The Fae points one long, pale finger at the Wand. “The people of this land were fractured before the Branch gained power. They forgot the truth of the Source Tree at the center of their faiths and worshipped the fractured edges instead. They forgot their tether to the natural world.” The demon’s nostrils flare. “They separated themselves into factions and then—” he glances warily at Vogel “—the Keltish forces took up the Shadow Branch.”

“And?” Vogel asks, his gaze locked on the Wand.

The Death Fae narrows his eyes at the Wand, as well. “The Branch doubled in power as it fed on the people’s disharmony. They fought one another even more intensely as the Shadow sent its power into the natural world, poisoning the water. Corrupting the air. Strangling the trees. Bleeding color from the world and sending Shadow over everything. And while the people were fighting each other, the natural world unraveled like strings beneath their feet.” The Death Fae stills, tears sheening his eyes. “And then it died.”

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.

Vogel resumes studying the Wand as the demon gasps and writhes, an expression of pure agony on his face.

“We are not Evil Ones,” Vogel says, his voice almost gentle. “We are the Blessed First Children of the Pure and Holy Magedom. I was warned of your presence here in a vision. The blade is solid iron. You are destroyed in the name of the Ancient One on High.”

The demon’s horns once again draw in and the whites of his eyes return. His tongue retracts into his mouth, all arms vanishing but two.

He sets his devastated eyes on Alaric. “This is how it starts,” he rasps. “You’re doomed if you let him take that Wand back. You’ll turn where you’re going into this.” He motions wildly toward the world above. “And the end will be the End...”

A dark vine-bolt collides with the Death Fae, and Alaric flinches, a gasp tearing from the Fae as the vine drives the iron blade deeper. Lateral branches of shadowy smoke burst from the blade, winding around the Fae.

Alaric whips his head toward Vogel to find him pointing the Shadow Wand at the Fae. The Death Fae gasps again, and Alaric turns in time to catch his impassioned look of warning before the Fae’s eyes turn blank.

Alaric can barely move, barely breathe, as the demon’s body dissolves, morphing into thick, curling black smoke that rises into the air then vanishes. Alaric hesitantly looks to Vogel, his mentor’s eyes flashing like silver fire.

“It will take time to learn how to destroy this Wand,” Vogel says, low and firm. “Until then, it is best to say it was obliterated.”

Alaric nods shakily. Of course, they should keep it secret, this Wand that is supposedly impossible to destroy. And, of course, Vogel should be the one to take hold of it and work out how to obliterate it, as no Mage is as pure as him.

For a moment, Vogel studies Alaric and Alaric can feel that silvered gaze straight down his spine. Then Vogel slides the Wand under his cloak, raises his hands, and calmly performs the Exorcism of the Demonic. Alaric forces himself to echo the prayer’s words, but he finds that his gaze is pulled, relentlessly, toward where the Shadow Wand is now concealed.

As they sail away from the continent, color returns to their world.

The Mage crew begins to compose ballads about their journey. They sing of Vogel’s defeat of the Death Fae. How he destroyed the Wand of Shadow power before the Evil Ones could take possession of it. And how they have only to find the Ancient One’s Blessed Wand of Myth to complete their sacred quest.

Alaric’s hands clutch the stern’s railing as he looks west, his brow knotted.

The horizon stares back in an unbroken line, a brilliant, multihued sunset hanging above it. There was a sunset like this one when they set out, Alaric recalls, spilling over every color imaginable. Alaric’s light magery frenzied and he struggled to beat back his reflexive joy in seeing sacred and profane hues so confusingly blended. Just like everything seems disturbingly mixed up in him right now. He watches the unsettlingly beautiful sunset, unable to shake the dread fixed in him like a stone wedged deep in his core.

“A blessed evening to you, Mage.”

Alaric startles at the resonant voice as Vogel joins him, his expression serene. Excitements sparks in Alaric over finding himself alone in his mentor’s charismatic, trusted presence, but is quickly dampened. He can’t help it. His eyes flick warily toward the outline of the Wand sheathed under Vogel’s cloak.

Struggling to suppress his unease, Alaric gives the expected, polite response. “May you be blessed by the Ancient One’s Holy Light.” He glances again toward the Wand, and can see, by the flick of Vogel’s own gaze, that his mentor has noticed him noticing.