"Linna," Grim murmured from the grass. "Do you know what she is saying? Witchwood is the heart of the Elder's tree. Without it, the oak will die, and so will the dryad connected to it."

She waits.

She nods.

"If you do not defeat the Iron King," she said, now speaking to all of them, "we will perish all the same. His influence grows. The stronger he becomes, the more the Nevernever fades. Eventually, we will all wither away and die in a wasteland of logic and science." She turns to Ash, even though she wasn't speaking to him. "The Winter prince can fight for you, I imagine if you can't do it yourself. He smells of blood and sorrow. I will happily grant the Witchwood to him."

She mutters something, still concealed.

She stays silent.

The Elder smiled at Lin, an old, grandmotherly smile, and faded back into her oak. Ash, Grim and a couple of dryads that had joined them stood silently, their expressions somber and grave. A moment later, the Elder reemerged, clutching something in her withered hands--a long, straight stick, so pale it was almost white, with reddish veins running down its length. She stepped to offer it to Lin

She hops down silently, a heartbroken expression on her face.

She reluctantly takes the stick.

It's warm and smooth in her hands, pulsing with a life of its own. The Elder placed a withered, knobby hand on her arm. "One more thing, child," she added. "You are powerful, much more so than you realize. Oberon's blood flows through your veins, and the Nevernever itself responds to your whims. Your talent still sleeps within you, but it is beginning to stir. How you use it will shape the future of the courts, the fey, your own destiny, everything. Now," she continued, sounding weaker than before, "go and rescue your brother. The trod to Machina's reals is an abandoned factory down by the wharfs. A guide will lead you there tomorrow. Kill the Iron King and bring peace to both worlds."