Perry stood at the crossroads, studying the paths. Behind them lay the Slough. Ahead the road widened and curved gently left. To the right, a narrower trail rose toward Sinai—the path Mr. Worldly Wiseman had taken back to Morality. Perry extended his hand to Eva.
Eva pointed to a cloud drifting overhead. “Look,” she said. “He waited for us.”
Before them lay a faint trail—barely visible, but there. This was the way the Bear was leading. With her free hand, Eva brushed aside a cobweb stretched between two trees, and with the other, gently drew Perry forward.
A brilliant light shone from a wall that stretched from mountain range to rocky outcropping. The Bear waited patiently above it.
“The Wicket Gate,” she said. “Mr. Wiseman would call it the way of fools. Tribulation. Peril. Persecution. Hunger. Nakedness. The sword.” She smiled slightly. “And it’s the way forward.”
Perry made out a small wooden gate set into the wall—aged timber, washed in the beacon’s glow. The wall ended at a sheer cliff face, barren but for wind-scoured grass and jagged rock. Atop it perched a castle of black stone, slick with old rain—and older blood. Its towers leaned slightly toward the Wicket Gate, as if keeping watch.
Wooden hoarding jutted from the parapets—temporary, ramshackle platforms lashed to the upper walls. Perry could feel them before he saw them—the goblin archers crouched in silence, waiting.
“I was never going to turn back here,” Eva muttered, glancing once at Perry. Come, if you are coming.
“And I was never going to leave your side,” he said—more to himself than to her.
The castle stood in absolute silence. No creak from the hoardings. No whisper from the towers. Only the shadows of drawn bows flickered.
Mud squelched beneath their boots. Somewhere in the stillness, a hound growled low. The air was taut—like the silence itself was waiting for permission to become violence.
Eva’s gaze lingered on the towers, on the unseen archers, then on the hound crouched in the grass. Her posture didn’t shift. Her hands didn’t tremble. She took a step forward.
“If I’m going to be shot,” she murmured, “let it be standing tall.” Each step forward was deliberate. Measured. Defiant.
The Bear watched over them, calm and steady, from above the Wicket Gate.
“Dread Lord Beelzebub demands your presence, Lady Evadne.” The voice rang out—cold and merciless.
A figure stepped from the shadows, cloaked in deep charcoal. Her hood shadowed eyes that glinted like molten brass. Veins of dull gold threaded her robes—cracks in the darkness, like lightning caught and frozen.
Around her neck hung a heavy key on a cord. Not decorative. Not symbolic. Functional. At her back, a scabbard, contents unseen. Her face was as cold as her voice—sharp-angled, with a beauty so terrible it could not be held. Or even admired.
Before Perry could blink, Eva dropped into a fighting stance, daggers already in her hands.
Perry reached into his satchel and withdrew a ring—gold, thick, and warm to the touch. It was encircled with a continuous inlay of lapis lazuli, deep blue and veined like a night sky caught in stone.
The Author had given it to him while Eva slept in the thicket. He’d said something Perry hadn’t quite understood—about deus ex machina, and someone named Chekhov. But he’d said Perry would need it. And that he’d know when. Perry was sure this was the when.
His grip on the staff eased—just slightly. “Lady Evadne,” he said—quiet, steady—as he stepped in front of Eva. Or so he hoped he sounded.
Eva stood tall again, her daggers vanished to wherever they’d come from. Her jaw tightened, her voice low. “I’ve heard of her,” she said. “The one who writes the names. Keeps the debts. Locks the doors.” She tilted her head slightly. “If I refuse, she’ll follow. If I go, she’ll try to keep me.”
She exhaled—just once. Not in fear, but in resolve. Then she stepped forward and stood next to Perry.
“I’ll go,” she said at last. “But not because Beelzebub”—her voice dropped—“or Alecto demands it.”
Alecto stepped forward, her cloak whispering over the grass. The hound at her side didn’t flinch. Didn’t growl. From the shadows behind her, Alecto’s sisters emerged.
“The Furies,” Eva whispered. “Alecto. Tisiphone. Megaera.”
Tisiphone was robed in red so dark it nearly bled into black. Her eyes were rimmed in ash, her mouth set in perpetual judgement. She carried an unlit brand that smoked faintly, the scent of scorched justice trailing her like a veil.
Megaera was the smallest of the three. Her bare arms were knotted with cords—names once whispered in rage. She carried a dagger carved from a single ivory tooth. Her smile was a crack in porcelain.
They did not speak. Instead, they walked a slow arc around Perry and Eva. Not touching or threatening. Just seeing.
Alecto raised her voice—flat and precise. “The Lady Evadne and her companion. By command of Dread Lord Beelzebub.”
With that, the three Furies turned and led the way.
