Page 87 of The Crimson Throne
Not wrong. Nothingfeelswrong.
Justdifferent.
Alyth leans forward, continuing the path into the bog—
Only in a flash, a push and then pull of ether rippling, she’s gone.
I pride myself on thinking, then reacting. On planning, then doing.
But in that moment, I’m all reaction, and her warnings of the wisps and bloodthirsty fae go right out of my head. I lurch forward, panic burning hot in my veins, hands extended, throat scraping on her shouted name: “Alyth—”
A gust of wind billows around me, tugging at my clothes like crooked fingers.
All that passes is a blink. A single snatched moment, and the world changes.
The bog’s gone. The chilly winter air, the desolate, wild landscape. It’s gone.
Alyth’s in front of me again, but she’s standing in a…market?
I’m so relieved to see her that it gushes up through me, but it goes to a static pause as I see again where she’s standing. Where we’re standing.
My brain’s scrambling so hard to catch up that I only gawk, hands splayed in the motion of reaching for Alyth, all my body gone to rigid iron save for my eyes, which dart back and forth, up and down, seeing, not believing.
Stalls line a dirt path that twists ahead, and part of me might think I landed somewhere in London if not for that off feeling that permeatesthe air here. The stalls, the road, hell, even the sky above all have a slight twist of different to them, that same itching sensation as before, that something’s just a little too tilted to be right.
The fabrics of the stalls are all vibrant shades that make my eyes ache to look at, magenta and gold and night-sky onyx, with wares that seem ordinary at first. Pots and vases, jewelry and clothes, but—they glow. They glow the way those Red Cap weapons do, and that’s what’s so off with this place:
Everything’s glowing.
The stalls, the road. The sky’s a vivid, stunning blend of blue and purple and pink, locked in a swirling sunset smeared across the heavens. The wares, the people—
Not all people.
Some are human—enough. But others are short little things that scurry around, shouting out words I don’t understand, looking mostly like animals, only they walk on two legs, like Kitty. And they’re dressed in clothes, carrying bags and tools; one throws its head back in a boisterous laugh. They’re all shapes and sizes and colors, and soft glows of magic emanate out of some, palest orange and faint eggshell blue.
The air smells of the best baked goods, sweetness and flour and cream, and I stand here in the mix of it all, my jaw dropped.
Did I die?
This is the afterlife somehow. The wisp led me into peat, and I suffocated, and now—
Alyth puts her hands on my face, making me look at her.
I snatch her arms and pat all down her sides, looking for wounds, looking for—I don’t even know. She’s here and she’s solid, and I don’t know what in the blazes is happening.
“You’re all right?” I ask. “The wisp didn’t hurt you?”
She smiles. It settles me, because if she’s smiling, things really are all right.
“I’m fine,” she says. Her brows pinch together, but her smile stays, giving her a look of cautious wonder. “Are you?”
“Am I—” My mind races. We’re all right. Alyth’s all right. The wisp was leading us—
“The witch?” I look around again, but I don’t see anyone who looks much like a witch. There are just sellers and buyers. The stall nearest us is hawking bottles of what looks like wine, pouring out a stream of deep maroon liquid for a customer.
The liquidsparks, pops, and fizzes like lightning, and I gape again.
“No,” Alyth says, and it takes me a beat to remember what I even asked.
