Nyhm watched his brother disappear through a side door, led by a quick-footed brownie with oversized ears. Thea followed the Countess in the opposite direction, her elegant silhouette soon swallowed by the corridor’s gloom. And then he was alone, still holding the bottle of starberry wine like he wasn’t quite sure what it was doing in his hand.

  The dining hall now stood silent and cavernous, and Nyhm felt very small beneath the dusty chandeliers. The scent of spiced meats and overripe fruit clung to the air, the ghost of a feast already fading. He didn't like this place, and longed to be back in the wilderness on a [Quest] with his friends. Everything had become so complicated so fast.

  A door swung open near the back wall, the one he'd seen the servants use earlier. From it emerged a creature who was roughly Nyhm’s height, though that was about where the similarities ended. Its limbs were long and spindly, and its head was unmistakably toad-like, complete with a trembling, bulbous throat sac. A stained white tunic clung to his narrow frame beneath a tall, lopsided chef’s hat. It marched across the room muttering in a gravelly voice, only to stop mid-step when it spotted Nyhm.

  The creature’s throat pulsed.

  “Are you one of the mortal nobles?” it croaked.

  Nyhm shrugged, not really wanting to claim the title but unwilling to lie for no good reason.

  “Yeah, Nyhm. Lord Nyhm , I guess.”

  The creature squinted at him, taking in his tattooed skin, scruffy tunic, and tangled top knot.

  “Don’t look like much of a noble, my lord. What kind of mortal are you, if I might ask?”

  “Elfling,” Nyhm said, then narrowed his eyes. “What kind of fae are you?”

  “Bogle,” the creature replied with a toothy grin. “What you got there?”

  Nyhm blinked, then looked down at the bottle still in his hand and held it up.

  “Starberry wine.”

  The bogle’s eyes lit up with sudden interest.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Made it.”

  A wide grin stretched across the bogle’s broad face.

  “You just became a lot more interesting, my lord. Name’s Gabblethorn, but most call me Gabble. Where’d a mortal learn to make starberry wine?”

  “A pixie.”

  Gabble immediately spat a thick, revolting glob onto the stone floor.

  “Pixies. Horrible creatures. I don’t suppose it taught you to make echoflower serum?”

  “No. What does that do?”

  “Let’s you relive a day that has long past. In your head, at least,” Gabble said, eyes glittering. “Very popular among the long lived. You’d make a decent pile of gold peddling that around here. What else can you brew?”

  Nyhm shrugged. His repertoire wasn’t exactly impressive, and most of what he could make wasn’t especially rare. Not unless you counted the strange concoctions Zinny had shown him.

  “Lesser healing and stamina potions. A calming tea. Poison antidote. I’m working on a few more, but they’re not quite ready. Another fae drink called lilt of the lark. Supposed to make your voice beautiful unless you lie, then your entire voice vanishes until it wears off.”

  Zinny had taught him several more, like nightpetal tea for darksight in case they needed it in the tower, but Nyhm didn’t want to put all of his cards on the table.

  Gabble let out a barking laugh and clapped a pale green hand on Nyhm’s shoulder. Nyhm had to consciously stop himself from defensively slapping the hand away before it landed. If they were going to run afoul of fae etiquette, he didn't want to be the one who got them in trouble. That was Raith's job.

  “Well now, I think we definitely have room for a trade. Come, my lord. Let’s talk like proper craftsman.”

  He led Nyhm through a warped archway into the castle’s kitchens, a sprawling, cluttered space alive with steam and strange scents. Unseelie staff bustled about, mostly brownies and bogles, but a few mortals, as well. Odd folk, but no one felt overtly threatening. He'd kept company with plenty worse in the pits.

  At first, things went well. Gabble showed him odd ingredients. Some sort of blue moss that hissed when touched, a black crystalline substance the bogle called 'sugar' but reeked of swamp muck, spices stored in floating orbs. They discussed recipes, argued over brewing temperatures, and even laughed a little, though Nyhm noted that none of the staff around them ever smiled for long.

  Then came the challenge. Thea had warned them about this sort of thing, but the entire affair crept up and took him by surprise.

  It started innocently. A proposed exchange of creations. Nyhm would eat something Gabble made, and Gabble would eat something of his in turn. A show of good faith, he’d called it. A bit of fun.

  It wasn’t.

  Gabble brought out a wooden board stacked with black pudding that steamed faintly in the warm air.

  “Made this from bloodroot, smoked beetles, and a dash of old sorrow,” the bogle announced proudly. “A delicacy back home.”

  Nyhm hesitated. The pudding writhed slightly. It smelled like wet ashes and vinegar. Around them, the other Unseelie kitchen staff had begun to gather. Silent, watchful, and amused.

  Faerie concoctions, Nyhm had learned, always had a price. Even the most wondrous draughts came with barbs hidden beneath their sweetness. That was the nature of Seelie alchemy. But Unseelie brews…they tended to skip the gift entirely and piled horror upon horror, as if cruelty were the only flavor worth savoring.

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  He took a bite.

  Instantly, his tongue recoiled. The flavor was a cascade of nightmares. Rot layered over bitterness layered over something that tasted like mold. A deep, vibrating nausea clenched his stomach, and his vision danced at the edges. Whatever it was, it wasn’t food. Not to mortals, anyway.

  The kitchens blurred, and Nyhm doubled over, gasping as a chill crept down his spine.

  Gabble’s laughter echoed through the smoky air, joined by a few muttered chuckles from the staff. It hadn’t been a friendly game, it had been a test.

  A cruel one.

  Only [Greater Poison Resistance] saved him from this vile cuisine Gabble had given him. Without it he might have died. It was a sobering reminder that the bugbears were kin to these Unseelie fae, and he cursed himself for not remembering that sooner.

  “Still standing? Hah! Impressive, for a mortal!”

  A hunched woman with crooked teeth clapped slowly, but her smile held no humor.

  “Your turn, elfling,” she rasped. “What will you serve the court?”

  Nyhm wiped his mouth, coughing. His first instinct was to refuse, but that would only confirm their mockery and could invite even more trouble.

  So instead, he stepped forward, eyes gleaming. He recalled the fierce pride he'd felt when Abbot Tukes pronounced his first successful potion. Nyhm wouldn't let his mentor down, and knew just the concoction to brew for this occasion.

  Never thought I'd be saying this, but thank you Zinny.

  “I’ll require ingredients from my pack, which is up in my room."

  Gabblethorn nodded to a wispy, shadowy creature in chef's attire who sped off faster than Nyhm's eyes could follow, not using the door but seeming to disappear into the shadows like their assassin had done. It returned only moments later with the drakehide pack his grandfather had given him. Nyhm took it with a nod.

  "Now I just need a workspace. And silence.”

  To his surprise, they obeyed. Partly curious, partly enjoying the idea that he might embarrass himself further.

  He worked quickly.

  From his herbalist's kit, he withdrew small bundles from the array of ingredients he's purchased so impulsively, along with a few he'd collected at Zinny's obnoxious insistence. Moonpetals preserved in salt wax, vinegar distilled through elderthorn, dried chimeflower, a tiny drop of bitter mint essence. While he brewed, the Unseelie whispered and snickered, but their amusement faded as the scent began to fill the air.

  It was sweet. Too sweet.

  Saccharine in the most cloying way, like a memory of innocence someone tried to embalm. Nyhm’s concoction shimmered faintly in the dim light, its color a soft pinkish cream.

  He poured the blend into a small glass cup and turned toward Gabble.

  “Try it.”

  The bogle’s nose wrinkled.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s called Pixie’s Mercy,” Nyhm said evenly. “A drink for unearthing the joy buried in the depths of sorrow.”

  Gabble looked horrified.

  “You expect me to drink feelings?”

  A bystander leaned closer and sniffed, then recoiled as if slapped.

  “It smells like love.”

  Another bogle, long-limbed, in a filthy butler’s uniform, let out a barking laugh.

  “You brewed a Seelie cordial?”

  Nyhm smiled, slow and dangerous, baring the tattoos on his gums. Gabble recoiled, then eyed the cup like it might explode.

  “I tried yours. Do you decline?”

  The pressure of the crowd shifted. The fae around them leaned forward, watching with predatory amusement. But now it was Gabble in their sights. The bogle scowled, then grimaced, then snatched the cup and threw it back in a single gulp.

  He gagged, already bulbous eyes bulging to the point Nyhm feared they may pop out. His spine straightened like a rod had been rammed into it, and his face twisted in pure, unfiltered disgust.

  “It tastes like wedding vows,” he choked, clutching his throat.

  A ripple of laughter spread through the gathered fae. Even the cold eyed cook cracked a grin.

  Gabble wheezed, blinked tears from his eyes as he leaned heavily on the counter, and gave Nyhm a sidelong look.

  The crowd began to disperse, muttering approval. The kitchen returned to its chaotic rhythm, but the air had shifted, sidelong glances lingering on him, dark and curious. For the first time since entering the Unseelie kitchen, Nyhm felt the weight of their gazes ease. Not because he belonged, but because he had proven himself strange enough to be interesting.

  “You showed craft,” the bogle growled. “And cruelty, wrapped in kindness. That earns a gift.”

  Nyhm didn't feel like that was a compliment he was especially proud receive, but was happy to make it through this ordeal in one piece and curious what the fae intended as a gift.

  Gabble climbed onto the counter to reach a high cabinet, covered in dust from disuse. After retrieving his prize, he clambered down and set a thin clay jar onto the counter between them. It was stoppered with wax, its surface etched with thorn scratches in spiraling script.

  Nyhm studied the jar.

  “What is it?”

  “Gleamhoney. From the dreaming hives beneath the Hill of Lost Candles. The honey is alive with possibility, and each batch is unique. Blended one way, it steals something. Blended another…” He smiled with sharp teeth. “It gives you more than you had before.”

  He picked up the jar carefully. The wax was warm to the touch, and he felt a distant hum beneath it. Like a hive breathing behind glass. He wasn’t sure if it was a gift, a dare, or a trap.

  Probably all three. Thea might be able to help him figure out what to do with it. Or Zinny, if they ever saw her again. It only now occurred to him Thea would be furious when she found out he'd been fool enough to get tricked into a competition with the Unseelie.

  Someone cleared their throat behind him, and Nyhm turned to find a young human butler standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Forgive me, my lord. But Countess Selene is requesting your presence in her chambers.”

  This elicited a chorus of ‘oooo’s and laughter, causing Nyhm to blush furiously. Defending himself would only make it worse, so he silently followed the servant from the room and back to the guest quarters.

  He hadn’t forgotten the way Thea looked walking beside the sidhe Countess. Small and shadowed. And he hadn’t missed how the air bent ever so slightly around Selene, some ripple of her dreaming magic that seemed to perturb reality itself. Even more than the laughable notion that he was somehow now a noble, the idea that he might belong in the company of such a being was beyond absurd.

  As he stepped into the Countess’s chambers, he saw crystals on the bedside table pulsing like slow heartbeats, and the scent of crushed flowers hung in the air, faint but persistent. Selene stood by the arched window, her silhouette framed by a spill of sunlight. She turned when he entered, expression unreadable but calm.

  “Ah, Nyhm. Come in, please. I wished to see you before the mission had begun.”

  He bowed awkwardly, unsure of the protocol. Unsure if protocol even mattered.

  “I’m honored, Countess. Though I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your attention.”

  She tilted her head, a faint smile on her lips.

  “You have offered your assistance, and must receive an equal measure. Sit.”

  She gestured towards the sitting area and took a seat herself. Nyhm obeyed, careful not to fidget beneath her gaze.

  From beside her, Selene retrieved a long, velvet-wrapped bundle. She laid it on the table with the reverence of an offering. When she unwrapped the cloth, a pair of leather bracers emerged. Dark as mahogany, etched with knotwork so fine it seemed to shift subtly under the eye. Embedded in each was a single azure stone, smooth and smoky, like the surface of a deep well.

  “These are called Fangreach,” she said. “Crafted from the hide of a darrowbeast and stitched in the moonlight. When worn, they allow your blows to reach outward. To strike as though your fists were twenty feet longer than your arms. Not always, just once every thirty heartbeats. You will also find them quite effective to fend against blows, as they cannot be cut by any but the most powerful blades.”

  Nyhm’s mouth opened, then closed again. He reached out as if afraid the bracers might vanish.

  “Why…why would you give me something like this?” he asked, voice low. “I’m not…I mean, I’m not exactly a knight or a hero.”

  Selene’s eyes softened.

  “I’ve found those who feel unworthy of gifts are often the ones most suited to carry them.”

  He swallowed hard, the weight of her words far heavier than the bracers themselves. His fingers brushed the leather, and he felt a readiness stir in them. Some quiet thrill of motion yet to be made.

  He slipped the bracers on. They fit like they had been made for him.

  “Thank you,” he said at last. “I won’t waste your gift.”

  “I know,” Selene replied.