The woman’s woeful gaze followed Ghent as he stood. Despite the tremble in his voice, her expression never wavered, making it impossible to read anything beyond the stain of grief. 
	She blinked slowly at his question. Around her, the whispering wisps darted near, then curled away, as if afraid to get too close. 
	“I am Smaya,” she answered, her voice even in its melancholy. “The guardian of Hollow Forest and those trapped in this between place.” The tips of her multi-colored hair wafted and curled in a phantom breeze. 
	A few more clouds of mist gathered as near to Ghent as they dared. Their forms condensed into vaguely human shapes. Some looked burly, others emaciated. Some crouched, sneaking closer to get a better look at the living boy in their midst. The closer they got, the more details became visible, and their hollow whispers grew louder.
	Leather and metal armor. Some wounded and bloody, others not. Most were men, with a couple weathered, warrior-looking females among them. Gnarled, scarred faces. Faces that looked intact, their expressions showing a mix of curiosity and anguish.
	Smaya lazily waved a hand in an arch in front of her. The spirits burst back into indistinct tendrils that slithered off to join the others swirling amidst the grayness.
	“You must excuse them,” she said through a mournful sigh. “It has been many years since a vinifcium last graced the Betwixt, let alone this prison.”
	In the spirits’ absence, flashes of color ghosted across the landscape. Snippets of translucent trees, plants, and earth faded in then out of existence. For a split second, the insubstantial form of Elayra flickered into sight a few feet from where Ghent stood. She leapt hastily forward, reaching out for what looked indistinctly like her sword, but before Ghent could make out more, she vanished inside more swirling fog.
	“Even those of us born of the Spiritayum have long awaited your return.” Smaya’s emerald eyes never strayed from Ghent. They sought out his as she continued. “On behalf of the Spiritayum and those trapped within the Betwixt, welcome home, young Madrail. Welcome to Wonderland.”

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	Movement from Drust caught Elayra’s eye. Without hesitation, she began to stand and reached for her saber, but she acted too late.
	Drust’s bound feet kicked her in the chest, making her tumble backwards. Winded, she struggled to suck in a breath for a precious moment as she scrambled to her feet.
	She spun to face Drust. Just enough light remained for her to make him out. He swiftly sat up and reached to pry his feet free. His angered snarls joined the distant shrieks and howls that had begun to echo through the trees.
	Elayra glanced between Drust and her saber still in the ground scarcely a foot from him. Taking a breath and hoping the Knight was too preoccupied with the cloak, she made a lunge for the sword with her better arm.
	Drust’s attention snapped toward her. In the instant it took for her to clear the space between them, Drust tucked his feet in and sprung for the sword. Or rather, Elayra.
	Her fingers centimeters from closing around the sword’s hilt, Drust slammed into her. She shouted in a mix of surprise and pain as they both toppled to the ground, her head just missing an elm tree. 
	He gripped her shoulders, simultaneously keeping himself up and pinning her down. His face hovered above hers, leering down at her. Though the falling night had drained the world’s colors, she could tell that little, if anything, of his pupils remained. The dark veins pulsated with a vengeance out from the corners of his eyes.
	“Such a stupid little [i]princess,[/i] aren’t you?” A gravely undertone saturated his voice. A shudder ran down Elayra’s spine.
	As she had predicted, Drust had woken up very much Curse-driven.