Just as Talia landed behind him with one knee to the floor, Gareth leapt over the split wood to snag the Gauntlet token out of the air. The light melted into his hands, enveloping his entire silhouette with a golden glow—and the words of acknowledgment fought their way out of my mouth.

“Second victory goes to House Blackmoore!”

21

This Will Always Be the Place

So that was a cluster,” Talia said into her arms.

The four of us were at the Shamrock Cauldron for an impromptu pity party the Monday after the challenge. Talia was downing drinks with grim efficiency, at a rate impressive even for her. Yet even facedown on the bar with her head pillowed on her forearms, she didn’t seem to be getting much drunker, as if her misery was somehow absorbing all that alcohol like a hollow limb. Compared to her, Rowan, Linden, and I were taking it relatively easy—though once he gathered that our collective funk was Gareth related, Morty had made sure to keep all our glasses full.

“You really tried, though,” Linden attempted, taking a stab at comforting. “Seriously, you both damn near crushed it. That’s gotta be worth something.”

Talia lifted her head long enough to stare at Linden with slit-eyed affront before dropping it back down.

“You know what Yoda said about trying,” she said, muffled. “It’s for fucking losers.”

“Okay, so, he did maybe say something like that,” Lin admitted, her brow wrinkling. “But I don’t think he meant it . . . exactly that way.”

“Weak, sis.” Rowan shrugged, tipping back his Dos Equis. “Let’s be real, that mess was not our finest hour.”

I stayed quiet, toying with the lime slice floating in my drink. Though all of us were despondent over this setback, I felt inordinately glum; not just overcast, but like it was maybe hailing in my soul. Some of it might have been just mantle withdrawal, but I was wallowing in existential angst much stickier and deeper than I’d experienced in years.

It made even Dead Fred look somehow dourer than usual, more “Abandon All Hope” than the cheerfully macabre YOLO vibe he usually exuded.

Why did I even care this much that Gareth would probably bring home the win, I wondered, holding the bobbing citrus slice under the surface with a fingertip. We’d known from the start that this was the likeliest outcome, and Talia and Rowan had even managed to get a little egg on Gareth’s face; more than we might have hoped for when we made the pact. And once this was all over, I’d disappear, headed safely back to my real life—and all of this would become just another unwelcome memory of Thistle Grove, lodged in my brain like a burr before it desiccated and fell away.

So why did that thought make me feel not better, but immeasurably worse?