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“My darling—” Laurel gave him a wry smile. “I cannot tell you everything.”

Oleander choked out a bitter laugh. The wind picked up, howling around them with a terrifying force. In the middle of the whirlwind she pulled him into an embrace so tight he couldn’t breathe. Her arms were warm and strong and for the first time in his life, Oleander was held by his mother.

Laurel’s gaze shifted, becoming unfocused. Her eyes began to glow, a pure white that shone like twin stars.

She grabbed his face, her nails transforming into sharp claws, digging into his skin. The emptiness inside him—the hollow place left by the shadow—was slowly filled with a golden warmth.

If he had been the sentimental type, he might have called it love. But Oleander knew better. It was something else. A gift, perhaps. The power of a mother to her last-born son.

Golden blood leaked from his nose and eyes, but Laurel did not loosen her grip. “There,” she murmured. “I haven’t been much of a mother to you. But I can at least give you this. The power of retribution, for when you need it most.”

She released him. Oleander staggered backward, blood and tears mixing in a disorienting haze. He stared at her—at his mother, a demoness mocked for years and now fully unleashed. Powerful.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Hemlock entered, his relief palpable, unrestrained. He ran to Laurel and wrapped his arms around her, sobbing quietly. The moments stretched, each one heavy with unspoken emotion.

When Hemlock finally stepped back, Laurel signed. >I’m afraid this is farewell for now. I no longer belong to Hell only, and there are many things I must do.You’ll see me again soon. But I promise, when you call for me, I’ll come.I’m proud of who you’ve become.I’m so tired.You always were the weakest sibling.I have to take this to Wisteria.I’m going with you, at least part of the way. But first, let's get you cleaned and fed.<

Oleander’s stomach growled in agreement.

The brothers finally found Wisteria’s tree after hours of searching around the lake. The enchantments that had created the immense rooms for the festivities were gone, leaving the lake a quiet, empty space. Now, if he wanted to reach her, Oleander would have to get creative.

After bargaining away a year’s worth of past dreams, the water spirits agreed to help. They offered temporary gills and webbed feet, and Oleander gratefully accepted.

As the magic settled over him, he barely had time to remove his shoes before diving into the water. He floundered at first but soon found his rhythm, swimming with his new, unfamiliar body. The sensation of breathing underwater was strange, but it came with an odd bonus—he could smell it too. The closer he swam toward Wisteria’s tree, the stronger the floral scent became.

The entire body of water seemed to carry her presence. Even submerged as a tree, Wisteria could not be ignored.

When he arrived at the tree, Oleander floated around awkwardly before finally pulling himself onto one of its branches. Flowers, once still, brushed against his cheek in a soft caress.

He rested his head against the trunk, feeling the hum of life through the bark. Bubbles escaped from his lips as he asked, “What should I do now?”

Realistically, leaves couldn’t rustle in the depths of a lake, but somehow, they did. He held out the opal, now carved with a rune Hemlock had etched into it. Focusing all his intentions on seeing Wisteria, he carefully brought out the paste—rosemary and mugwort, tenderly harvested and mixed with a drop of hope from a nearly empty flask that his family had safeguarded for generations, along with droplets of Hemlock’s, Oleander’s, and Wisteria’s blood.

Wisteria had kept a tiny vial of her blood under stasis for years, forgotten. Now it was possibly the key to reaching her. Before it could dissolve in the water, Oleander mashed the paste into the bark of the underwater tree and laid the opal on top.