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I bristle at being referred to as the mercenary, but I hold my tongue. I was the first to point out the money Elionn still owes me.

Thalindor draws his blade, the metal catching the mirror’s glow and holding it. Without hesitation, he steps through the liquid surface, and the glass absorbs him without a sound.

Theron turns to me, his regal features composed but tight with strain. “Guard yourself, Amalia Wolf.”

“I always do,” I say, and step toward the rippling mirror.

I take a deep breath and reach out, fingertips touching the icy surface of the mirror, and step through.

The journey from Silver to Dark hurts far less than traversing from my world to the fae realm, but still leaves me stumbling and nauseous when I come out the other side.

I struggle to gain my bearings through blurred vision, identifying Thalindor as a blob of white in the shadowed woods. The moonstone burns white-hot for three heartbeats before cooling, the sudden shift from heat to cold sending shivers down my spine.

My boots sink into soft, rotten earth, and the stench of decomposition and a sweeter scent, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun, reaches me.

My stomach rolls, and when I steady myself with a hand on a tree trunk, my hand sinks into sticky purple, glowing sap.

“Do not touch the trees.” Thalindor appears at my side, pulling my hand away from the trunk. “Some secrete toxins that affect the mind.”

I wipe my palm on my pants. “Now you tell me.”

The forest around us bears only a passing resemblance to living woods. The trees lean at unnatural angles, their trunks twisted and knotted. Moss hangs from branches in long, stringy curtains, and the ground beneath our feet squelches with each step, releasing tiny puffs of spores that shimmer before fading into the gloom.

Theron pops into existence behind us, and I realize we had traveled through a murky puddle of mystery liquid. His transition is smooth, as if he walked through a doorway. No gasping, no disorientation, not even a hair out of place in his elaborate silver braids.

The difference between his passage and mine speaks volumes about the gap in our power.

He takes in our surroundings with narrow-eyed focus. “We need to move before someone senses our arrival.”

“Which way?” I squint into the gloom, every direction uninviting.

Thalindor points toward a narrow gap between two massive tree trunks. “The official border lies half a league in that direction, where the king’s road begins.”

“And we’re on the unofficial side because…?” I trail off, already knowing the answer.

“Because official channels have yielded nothing,” Theron whispers, the sound somehow carrying better in this thick air. “And we cannot assume Elionn’s disappearance lacked official sanction.”

Great. So we’re sneaking into another sithe’s territory while being expected. This gets better by the minute.

We move in formation, Thalindor leading, Theron in the middle, and I bring up the rear. Our footsteps make little sound on the spongy forest floor, but each time my boot sinks into the moss, it releases a faint phosphorescent glow that traces our path.

“Keep to the dryer patches.” Thalindor points to areas where the ground appears darker. “The luminescent spores can track movement for hours.”

I adjust my path, stepping where they step, placing my feet with more care. The leather of my boots offers some protection, but dampness seeps through, the chill spreading up from my soles.

Thorny vines snake across our path, their barbs catching at my pants. Each time I pull free, tiny tears appear in the fabric.

At this rate, I’ll be in rags before we reach any official road.

“The Dark fae value beauty,” Theron says softly from ahead of me, “but their definition differs from the other sithes. They find perfection in decay, in the moment between life and death.”

I peer back at him. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“It is context,” he replies. “When you see their city, remember that what appears broken may be intentional.”

The forest grows denser as we push forward. Branches hang lower, forcing us to duck and weave. The air thickens with spores and mist that cling to my skin. Breathing becomes an effort, each inhale dragging moisture into my lungs.

Thalindor moves with surprising grace for someone wearing armor, his feet finding solid ground where I see only muck and tangle. He pauses every so often, head tilted as if listening to a sound beyond my range of hearing.