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Helplessness claws up from my bones. Every instinct screams to tear down those doors, but doing so might kill her faster than leaving her to face it alone.

“What is this place?” Finnian asks, clearly trying to process something beyond immediate horror.

Tadhg grunts in non-answer, shuffling to an old wooden table where a massive book lies open. Pages flutter on their own, settling on an illustration that makes my blood run cold.

A woman stands at the center, holding a cup that glows with inner light. Around her, the four treasures pulse with power that seems to leap off the page.

“What am I looking at?” I move closer, the oath mark in my hand burning hotter.

He doesn’t answer—typical for an old fae. Instead, he settles into his chair with a glass of amber liquid, staring into the fire like it holds answers I’m too young to understand.

“What were you bringing Finnian to the library for?” he prompts with deceptive casualness.

The question hits differently now, weighted with implications I can’t quite grasp.

“The Morrigan,” I say slowly, pieces clicking together like tumblers in a lock. “She’s the last of the Tuatha Dé Danann that actually walks among us. And it seemed odd. We have these legends, these stories our younglings think are myths. Yet she exists.”

“Meddling old witch,” Tadhg mutters into his drink with the exasperation of personal experience. “Faerie. Gah!”

I exchange a look with Finnian. There’s something in the old fae’s tone—familiarity, irritation, the kind that comes from centuries of shared history.

“Tír Tairngire,” Tadhg whispers like a prayer or a curse. “Keep going, flame lord.”

The encouragement sends unease crawling up my spine. I sink onto the couch—wood creaking ominously under my weight—and try to organize thoughts that keep slipping away like smoke.

“The Morrigan is the only one linking legend to reality,” Finnian begins pacing. “Perhaps she serves as proof that our myths aren’t myths at all, but history deliberately obscured.”

“Keep going,” Tadhg encourages with growing satisfaction.

“Where are the others?” The question falls from Finn’s lips like stone into still water.

“Ah.” Tadhg’s approval carries weight. “Now you’re asking the right questions.”

“The Morrigan proves our myths are real,” I say slowly, understanding dawning like a cold sunrise. “So where are the rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann? They were supposed to be sleeping, like her.”

“They drank from the cauldron,” Finn says, his voice barely above a whisper.

The artifact beneath my skin pulses in response, recognizing its name.

“Finally.” Tadhg sets down his glass with sharp satisfaction. “The cauldron allows the immortals a chance at new life.”

“Wait.” I lean forward, pieces clicking together in ways that make my chest tight. “What are you saying?”

“Have you not figured it out yet, flame lord?” The title sounds different now—less mocking, more recognition of something ancient and binding. “The old ones have two choices when they grow weary of immortality. Sleep to reset their minds... or drink from the cauldron.”

I press a hand to my chest where the cauldron lives beneath my flesh, feeling its power pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat.

“What happens if they drink?” Finnian’s voice carries fascination warring with growing dread.

“They simply forget.” Tadhg raises his hands as if the answer should be obvious. “See, the old ones—the Tuatha—did not die as mortals do, for they were born of the earth itself.”

His gaze finds mine, and I see Ash in that description. Born of earth and forgotten magic, power flowing through her like water through stone.

“And with time, their minds soured,” he continues with the weariness of someone who’s witnessed millennia. “Immortalityis not the gift mortals imagine. So the Dagda created the cauldron of life—but it’s not life it gives in the traditional sense.”

“It’s forgetting,” Finn breathes, sinking into a chair.

“Indeed. At the thousand-year mark, a fae mind begins to fracture. Many sleep for decades or centuries, waking when they’re needed most.” Tadhg’s eyes hold depths that make me suddenly uncertain who I’m really talking to. “But some chose a different path.”