Over the course of long and exhausting minutes, Hazel inched closer and closer to their target. They'd lost sight (and even scent) of Nok-Nok long ago, but they didn't mind. If one of them achieved their goal, that would be enough. They had settled on an owlbear screech as a sign of success. It wouldn't be very out of place here in the First World, and the goblin could imitate it surprisingly well.

  Darlac's offer to share her hideout with the team had been a life-saver for all of them. They could finally rest and recover in relative comfort and safety, with a reliable supply of drinking water (since Darlac hadn't exploded in six weeks, it was probably safe for consumption). Guelder's state had improved so much that Hazel felt comfortable leaving her behind and taking on this mission in preparation for their assault against the flower.

  It hadn't been difficult to find the campsite of the old gnome Darlac had mentioned. In fact, it was even a little too easy. He didn't have one single lantern against the mist but at least five identical ones, scattered at various points of his camp: one by the entrance of his vibrantly coloured tent, one by the firepit, enveloping the fawn rotating over the fire in its bluish light, the rest scattered around the perimeter. Surely he could do without one of those.

  The idea to steal the old gnome's lantern had come from Darlac, of all people. Falling from grace was apparently a slippery slope. They could simply have gone and asked the gnome if they could borrow his lantern for a while, as Linzi had suggested. But Darlac would have none of that. She'd even made Hazel and Nok-Nok repeat her mantra of never bargaining, eating or drinking with the fey. Sweet, silly child. She thought she knew everything about the denizens of the First World, just because she'd butted heads with them once and then avoided meeting them for six weeks. She wouldn't last more than a few days in the Embeth Forest. If not for her protective amulet that confused even her chaotic-aligned party members, the First World would have eaten her for breakfast on day one.

  Not that gnomes were fey, to Hazel's best knowledge. They did share some characteristics with fey, most of them being annoying, capricious and intolerant of boredom, but they very much belonged to the mortal plane. So perhaps a little bargaining would have been in order. But no, Darlac preferred stealing. One more week without her goddess, and she would suggest throttling the gnome in his sleep and making off with his lantern. Even worse, Guelder had sent her new bird friend with Hazel, asking it to alert her if they got into trouble. The bird was now perching on the tip of Hazel's right ear, as if it belonged there. Meanwhile, Guelder stayed back in camp and used her newfound poison immunity to make friends with the itsy-bitsy spiders dwelling in a bunch of dumpling-shaped puffball mushrooms near Fort Kyle, trying to organise her very own spider swarm. Hazel was somewhat relieved that they had this mission of utmost importance that led them far, far away from those mushrooms.

  The ranger shifted their weight, preparing to start another step. Somewhere behind the tent, something green darted from a big bush of pink sedge to a patch of purple fern. The old gnome was lounging in a foldable chair in front of his tent, his hat on his face, unsuspecting. Or maybe not. Hazel heard a raucous shriek, and something crashed, as if falling into a pit. It was most certainly Nok-Nok. His indignant cries soon became muffled. Hazel imagined him being wrapped into freshly shorn wool, some of it getting into his mouth and ears. Wonderful. Now they had to retrieve a lantern and free their companion. He was just too proficient with his kukris to simply leave behind.

  Guelder's account of her visions seen through the eyes of the mysterious little bird was thrumming in Hazel's head: the story of the Guardian of the Bloom, a nymph who'd pushed her limits too far and had been cursed for it by the Lantern King and other fey lords, bereft of her heart in punishment, and doomed to collect the debris of a thousand kingdoms she'd have to topple. Guelder could finally give an exact description of the Everblooming Flower, a giant, sprawling plant tweaked by someone named 'the Skylark,' the nymph's mysterious servant, into relentlessly producing those deadly seeds, defying the laws of nature (if such a thing even existed here). Darlac, who had seen the flower in action, had confirmed the description and claimed that she knew where to find it. The only thing they needed was a lantern to navigate the patches of treacherous blue mist (doubtlessly a kind of defensive mechanism around the murderous plant), which could randomly deflect them from their course, making them lose their way.

  Just about to lift a foot, slowly, muscle by muscle, Hazel felt something hard and sharp press against the small of their back. Somewhere to the right, they heard a crossbow being cocked. The old gnome sat upright in his chair.

  "Why don't you come closer, Hazel?"

  His voice was eerily, unpleasantly familiar.

  Eager to get away from the blade pointing at their kidney, Hazel tapped into the power of the storm, and rematerialised in front of the gnome in the chair. They froze in place and almost yelped in surprise, seeing the face of Professor Jubilost Narthropple look back at them above his glasses. As they cautiously peered back over their shoulder, they saw two more Jubilosts walk into the clearing, one armed with a pair of daggers, the other with a crossbow. In the next moment, however, there was only one of them, sitting in the chair.

  "Long time no see, apprentice. What's wrong? Dweomercat got your tongue?"

  Hazel's thoughts were frantically chasing each other. This could not be happening. They'd dug the grave for the Professor with their own hands, down by the sulphur-smelling waters of the river Skunk. And his glasses were somewhere on Hazel's desk. He couldn't possibly have risen from the dead and respawned in the First World... unless he was, indeed, a fey. And he definitely hadn't known any spell to multiply himself into a number of illusions material enough to wield weapons. Now, was Hazel supposed to play along? If they didn't want to, could they even hope for this person to show his real face?

  They decided to play safe.

  "Professor? But... you are dead, are you not?"

  "Hogwash! If that scoundrel Tartuk could come back to life and continue spoiling the fresh air of the Stolen Lands, why would I stay dead?"

  Hazel found themself sorely missing Jaethal and her professional opinion on this gnome. Also, they were fairly certain that the Professor had never met Guelder's mysterious gnome-to-kobold foe, unless Tartuk had been among the kobolds attacking his camp and massacring his companions. Not only was this person not the Professor, but he must have slipped up deliberately to make Hazel challenge him. What to do now?

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "Be that as it may, Professor," they ventured, "I am glad to see you alive. I did not expect to meet you here. Or anywhere, for that matter."

  "That brings us to an important question, young Stormwalker. What are you doing here? In the First World, and more specifically, sneaking around my humble camp?"

  "Actually," said Hazel, deploying their most disarming smile, "I and my little green friend, who may or may not have fallen into a pit somewhere nearby, were about to ask you if you could lend us one of your lanterns. The kind that makes it possible to walk through the blue mist without ending up somewhere you never intended to go."

  "Oh, that," chuckled the gnome. "But why the sneaking?"

  "Because..." Hazel scratched the back of their head. "Well, I understand there are quite a lot of monsters here. So many that they spill over to the mortal plane in the weirdest way. Through a flower, of all things."

  "Ah, so that's why I'm seeing so few manticores lately! Remarkable. Very remarkable."

  Hazel could hardly stop themself from groaning in frustration. Whoever this was, he was just as annoying as the Professor used to be, but much less helpful. At least, the real Jubilost Narthropple would have provided them with a healthy dose of infodumping, spruced up with well-placed insults. But this? This led nowhere.

  "Hear me out, Professor," they said. "You remember the baroness for whom I left your service? Well, her land has been flooded by monsters, arriving from the First World through portals opened from plant seeds inside people, and destroying said people in the process. Sorry if it sounds crazy or random. She, myself and our companions are here to put an end to this. Can you please help us? Firstly, by lending us a mistwalking lantern, and secondly, with any information we might find helpful? With special regard to the best way to destroy the flower for good?"

  "Ah... An employer for whom you feel more deeply than for the greatest mind on Golarion. The only person who actually matters for you."

  Blood rushed into Hazel's face. They didn't answer.

  "She claimed a land for herself, unaware of the burden she was taking on her shoulders, and now she fights and bleeds and struggles to keep her little sandcastle from being washed away by the tide. Do you know why that quaint swath of wilderness is called the Stolen Lands?"

  "I have been wondering myself," muttered the ranger.

  "Because it regularly gets stolen from those arrogant enough to think they can own it. Your baroness should know it best. She, too, stole the land from those who previously believed they held sway over it, and now it is being stolen from her, too. Perhaps along with her life. Unless, of course, she can outsmart an Eldest in training who has been specialising in kingdom thievery for millennia."

  An Eldest in training...

  Hazel racked their brain hard. Was Lady Bloom being punished for her arrogance, as Guelder said, or was she being groomed and cultivated for the role she'd craved to usurp? Was she being forcefully retrained from a largely benevolent, nature-related power into something more sinister? The First World didn't need a second Green Mother, but it could apparently accommodate someone willing and able to transform an innocuous flower into a destructive interplanar weapon. How would Guelder stop that? Was it even possible to stop that, or would she have to settle for a temporary solution and brace up for the next wave, and the next, and the next?

  "Can you help?" they asked softly. "Please?"

  "What are you willing to part with to see your beloved baroness succeed?"

  Hazel breathed deep in an effort to shut out the voice of a furious imaginary Darlac desperately trying to hold them back from what was to follow. Here they were, bargaining with this entity that was definitely not your average old gnome. Yet, any friend worth their salt would make a sacrifice in their place. If they loved Guelder as much as they thought they did, there was no room for hesitation.

  They met the gnome's eyes, now burning like two orbs of fire surrounded by mysterious runes behind his glasses. He was expecting an answer. Hazel tried to align their basically lawful brain to First World randomness and come up with a surprising, brilliant, creative offer that wouldn't ruin their life completely.

  "One of my socks," they said with a deadpan face.

  "Oh," said the gnome pensively, after a few moments of silence. "One half of a couple that belongs together, created for each other, destined to live happily ever after, till death do them part. An unexpectedly, valiantly generous offer. I accept it."

  Hazel looked at him with eyes widened in horror. But there was no time to dwell on the implications. The gnome jerked his head, and Hazel immediately knew what to do.

  Their unconscious steps took them to a large, smooth rock just outside the camp, similar to a dais. They settled down on it, sitting on their heels, holding the bird in their cupped hands, feeling its quick, frantic heartbeats through the feathers, just like their own pulse drumming in their ears. The place felt like an invisible prison, shackling them, pulling them down. Hazel didn't resist. Whatever they were going through now, they had to endure it for Guelder and her dream. For her sake, no sacrifice was too big, no burden too heavy.

  Something snapped inside Hazel. They couldn't tell what, but something was taken from them. A dream, a promise for the future, something worth to live for. They squeezed their eyes shut in agony, and clenched their teeth against the whimpers. Silent sobs shook their entire body. Then it was over, as suddenly as it came. Just a dull ache of loss remained.

  When they finally found the strength to open their eyes, they saw a handful of charred bones in their hands, where the bird used to be. The oppressive force field dissipated around the dais.

  "Poor little birdie," mused the gnome, chuckling to himself. "It will never fly again. Perhaps you won't, either. Hold onto those bones. Whatever gives life may be tainted by death and will bring destruction instead. Grab a lantern and your goblin, and get out of my sight. Farewell, Hazel Stormwalker. Let your unrequited love guide you."

  Hazel bowed their head in gratitude. Quickly, they swiped a lantern from the entrance of the tent, collected a dazed Nok-Nok from amidst the lush vegetation, threw him over their shoulder and scampered away, dignity be damned. The farther from this cosy little camp, the better. Once they were back in Fort Kyle, they would find some way to bandage the gaping void in their soul.

  Also, their left boot felt bloody uncomfortable.