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Oberon

THE SKY STRETCHED in dull orange and gold, casting the water in flickering, dying light. The sun had vanished, swallowed by the horizon, and the air had changed with it. The salt in the breeze felt heavier and thicker with moisture, and the mist creeping along the docks had grown denser. I stood at the edge of the furthest pier and stared out over the darkening waves, but I wasn’t really looking at them.

Something was off.

The subtle unease slithered beneath my skin as I rolled my shoulders and flexed my fingers at my sides. The weight of my sword and the pressure of my belts were grounding, but the tension in my chest had nothing to do with a potential threat.

Not yet, at least.

Behind me, the soft rustle of pages turning mixed with the crash of waves. Quinn was still writing, chasing answers as the lanterns flickered around her. Her usual energy had dulled over the past few weeks. Her fire was muted, her words were softer, and her movements were slower and less decisive.

The stitches in her back had healed. It was in the way she moved. Her steps weren’t as rigid, no longer careful to avoid pulling at the wounds. She no longer tensed when she reached for something or turned too fast. She still favored one side and adjusted the strap of her satchel to keep it from pressing against the worst of it, but she didn’t wince as often.

I checked on her at night, sat with her when she woke, and waited for the haze of sleep to fade from her eyes before she inevitably sent me away, brushing it off with another muttered excuse.

I let her. Every time. But I wasn’t blind.

She slept more, but not better . The sleep that dragged her under was heavy but never brought rest. She woke with the same tension in her shoulders and a guarded look that told me she had spent the entire night fighting off the demons that plagued her past.

Something had broken in her in Vaelwick…

And I didn’t know how to fucking fix it.

“You know, Freckles, I could sit here and watch you work all night.”

My tongue pressed against my canine.

Of course .

Garrick leaned back with his hands behind his head, watching her with that damn smirk. “It’s fascinating, really,” he continued. “The way you furrow your brows as if you’re solving the kingdom’s greatest mystery. Almost makes me believe you’re thinking about me.”

“I’m thinking about how best to poison your drink without anyone noticing.” There was a smirk in her voice, but the way she said it made my hands curl into fists.

“Saints, you truly are cruel,” Garrick sighed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flirting with me.”

My chest tightened.

“If that’s flirting, I’m out of practice.”

I resisted the urge to turn around.

“I would be more than happy to help you get back into it,” Garrick teased.

She laughed.

An actual laugh. Not the strained amusement I had heard from her for days, the polite scoffs or the forced humor. A genuine, tired laugh that sent an intense and unfamiliar feeling through me. I fucking hated it.

I hated that I wanted to hear more of it, and that it wasn’t me who pulled it from her. My fists tightened again. That wasn’t how I was supposed to think. This shouldn’t have mattered. She wasn’t supposed to matter.

But she did.

Saints, she did.

I swallowed hard, blinking at the waves, but my mind refused to quiet. It drifted back, unbidden, to the field in Vaelwick—the heat, the smell of humid soil and crushed grass thick in the air. Sweat had clung to our skin as exhaustion settled into our limbs, and she had kneeled beside me. Her fingers glided across the dirt, tracing the sigils carved into the soil.

Her brows had furrowed in concentration, lips parted. Saints, the way she looked at me had sent heat pooling in my gut and licking up my spine.

The usual sharpness in her gaze had softened; her pupils were wide and dark, and her breath had become shallow. Hesitant. She had stammered. A rare crack in the wall she always kept in place.

It was unlike her, the hesitation, the flicker of uncertainty. And in that moment, it had undone me. She had been so close that I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, see the delicate flush rising on her throat, and hear the unsteady hitch in her breath.

I wanted to close that distance. I nearly leaned in, almost let myself drown in that unbearable pull, losing the fight against the desires of my Fae blood. I was on the verge of discovering how those lips tasted, how she sounded when she didn’t hold back every word. I hadn’t let myself think of it much after that. It had been easier to shove it away, to drown myself in the anger instead. In the pain of her pulling back. How her walls went back up after that night.

With a steadying breath, I forced my hands to relax and stretched my fingers.

“There she is,” Garrick murmured, his voice quieter now.

My muscles loosened. The tension should have faded, but the air shifted. It was subtle, like the tide pulling back before a wave, a second of stillness before impact. The breeze carried the sharp tang of salt, but a cloying and insidious rot lurked beneath it. It was a smell just on the edge of awareness that crept into my senses.

My shoulders turned rigid again.

The water lapped rhythmically against the pier as it had all evening. But now, the sound felt hollow. The trinkets hanging over the doorways clinked in the wind, their chimes fragile, whispered warnings carried on the breeze.

“You feel that?” Quinn’s voice was quiet, but there was a weight behind it.

Garrick’s crate creaked as he stood up straight. “Aye.”

My fingers reached for the hilt of my sword as I stepped forward. The stench was the unmistakable odor of decaying flesh rotting beneath the waves—drowned and forgotten, bloated, waterlogged, and left to fester in the deep before washing onto shore. The smell clung to the mist, seeping into my lungs and coating my tongue with its vile density.

The fog was no longer just a veil over the village; it felt alive. It shifted, curled, and pressed in on us. One moment, it was still and silent; the next, the world tilted as if an unseen force had exhaled a deep breath from the Veil.

Stitched together from the darkest recesses of nightmares, a towering figure rose from the mist. Its limbs were too long. Its fingers—ragged claws—twitched in anticipation, as if the air were a meal for its hunger. The mist curled around it, clinging to its form, reluctant to release it. Even the fog feared what had emerged from the depths.

Its head was an animal skull, far too large for its skeletal body, bleached and cracked with age. Broken horns jutted from its crown, jagged and twisted, creating a cruel parody of something long dead. Where its eyes should have been, only dark, swirling voids observed us with intelligence beyond comprehension. The emptiness within those sockets seemed alive, swirling as if it recognized us.

A sickening gurgle rose from deep within its chest. It was a wet, choking sound, as if it were drowning in its own decay. Its jaw cracked wide, unhinging in a monstrous rift, and the noise twisted into a rattling, warbled laugh that chilled me to my core and tore at the fabric of reality.

The stench thickened as a rancid gust swept over us. The thing approached with every breath. In one fluid motion, it stepped forward, its shadow stretching over the pier.

Another step. And another.

Then it was gone.

The mist swallowed it whole, just as silently as it had come.

The dock beneath us groaned in protest, shuddering as it sensed the creature beneath its planks. A deep crack ran through the wood, splitting the pier as what lay below awakened. The air turned damp, thick with the stench of rotting seawater. Quinn gasped behind me, her breaths becoming shallow and jagged.

The fog curled around her. Its tendrils snaked up her legs as it breathed, moved, and desired.

“Sinclaire,” her voice strained with a tremor of fear. I turned toward her, every instinct screaming at me as my body moved toward her.

The dock cracked underfoot as a blur of mist and bone lunged forward. I dove to the side, rolling across the slick planks just before it reached me. A jagged limb tore through the space I had just occupied with a spray of splinters.

Garrick pulled Quinn behind him with one arm, his sword drawn in the other. “Stay behind me, Freckles,” he said over his shoulder, half-grinning. “I would rather not die by Sinclaire’s hands later because I let you get hurt.”

“No!” Quinn fought against him, her voice filled with panic. “Garrick, move!”

“Saints, Freckles, let him handle it!”

I pushed up from the dock and unsheathed my sword just as the creature lunged again. Bone met steel with a force that rattled my arms. The impact echoed across the water as I skidded backward on the damp wood.

It lashed at me faster this time. Clawed limbs struck in whips of movement, each one reforming the moment I cut it. It didn’t bleed . Didn’t wane. It just kept attacking.

Its eyes—or where they should have been—locked on mine with a hollow hunger as though it recognized me. Quinn’s voice cut through the chaos, but I couldn’t make out the words. I shoved my blade into the creature’s side, forcing it back a step. The dock groaned under our weight before it stood still. The surrounding mist screamed with intention.

A sickening, wet gurgle filled the air.

Laughter that sounded as though it was choking on bile, the echoes of a thing that should not have been alive. The surrounding pressure tightened, and the mist constricted until it became tangible, heavier. It scraped down my spine and clung to the back of my mind.

The dock beneath us creaked again as the wood strained, trying to pull away from whatever stirred beneath it. The mist, once drifting and passive, turned solid. Dense and damp, it pressed in from every side, breathing against my throat. It had weight now. Intention.

And it focused on her.

“You are soft, Fae.” The voice coiled around me with malice. “You fear for her.”

My grip tightened on the sword hilt, and the pulse in my jaw became a drumbeat of war. “No.”

Another hollow, rotted, and triumphant laugh spilled from the mist. “She will bleed for you.”

The words provoked. The fog pulsed around us with purpose, feeding off the moment—off me. It saw what I refused to acknowledge: that I thrived in battle. I embraced death. Yet the thought of losing her was too much to bear, and I didn't even understand why.

Her breathing was heavy nearby, close enough to feel through my heightened senses. There was a hint of salt in her hair and panic in her demeanor that she tried to conceal. And saints help this thing. If it ever laid a finger on her, I wouldn’t just kill it.

I would fucking unmake it.

The beast stepped forward again, its sockets swirling with blood lust. “Sinclaire!” Her cry echoed in my chest and reverberated through the air. The surrounding mist shuddered as if it couldn’t bear the sound of her voice. It knew what was coming. It screamed in recognition when a burning wave surged through me, flooding my veins and lighting every nerve on fire. My vision pulsed, and my veins burned with the fire that woke within me in Silverfel.

“Nia nin firn bodui,” I growled, thrusting my sword into the dock. Silver-blue light shot down the blade and branched across the damp wood in strokes of lightning. The thing wailed, a guttural, high-pitched scream that raked across my skin before it vanished. The mist recoiled with a violent, visceral retreat, hissing and writhing as it crackled with the blue light. Only the lingering, sour smell of rotting seawater and the acrid stench of decay permeated the air. The silence that followed was unnatural.

Garrick stood in front of Quinn, his hand still on her arm as he braced her front, his mouth agape, confused by what had happened. His eyes narrowed on me. There was no smirk on his lips. No teasing glint in his gaze.

“What the fuck was that?” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual. My mind was still racing, and my senses heightened. The mist receded toward the ocean, slinking away as though it had been wounded and retreating into the dark waters from which it had come.

“A warning.”

THE DIM ROOM held a single candle on the table that cast flickering shadows along the walls. The smell of roasted meat and herbs from the tavern lingered in the air, but it didn’t settle the constriction in my chest. We sat in silence, the events at the docks still preying on my mind.

Garrick had no problem cutting through the thick tension with his usual lack of grace. “So, was Vaelwick like that too?” he asked, muffled by the food he was still chewing.

My gaze flicked to Quinn. Her fingers brushed the edge of her journal, organizing her notes as if she were somewhere else. I averted my eyes.

“Something like that,” I muttered.

Garrick snorted. “Something like that? You mean to tell me you fought another mist-crawling, nightmare-breathing fucker and didn’t think to warn me?”

I shot him a glare. “I didn’t have the time to draft a letter, Garrick.”

He shrugged, tearing a piece of bread with his teeth. “Still. It would have been nice to know we were walking into whatever that was.” He gestured to the window with his bread. “You two have been incredibly cryptic.”

Quinn sighed, flipping another page in her journal. “The creature in Vaelwick was different,” she said. “That one was tethered to the fields. This one was more mobile. It chose its target.”

Her.

It chose her.

I swallowed the growl in my throat and flexed my fingers as I leaned back in my chair. Garrick wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Right. And it just happened to target you, Freckles?” He quirked a brow. “Like the thing in Vaelwick, I assume?”

Quinn went rigid for a moment. With a tight smile, she shook her head. “Probably just bad luck.”

Garrick hummed, unconvinced, and flicked his gaze in my direction. I gritted my teeth. It wasn’t bad luck, and she damn well knew it. Garrick propped his elbow on the table, rubbing his chin as he glanced between the two of us. “Alright,” he drawled, breaking the silence. “What happened in Vaelwick?”

I leaned back in my chair with a sigh. “What do you think happened?”

Garrick raised a brow. “Well, judging by the way she looks like she’s about to be sick, and you look ready to kill something, I’d say it wasn’t a pleasant stroll through the wheat fields.”

A wave of memories crashed into me. The way it slammed into us, sending Quinn barreling across the dirt, her body hitting the log with a thud, the frantic scramble. Running through the rotting wheat and woods as the ground lurched, bodies rose, each turning toward her. Ignoring me. How the thing in the field mimicked her scream.

How, for the first time in years, my chest seized.

Fear.

For her.

For the blood dripping from my hand, from her, warm and slick as I pulled her against me, as I tried to determine the severity of the wound. Fear for the way she reacted as her exhaustion and pain stole the fight out of her.

I forced myself to breathe while my fingers twitched against the grain of the table. Garrick’s smirk faltered. “Hey,” he said, gentler now. “I was just—”

“I don’t want to talk about Vaelwick,” Quinn cut in, her voice firm but quiet. Her hands trembled before she clenched them into fists.

Garrick’s brows furrowed. His usual teasing demeanor dropped. His gaze flickered to me, waiting for an explanation. I pushed my tongue against the inside of my teeth and sighed. “It was worse than this,” I muttered. “Much worse.”

Quinn swallowed hard, shoving her chair back as she stood. “I need air.”

Garrick stared after her until the door closed, then returned to me. “What happened to her, Sinclaire?”

GARRICK ECHOED ME in disbelief, “Necromancy?”

I nodded once. “It was something buried in the field.” My voice sounded tight, strangled. I swept a hand through my hair. “They were giving sacrifices. It was… too much.”

The weight of it pressed against me when the memories clawed their way to the surface. Every corpse had moved toward her as if they had known her, as though she were the reason they could move. I remember her eyes before she slammed into me. The thing in flames.

“And then Quinn…” The words caught in my throat. My hands curled into fists.

Her blood was on my hands. Her voice was hoarse with pain. The way she fucking looked at me, the way she flinched with her fists clenching the sheets as she yelled at me, at the physician—

“Fuck.”

I shoved myself up from the chair, unable to sit still anymore. The room felt cramped. The air was too heavy. Garrick observed me, pondering whatever sarcastic comment he wanted to say. He let out a low breath. “Saints, Sinclaire…”

My heart was still hammering. My muscles coiled tight as my mind replayed every second. I tried to push it away. The wood creaked when I pressed my palms against the windowsill and angled my body, slowing my breaths. My head was spinning, tangled in anger, frustration, and helplessness.

Until I looked out at the street.

Quinn stood near the edge of the market, flipping through her journal as someone walked toward her from the docks.

“Sina fucking fíriel.”

This fucking woman.

The words rumbled from my chest, burning through my teeth as I pushed off the window. Garrick’s chair scraped against the floor behind me when I yanked the door open, but I didn’t wait for him.

The hall blurred past me as I stormed down the stairs, boots striking the wooden planks with purpose. That bastard was too close. Too fucking confident. And Quinn wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe she was. She might have thought he was another harmless flirt.

My fists curled tighter.

By the time I reached the tavern door, my blood pounded in my ears, drowning out the surrounding chatter. I shoved it open and stepped into the street, my eyes locked on them. The arrogant half-elf had stopped a few feet from her, hands tucked into his pockets, head tilted like he was playing some charming fucking game. Quinn hadn’t looked up; she was too focused on her notes.

But he was staring at her as if he had every fucking right to. As if he knew something I didn’t. He used her to taunt me—to test me. My gut twisted. No. I refused to give him the chance.

His lips curled at the edges, amusement flickering in his gaze when he turned his head to look at me.

I was going to wipe that fucking smirk off his face.

The half-elf pulled a hand out of his pocket and spoke in a casual tone. “Still scribbling away, beautiful?” His fingers brushed against the small of her back, and Quinn winced.

The world tunneled until there was no thought, just instinct—pure, seething, and unrelenting rage. My hand landed on her arm as I grabbed Quinn and yanked her aside, pulling her just out of reach of his filthy fucking hands before my fist collided with his face. Bone crunched beneath my knuckles with a sickly satisfying sound. The bastard stumbled back as blood dripped from his nose. His hand shot up to clutch his face, eyes wide with shock.

I hoped it was broken.

Hells, I hoped I had shattered his entire fucking face.

A few villagers gasped. The surrounding market froze, and the hum of conversation ceased.

I took a step forward, towering over him as he steadied himself and spat a mouthful of blood onto the cobblestones. “Touch her again,” I growled, my voice low, guttural, and deadly. “And I’ll tear your fucking arm off.” His stunned expression flickered. His eyes darted to Quinn, then to me.

The bastard let out a hoarse laugh, blood still dripping from his nose as he wiped at it with the back of his hand. Mocking. “Didn’t think you’d be the jealous type, Fae,” he mused. His grin returned, despite the pain etched on his features.

I didn’t move. Didn’t so much as blink.

Because I wasn’t jealous, I was pissed . Pissed that he dared to touch her, that she had winced and still hadn’t stepped away from him, and that she had even let him get that close. My fists clenched at my sides, aching to finish what I started. To drive another hit into his smug fucking face and guarantee he never touched her again.