It took them one more full day to walk from the ruined village to the next one.

One more day of silver-black woods, strange moonlight trapped between branches, and paths that looked beautiful in the way poisoned things sometimes did. The fae realm still did not feel like a place made for human bones. Even with the whole family together again, even with the Deans loudly filling the air and Vlyluna occasionally threatening the trees just to keep the mood stable, the place still felt wrong.

But now it felt wrong in a quieter way.

Because word had clearly traveled.

By the time they reached the third village, the fae there were already waiting.

Not in a smug, theatrical, glittering-princess type of way like before.

No.

These ones looked like they had heard exactly what happened to the last village, heard what happened to the princess, heard about the Firstborn Mark, the ancient beings, the blood, the screaming, the humiliation, the house-to-house slaughter, and came to one very smart conclusion:

Do not be stupid.

The village itself looked like something dragged straight out of an old fairy tale painted by a man with too much imagination and not enough fear. Lanterns hung from pale branches. Delicate bridges curved over narrow streams that glowed softly under the dusk. Flowering vines climbed along ivory walls. Glass windows reflected moonlight in sheets of gold and pearl. Every house looked too perfect, too graceful, too lovely—

—but not a single fae dared act proud.

Not one.

They bowed.

Low.

Respectfully.

And quickly.

The eldest among them, a pale fae with silver hair braided down their back and dark green robes stitched with thread that shimmered like water, stepped forward and kept their eyes carefully lowered.

“The largest house in our village has been prepared,” they said, voice smooth and careful. “For the honored family… and their companions.”

Dean narrowed his eyes immediately. “Honored?”

“Yes.”