He grows silent, and when he speaks again, his voice has a rougher, more resonant edge. “Soon, they were fighting over food. Over the remaining water. Clinging to their religions’ stories of the End Times. They tried to hoard what they had and not share it. And all the while, the Shadow advanced.” His gaze turns imploring, and the blazing sincerity in it upends Alaric, because, in this moment, the Death Fae doesn’t look like an Evil One at all—he looks like a scared young man genuinely trying to impart a dire warning.

“Beware of its power, Dryadin,” the Death Fae pleads. “Devote your lives to keeping anyone from wielding it. Or what has come to pass here will transpire over all of Erthia.”

The demon looks at Alaric, and the level of stark urgency in his eyes sends another tremor of fright through the priest-apprentice. “Have you taken up the Great Wand of Myth?” he presses. “The Branch of the First Tree? It has spoken to me through dreams.”

Protest rears up in Alaric to hear a Death Fae speaking of the Ancient One’s Sacred Wand, but Vogel remains impressively calm in the face of such sacrilege.

“Of course,” Vogel assures the demon, clearly placating the creature.

“The greening of the Branch of the First Great Tree is the last hope to bring Balance back to Erthia,” the Death Fae insists. He steps toward a bookshelf and pulls what looks like a thick handwritten journal from it. “I’ve made records of what happened here,” he says, seeming in this bizarre moment more a scholar of history than a cursed demon. “Take the story back with you,” he says, pulling out one journal after another, “and tell it to all so that it doesn’t happen again.” He levels his dark gaze at Vogel and Alaric both. “The Shadow wants to consume all of Erthia. Don’t let it. Protect the Balance.” He resumes piling up journals as Vogel reaches across the table and takes the Shadow Wand in hand.

Alaric’s breath pauses, his every muscle going rigid. Shadow curls up and around Vogel’s arm as he looks the Wand over with calm curiosity.

The Death Fae turns and freezes.

“We are not Dryadin,” Vogel says softly.

The Death Fae’s face tightens in confusion. “What?”

Fast as lightning, Vogel draws his iron blade and hurls it across the table. The knife slams into the demon’s chest, a look of shock passing over the young man’s face as he falls to the ground, the journal thudding against stone. Horns curl up from his hair, his claws lengthening while his eyes darken and take on a look of fury as a long, black tongue darts from his mouth, flicking and lashing. Multiple arms burst from his body, scrabbling toward the knife only to bang helplessly around the iron weapon, as if stopped by an invisible shield.