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My eyes burn, tossing gold through the area. Traces of the iron flames have gotten this far…this deep. That means there are many of them.

A pair of pythons large enough to swallow a carriage flank the atrium’s exit. I stride their way, sensing their vertical pupils kindling on me.

I lower my voice.“Deep beneath the water, a Snake bewitched a Viper…”

With every sentence, a lull passes across the serpents. I narrate while stalking closer. As last, I finish in a murmur,“For once magic has touched two beings, no other enchantments may prevail.”

Alleviated for the time being, the vipers shrink and go quiet. Too large, and they will be sighted. It is a great irony.

I set my finger to my lips. “Shh.” My eyes stray across the atrium, hooking onto the essence of each dweller.

Leave. Hide. Now.

They take heed, filter into the den, and undulate toward the vat. It will lead to the river and its infinite crevices. Mortals may have iron fire. They may have that advantage against us, but not against the landscape itself.

And unlike Cove, they do not possess a fucking map. Burrow too far under, and they will be lost. The Deep will swallow them whole like a maw, even if our enemies take us first.

One of the serpents rustles over my toes on its way out. I make out its hood and count the large scales. It is a cobra.

I stalk from The Pit of Vipers and evanesce. My body dissolves, vaporizing like mist into the void. Gravity disappears under my soles. The seconds snare together. My pulse clocks like a beast shattering free of its confines.

The wind filters through my hair. Dry earth solidifies under my weight. Water gargles past my feet.

I sway briefly. Manifesting has zapped the precious amount of energy I’ve recouped since the rescue, but the adrenaline supplements that. Anyway, I’d needed to arrive quickly.

Peeling the hood from my head, I march between the trees. A gust lashes through the wild, and a nearby stream eddies. Tiny wings buzz around my head, glowing insects flitting through the environment.

The Colony of Fireflies cleaves a path to The Triad. I feel the trio of landscapes converge—the mountain, the forest, and the river.

“Sire,” a voice squeaks from the bushes.

The words nail my feet to the soil. My eyebrows slam together, and I turn toward the source.

My attention jumps but fails to hit its mark until that same voice says, “Down here.”

Because of the slender tone, I had anticipated a brownie or pixie. Instead, the clop of four hooves identifies the Fae. The centaur is young and female, her size and weight not yet vast enough to make the ground shiver.

Trenches dig into my forehead. Puck and Cove have a natural talent for interacting with striplings. This skill does not extend to me.

Once, I thrived on my title. I soaked its up its power like a stimulant.

Lord of the Water Fae. Ruler of the River.

But it does not feel right any longer. With my subjects divided, I cannot say I’ve earned the title on this eve. I certainly cannot argue I did my reign justice before then.

In any case, the wild and its fauna rule themselves. We are but servants and protectors.

“I am no longerSire,” I inform the wee one.

A tail flicks in irritation. “Don’t you think denying your privilege is a disservice to us all?”

That is…true. Yet another privilege I cannot presently claim is time.

“Make haste,” I grunt. “Go back to The Heart of Centaurs. You will be safe there.”

“I don’t want to be safe. I want to fight.”

My brows straighten into planks. The clink of steel and strain of leather alert me to a band buckled around the filly’s withers. Doubtless, it sheathes a weapon. Perhaps an axe or those shooting stars woodland Faeries are obsessed with.