something he intended to mimic. "No problem."
Clutching his staff, Ghent dashed forward and used his free hand to hoist himself up. His first leg went over without a hitch, but he didn't lift his second leg high enough. His knee smacked against the edge awkwardly, causing him to stumble when he landed. He caught himself, flushing when he saw Elayra looking in his direction.
Pride barely intact, Ghent stalked past her, hurrying to catch up with Drust.