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“The peace in the air,” he said. At her blank look, he shrugged. “This place remembers what towns like Hemridge have forgotten. This silence, this stillness... it’s what I long for the most, sometimes.”

“Do you know what I long for?” Willow asked. “A pillow. A nice soft feather pillow.” She turned to Cole, hopeful. “Did you pack any pillows by chance?”

“Sorry, but no.” He arched his brows. “I can think of other ways to make you more comfortable if you’d like.”

“Dude,” she said, giving him a look.

“Worth a try.” He adopted such a hangdog look that Willow’s lips twitched despite herself. A grin broke across Cole’s face, and Willow reached over to swat him.

He caught her wrist before she could pull away. Their eyes met, and the firelight picked out the edge of his jaw and the hollow of his throat.

Abruptly, Willow stood up. “It’s late. I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

Cole settled back on the stump, his weight on his forearms. “Sweet dreams, princess.”

~

By the time they reached World’s End, Willow’s eyes were gritty and her vision blurred at the edges. They’d walked the last two hours on foot, barely managing to keep track of a goat path that kept vanishing into fog.

Now, at last, something that hinted at human habitation came into view—a smattering of cabins and low houses crammed into a valley so narrow that it felt very much like the end of the world.

Willow exhaled, giddy with relief. She turned to Cole and, before she could think better of it, looped her arms around his neck and sagged against him.

“We’re here,” she said. She lifted her face. “Cole, we’re finally here!”

“Yes, and now the hard part begins.” His thumb moved along her cheekbone with a softness that startled her. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Willow flushed and stepped back, arms falling to her sides. “You know I am. More than ever.”

His mouth tightened. “Of course, for it is fated. Your precious Serrin awaits.”

“On the map, it says to find someone called ‘Old Nail,’” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Then let’s find Old Nail.”

“For it is fated?” Willow asked.

Cole gave her a grudging smile and offered her his arm.

“Sure. Whatever you say. But stick with me, Willow. I know you’re a fierce little heroine who doesn’t need anyone—and certainly not her mortal companion—but this place?

” He tipped his chin toward the row of houses.

“The men here would sooner rob a lady of her innocence than her purse, though they’re likely to attempt both.

Humor me, and let them imagine you’re under a gentleman’s protection. ”

Her mind flashed to Mr. Chapman, and she wished he were here, just for the pleasure of seeing Cole take him on. Then, to keep Cole from knowing how much she actually appreciated his gallantry, she rolled her eyes and said, “Please. You’re no gentleman.”

“And you’re no lady, so we’re perfectly matched.”

She stuck out her tongue at him but slipped her arm through his.

Cole asked a woman with no teeth if she knew where to find Old Nail, and she smiled a gummy smile, unexpectedly sweet, and pointed them toward a tangle of rhododendron and laurel.

“Through them bushes and then down, down, down,” the woman said. “Just keep going down, love. You’ll get where you’re headed.”

They pushed through the laurel shrubs, ducking beneath moss-slicked branches and clambering over roots as thick as Willow’s thigh. The trail they found themselves on was narrow and muddy, and it did wind down and down and down.

“Are you sure this is the way?” Willow asked, panting slightly.

“No,” Cole said cheerfully, pushing aside a curtain of vines. “But it’s a way.”

At last, they found themselves staring into a narrow gully choked with brambles. At the far end, a stone footpath beckoned. The footpath took them to a bowl-shaped clearing ringed with boulders, where the air was damp and cold.

At the far end of the clearing was a slanted wooden door wedged into the rock wall. It groaned when Cole pulled it open. Cool air spilled out, and Willow hesitated at the threshold.

“Coming?” he asked.

She followed him down a narrow stairwell made of stone, the air growing colder with each step. They passed into a tunnel so tight she had to turn sideways in places. The rock on either side of them glinted with mica.

At last, they stepped into a chamber carved directly into the bedrock.

At the center of the room sat a man—broad-shouldered and bent-backed, with leathery skin and eyes like storm glass.

He wore old work pants tucked into boots caked with red clay.

A button-down shirt strained across his belly, sleeves rolled, arms corded with wiry strength.

He sat behind a slab of polished wood that might’ve once been a church altar, its surface covered in old ledgers, bones, and tools Willow couldn’t name.

“So,” he said without rising, “you’re the girl.”

Willow stepped forward. “I’m here for the Box.”

The man—Old Nail—tilted his head. “It runs in your veins, then? The Old Blood?”

“I’m Wrenna Bratton’s descendant,” Willow said proudly. “The Box is my birthright.”

That earned her a slow blink. Old Nail sifted through the documents on his desk, his nails yellowed and thick like a horn. He found what he was looking for and pulled it front and center, stroking it as if it were a cat.

“The transfer and all its entailments, once made, cannot be reversed,” he said. His voice echoed off the damp stone walls. “Do you wish to proceed?”

“I do,” said Willow.

Old Nail inclined his head and pushed the document toward her.

Bill of Sale, she read. One (1) Queen’s Box. Caveat Emptor.

Caveat emptor—she knew what that meant from her father: “Buyer beware.”

Cole’s gaze met hers, and she felt his unspoken question: Are you sure?

Willow found the inkpot and drew it close. She dipped the nib of the iron quill, pressed ink to paper, and signed her name in full.

Old Nail chuckled, a dry rasp that cracked and folded into a cough. He brought a spotted hand to his chest and hacked. When he recovered, he leaned back in his chair and gestured into the shadows.

Two figures emerged from the dark.

The first—a woman—had hair so thick and tangled it looked like woven roots. The second—a man—bore a tattoo curling over half his face, its intricate design unreadable.

Together, they carried it forward and set it down with a heavy thunk: the Queen’s Box.