In Elytheum, no one ever has a hard time finding parking.

I’ve rounded the quiet streets surrounding the College of Hollisboro four times on my hunt, desperation growing with each circumnavigation—feeling probably much like Val when he knew Kethryn was captured within Nightfell’s walls with the hourglass running out on her life. Except, of course, for the smell of the “Cherry Evening” air freshener pervading the interior of my sister’s Prius.

When I finally find parking outside of one of the neighborhood’s overwhelmingly common frozen yogurt places, I’m frustrated. I hate being late. As a person, in fact, I define myself by my punctuality. If you’re late, you’re late. If you’re early . . . you’ve just given yourself extra time to read the book you have brought with you.

I have no book with me now. I’m late. Well, I remind myself, isn’t acting out of character the entire point?

Very out of character, honestly, except for where I’m going. The planner in me could hardly imagine how, fresh after dumping my now ex, Scott, ending the worst fight of our relationship in front of the elevator while my mean neighbor Rudy glared, I didn’t nestle myself into my pillows with my favorite Elytheum Courts chapters. Instead, I called Sarah, took NJ Transit to her condo, picked up her floral-scented Prius and drove eight hours into the wooded heart of North Carolina.

Why?

The Elytheum Experience.

I’ve wanted to go since the Experience was announced. I pretty much worship everything Heather Winters has ever written, essentially. For the past decade, while Elytheum Courts has grown into one of publishing’s most popular enduring successes, I’ve hung on to every word of the unfolding epic of warring Fae and mortals in the dark, magical, Regency-meets-medieval-derived realm of Elytheum—especially the forbidden love story of mortal Queen Kethryn and her Fey paramour, Lord Valance.

I’m not alone. Far, far from it. While Elytheum flourished, I found other fans online, at events and festivals, and eventually in my professional life, from my very first publishing assistant job coordinating calendars and helping project-manage to my present position in the publicity department of one of Parthenon’s commercial fiction imprints. I wake up every morning with videos of fan theories and funny reenactments of events from the series, and I procrastinate with Instagram feeds of fan art and character memes.

Which is why the Elytheum Experience is literally a dream made real. About a year ago, a few fans decided they wanted to organize an Elytheum “immersive experience,” complete with costumes, character actors, and scene-inspired events, held on Hollisboro’s campus because of how perfectly the Gothic architecture reflects Elytheum’s darkly dramatic setting. For intellectual property reasons, the founders reached out for Heather Winters’s endorsement.

Not only did Winters endorse, she offered to fully fund the Experience, even working in close collaboration with the founders in developing original lore for the expansive immersion.

Original. Lore. The very words make me feel like I’ve just downed espresso with nine sugars.

Which, for the record, I would never do. Cinnamon dolce lattes only, please.

It was the ultimate gift of gratitude and honor for her fans. The Elytheum Experience was official—and my friend Amelia Gupta was part of everything. She works with Heather Winters’s IP and was involved intimately with every step of the planning. While she couldn’t divulge details, when the first Experience was scheduled, she could offer her dear friend a free invitation, which she did months ago.

I pleaded with Scott to go together. He said no, of course, which made my hope feel foolish. Despite everything I loved about Scott—his conscientiousness, his patience, his impeccable memory for the details of my day and my life, not to mention his gray-eyed, sharp-blond-haircut nerdy hotness—his persistent resentment of my love for Elytheum was one of our relationship’s only real problems, one I forced myself to forgive in light of everything good.

It was part of why, after our relationship-ending fight in front of fucking Rudy, I had an epiphany. I refused to cry. I called Amelia, and with a waver in my voice I knew my friend could hear, asked if her invitation stood even on the day the Experience was set to start. She said yes, and here I find myself, about to enter Elytheum-via-North Carolina with a new resolution.

I don’t need another Scott. I don’t need another relationship. Why do I keep dashing myself against the rocks of online dating when I have the love in my favorite series, where it’s never disappointing? Did a date ever measure up to a night of reading about the passion and connection of Lord Valance and Queen Kethryn in Elytheum? Where men are noble warriors and devoted lovers?

Okay, not exactly men—males, with wings and horns. Still—when they say I love you it means something.

I grab my cloak from the Prius’s passenger seat, resenting a fresh reminder of Scott when my fingers catch the Elytheum emblem I embossed into the fabric. When I made the garment for Halloween, he said I looked hot, referring to what I wore underneath, the leather video-game-character costume I felt reasonably approximated Kethryn’s Assassins’ Convent armor.

The compliment, flattering in its un-Scott-like forwardness, helped me ignore the thought that he knew the cloak was inspired by Elytheum and purposefully refused to ask me about it. Honestly, I liked how I looked—how my dark brown hair fell over the strips of leather crossing my skin. For the night, I wasn’t average-height, average-everything Jennifer Worth. I was my favorite heroine.

Right now, I have only the cloak and shirt and jeans I dumped Scott in—no strappy leather costume, having left it at his place. It’s fine. Amelia says the Experience will include opportunities to buy or craft other Elytheum-appropriate costuming.

Hollisboro is wonderfully warm in the summer night, cooling off enough for me to fling the cloak over my shoulders without overheating. I hustle down the quaint streets with Google Maps’s guidance in the direction of the campus, ignoring how my driving-wracked stomach yearns for Starbucks—the Experience started an hour ago, and I won’t miss one second more.

Passing grad students and college-touring families, I feel a little ridiculous. A grown woman, walking around in her costume. I hate the automatic reaction, knowing I wouldn’t feel the same if it were a sports jersey. Once, flush with the confidence of feeling like our relationship was working, I’d asked Scott to read the first Elytheum novel. Just one! I urged him playfully.

He hemmed and hawed. He pretended he had overwhelming workweeks. He said he would see. He was polite—of course he was polite. Gentle. The man I loved, gently desperate to avoid what he knew meant the world to me.

Whatever. None of my exes are here. No one is here who will make me feel uncool for loving Elytheum. I don’t have to hide my cloak or myself.

I step onto campus emboldened—and impressed. The Experience’s location is perfectly chosen, with sculpted archways of gray stone under intricate Gothic spires. Ironically, the grounds look fit for the courtly intrigues, clandestine cunning, and dark magic rituals of Elytheum, not for Economics 101.

Reaching the dining hall, I pause, remembering the doors of the elevator closing on Scott’s face, on the hope of the future I’d started stupidly imagining with him.

I fight the feeling. No. I’m not heartbroken. I’m in Elytheum.

Pushing open the door, I walk into another world.

None of the vivid dreams I’ve had prepare me for what I find inside. The Elytheum Experience is . . . enchanting. Intricate production design has converted the College’s dining hall into the “Great Hall,” the imposing room where Fae declarations of war are delivered and queens mourned. Only candlelight illuminates the hall, into which romantic violin music plays quietly from musicians near the fireplace. Everyone is dressed much more elaborately than me.

At the front of the room, a stunning woman in armor sits on an actual throne.

Chills spread down my arms. Kethryn. Which means . . .

Heart pounding with excitement, I gaze eagerly around the room until I find him.

With prosthetic horns peering out from his sweep of ebony hair, he’s unmistakable. The man in ornamented dark garb watching Kethryn from one corner of the room was the central preoccupation of a good number of my aforementioned dreams—or his character was. Lord Valance is exactly how I imagined him.

I find I’m grinning my first grin of the day. Elytheum really is magic, one way or another.

“Okay, I’m amazed you got here in time.”

Only Amelia’s voice pulls me from my unabashed scrutiny of Val. I haven’t seen her in months, and just hearing her has me immediately emotional. Amelia is my former work wife, once my favorite Parthenon publicity coworker. The “divorce” was amicable. Amelia, like me, loves Elytheum. It forged our friendship fast, in memes DM’d during meetings and weekend readathons with cheesecake. She’s the Hazelheart to my Spindleshear, which is how we introduce ourselves at Elytheum events. It’s hilarious if you’re a fan.

Nine months ago, Amelia got the worst and happiest news. She interviewed for a developmental role with Heather Winters’s IP—and she got the job. We knew it was the right move for her professionally, but we cried her entire last day at Parthenon.

I spin, crushing the clipboard she’s holding with the hug I sweep her into.

“You did not exaggerate,” I say when we part, referring to the room.

Amelia shrugs, smug. She’s shorter than I am, and even the heels she’s wearing as part of her impeccable courtly look don’t bring her to my eyeline. Her hair is braided into an elaborate black crown, her thick mascara accentuating her dark eyes. “I really didn’t,” she says. “Here, I snuck your key from check-in so you can go up after this.”

While the key card she offers me is plastic and obviously nonmagical, reasonably required for use of the dorms for the summer week, it’s painted to resemble a playing card, one whose design I recognize from fan art. Of course. Demoniaca is the recreational card game of Elytheum, a cross between poker and Pokémon, in which deals are struck or secrets exchanged. Spindleshear, mine reads, with the demon’s portrait. I hold it up.

Amelia smiles. “Cool, right?”

“God, I’ve missed you,” I say.

“You too, hon.” Her expression shifts into hesitant sympathy. “Are you—is everything . . . ?”

While I know she means well, I don’t welcome the distraction of the hurt welling up in me. “We’re not supposed to talk about the outside world here, right?” I reply. It was on the email confirmation’s list of rules, emphasized to prevent “bleed” from the real world.

Amelia’s mouth flattens with my evasion. “Convenient for you,” she remarks. “Well, we’re going off campus for coffee and you’re telling me what happened,” she orders me.

It’s how Amelia is, always on the fine line separating domineering from encouraging and defending me like no one else in my life ever does. “It’s really not worth talking about,” I say weakly.

“Yes,” Amelia replies. “It is.” Excusing my further resistance, her eyes catch on a girl waving her over nervously. “Heather’s assistant needs me,” Amelia says with forced patience, her gaze returning to mine. “We’ll catch up later,” she promises me meaningfully.

I nod, my stomach knotting. Honestly, I don’t want to discuss my pathetic love life—not when Elytheum is here to experience.

While I walk over to sit at one of the long tables, another epiphany descends over me in the rose-scented room. For the next week, I’m not Jennifer Worth. I don’t have to be the woman who spent the past year loving a man—a damnably cute, unfailingly loyal, otherwise perfect man, unfortunately—who would prefer watching paint dry instead of embracing my favorite fandom.

No, I’m . . . whoever I want to be. Warrior. Princess. Fae. Demon.

I don’t know yet. I just know the question is exhilarating.

Sipping from the stew one of the many footmen has delivered to me, I listen, scouring the snatches of conversation surrounding me for inspiration. The man and woman next to me make illicit plans, their offers to “exchange sensitive espionage information” sounding like pretense to exchange something else.

I stay silent, still figuring out what I want my story to be.

Darting glances at Val in the corner, the women across from me swap fictional war stories from the Western Court Campaign. It’s wonderful realizing I’m following every reference, expecting every detail. Who knew a fantasy world could feel like home? I’m about to insert myself into their conversation when I hear a familiar laugh.

No. It can’t be.

I look over my shoulder while the room seems to move in slow motion, as if under the Forgotten King’s hourglass magic. The man who laughed is chatting animatedly with an older woman in elf ears, his grin upturned roguishly. In full leather armor, he looks like he’s in the Queen’s Guard.

Or it’s how I know he looks to everyone else here.

To me, he just looks like Scott Daniels.

My ex.