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T eryn did not wake gently. There was no floating in nothingness, no subtle lack of consciousness. There was only an abrupt intake of breath, a startling sense of being alive.

Or…sort of alive.

As he took in his surroundings, he found himself reclined on the floor in the illusion that was Emylia’s temple bedroom. She sat beside him on a stack of bright cushions, her expression heavy with concern. Before she could say what he knew she was about to, he tuned in to his vitale and connected with his breaths. They were short and shallow and came with a mild ache in his lungs. His heartbeat and pulse felt more distant than usual.

But that wasn’t his primary concern. He settled his attention on Emylia. “What happened to Cora? Did she take the crystal like I told her to?”

The answer was already on her face. “She tried, but…Teryn, there was a reason our plan involved you removing the crystal from your chest and destroying it. I never told you to pass it off to someone else. You were never supposed to remove it in the first place until we were ready to execute our plan.”

He pinned her with a hard look. “ Our plan is nonexistent. I wasn’t willing to wait for some hazy future hope.”

“Don’t you understand? If she’d taken the crystal far from your body and destroyed it, Morkai would have died, but so would you. You are tethered to the crystal, the same as Morkai. Your only link to the world of the living is through your body. And if your ethera is freed from the crystal while your connection to your cereba and vitale is severed…you’d have no hope of being whole again.”

Her words sent a chill through him, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel regret. Instead, he only felt more vindicated. “I would have been willing to risk my life if it meant destroying the sorcerer once and for all. If it meant keeping Cora safe from him.”

Her eyes turned down at the corners. “We’ll find a way, I promise.”

Teryn bit back his argument. Hadn’t she also promised he had more than enough time? “Where is she? Where is Cora now?”

“She got away.”

“And where is he ?”

“He’s resting his ethera. He overtaxed himself and was forced to rest shortly after Cora disappeared. However, this is the one time I would caution against practicing with your cereba. Your body…it didn’t respond well to what you did. To the two of you fighting for control.”

Teryn remembered the blood that had seeped from his nose, the searing pain he’d felt when his body was being wrestled away from him. The only thing that had kept him in place for as long as it had was Cora’s presence. That warm tether had remained, pulsing from his chest and anchoring him into his body. Had that been his heart-center? Had it overridden Morkai’s?

It had…for a while at least.

Thank the seven gods she’d gotten away after he lost consciousness.

“You shouldn’t have done what you did, Teryn.”

“I had to try. I couldn’t let her believe his lies a second longer. Couldn’t let him kiss her, comfort her—” He recalled the reason she’d sought comfort in the first place. The reason she’d come to speak to him.

A searing ache pierced his heart.

He slid his gaze to Emylia. “Do you know about the curse Morkai placed on Cora? The one preventing her from bearing children?”

She shrank back slightly, shoulders stiff. Her dark eyes went wide, but she said nothing.

Teryn sat up straighter. “Do. You. Know. About. It.”

She gave a sharp nod.

“Tell me.”

“It’s…it’s not something you can change?—”

His voice deepened, his fingers curling into fists. “Stop keeping things from me based on whether or not I can change them and just tell me, Emylia.”

Closing her eyes, she lowered her head. Her voice came out muffled. “I suppose it’s well past time for me to be judged for my sins.”

Tension radiated through Teryn’s ethera.

Slowly, she rose to her feet. Teryn followed, keeping his eyes locked on her hunched form. Her expression was wan, eyes distant.

“It’s my fault,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Everything he’s doing. It’s because of me.”

It took all his restraint to keep his voice level. “Tell me what you know. Please.”

“I can’t. I’m too much of a coward to confess with words.”

“Emylia—”

“But I can show you.”

The illusion that was Emylia’s temple bedroom fell beneath a sheer blanket of fog. When it dissipated, the tapestries and furnishings were left muted in color and clarity, while the light coming in from the windows seemed to shift between midday and early evening, then back again. When Teryn tried to focus on the details of the room—the pattern on the rugs, the designs on the tapestries—they’d change before his eyes. Whatever illusion he saw now, it had the same ephemeral quality as a dream.

“This is my memory,” Emylia explained, taking up post against the far wall. Her expression remained hollow, shoulders slumped either with sorrow or resignation. “Or how I remember it playing out, at least. Memories are weaker than illusions, but this is as close to the truth as I can show you.”

Teryn stood at her side, tense with trepidation. He had no idea what to expect or how her memories had anything to do with the curse Cora had mentioned.

The bedroom door opened and in walked another version of Emylia. She appeared to be a year or two younger than the Emylia he knew now, but perhaps it was the carefree smile, the sparkle in her eyes, and the buoyancy of her steps that made her seem so youthful. She wore a simple silk shift, belted at the waist with a red braided cord. A similar red cord framed her face, keeping her halo of black curls off her forehead, and ended in a bow at the nape of her neck. Her arms were full of leather-bound books.

Behind the Emylia of memory followed an older woman. She was tall with brown skin and short-cropped black hair. Her state of dress was slightly more elegant, her shift patterned with floral designs, and her braided belt was gold in color.

Neither figure paid any heed to Teryn and his companion. He and Emylia were merely spectators in this memory, not participants.

“He says he’s from Syrus,” the older woman said. Her voice was soft and slightly muffled, her tone inconstant, as if whatever magic Emylia was using to replicate this memory was unable to properly recall how the woman was supposed to sound. “He seems to be about the same age as you, and with the same fascination with books. For seven days, he’s been in our library, asking questions that our archivists don’t have answers to.”

The younger Emylia set her books next to her bed and turned back toward the woman. “What does this have to do with me, Priestess Calla?”

“The young man is in need of a channel, either an oracle or seer. Moreover, I need him out of our library, and you need to hone your craft.”

Emylia’s eyes brightened. “You mean I can practice channeling for someone outside of the temple?”

“Yes. I believe you are ready. The man’s search is of a nature that will provide you a challenge.”

Emylia cocked her head to the side. “What is he asking about?”

“The fae.”

Her mouth dropped open, expression falling. “The fae. He seeks answers to…faerytales.”

Mother Calla gave her a knowing grin. “I told you it would be a challenge.”

Emylia’s face wrinkled with disgust. “It’s a challenge because the fae aren’t real. A channel is a seeker of truth. How can I act as his seer when the subject is one of myth?”

Mother Calla’s mirth slipped from her face. “It is not a temple acolyte’s job to judge what is and isn’t real. If you are to become a Priestess of Zaras, you must open yourself to new possibilities. You cannot reject a patron based on your preconceived prejudice. You must be willing to seek before you judge, regardless of the subject.”

Emylia stiffened, then bowed at the waist. “Forgive me,” she said in a rush. “It was wrong for me to judge. Of course I’ll channel for this patron.”

“You will,” Mother Calla said, then closed the distance between them. Placing her finger under Emylia’s chin, she urged her to straighten from her bow. The older woman’s eyes crinkled with clear fondness. “You’re as bold as your mother, and just as stubborn. I believe in you, the same way I believed in her. You’ll do her memory proud.”

The image stilled. Teryn was about to ask what that memory had to do with Cora, when the fog returned and swept the room away completely. In its place, a new location formed, darkening the edges of Teryn’s vision until it formed a cobblestone street bathed in shadow and moonlight. Both sides of the street were lined with narrow townhomes and clustered storefronts.

Teryn caught a glimpse of a hooded figure strolling up to one of the buildings before the image shifted again. The figure was now approaching the door of an inn. Teryn saw Emylia’s telltale black curls peeking out from under her hood as the acolyte entered the building. The fog swept the image away once more and formed a small candlelit room. Like the temple bedroom, the room shifted whenever Teryn tried to focus on details, but he was able to make out a narrow cot and a small desk.

Emylia entered the room, tossing back her hood as a young man closed the door behind them. Teryn assessed the man’s fair skin, his pale eyes, his shoulder-length black hair. He looked young—perhaps a year younger than Teryn—but there was no denying his resemblance to Morkai. But unlike the duke, this man wasn’t impeccably dressed. Instead, he wore plain brown trousers and a cream linen tunic.

The man faced Emylia, frowning as his eyes landed on her face. “ You’re a Priestess of Zaras? You look…young.”

She scoffed. “Is that how you greet people in Syrus?”

His expression hardened. “I requested a priestess.”

“Well, you got an acolyte. Shall I leave, or are you going to be a gentleman and introduce yourself?”

He ran a hand over his face, then crossed his arms. “Desmond.”

Teryn frowned. He’d expected the man to introduce himself as Morkai, based on their striking similarities. Was this truly a younger version of the sorcerer as he’d first assumed, or a close relative? Was Desmond the sorcerer’s true name? He glanced at the real Emylia to ask but found her lower lip trembling. A sheen of tears coated her eyes, and her expression sagged with longing.

“Is Desmond your surname?” The Emylia of memory stole his attention back to the scene playing out before him. She arched a brow at the man. “Or are we already on a first-name basis?”

“Desmond is the only name you need to know.”

Her jaw shifted side to side. “Fine. Acolyte Emylia.”

Desmond’s only reply was to extend a hand toward the chair at the desk. “Take a seat and we can get started.”

Emylia strode past him, burning him with a sneer on her way. With exaggerated moves, she pulled out the chair and planted herself onto it. Meanwhile, Desmond took a seat at the edge of the bed, elbows perched on his knees. One of his legs began to shake as he watched her. His steely expression cracked, revealing something softer. More anxious perhaps.

Emylia shrugged off her cloak and let it fall over the back of her chair. The candlelight glinted off a crystal she wore around her neck. It was wrapped in gold wire and strung from a chain. Even in the shadowed haze of the memory, Teryn knew this was the very same crystal his ethera was tethered to now.

Removing the chain from around her neck, Emylia set the crystal on the desk and cupped her palms around it.

Desmond’s leg stopped shaking as his gaze landed on her hands. “What is that?”

“It helps me channel. It belonged to my mother when she was alive. She was a Priestess of Zaras.”

His expression softened further. “Your mother died?”

“My birth killed her,” she said stiffly. “Now, what is it you want to know?”

Desmond took a deep breath. “How do I get to the realm of the fae?”

Emylia rolled her eyes, a disbelieving smirk tugging a corner of her lips. Then, with a resigned sigh, she closed her eyes and settled into her seat, her body growing more and more relaxed as she breathed deeply. After several long moments, she spoke, her voice deep and even. “Show me the realm of the fae.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know,” she said, tone calm. “Before I can ask how to get there, I must first see that it exists.”

Desmond looked like he wanted to argue but remained silent.

Movement fluttered beneath Emylia’s closed eyelids.

Desmond leaned closer, and Teryn found himself doing the same. Teryn didn’t know much about fae lore, but he’d certainly never heard anyone refer to the fae as having belonged to another realm. Faerytales suggested fae creatures—unicorns, pixies, dragons, sprites—had lived long ago, along with two races of High Fae: the Elvyn and Faeryn. They were said to have inhabited the land once known as Lela—the land that was now divided into Menah, Selay, and Khero. All stories told that every kind of fae went extinct over five hundred years ago.

Teryn hadn’t believed there was any truth to such tales. Not until he saw a unicorn with his own eyes. Learned magic was real. Confronted a blood mage who claimed to be an Elvyn prince.

The seer repeated her request. “Show me the realm of the fae.”

A weighted silence fell over the room. Teryn folded his arms to keep from fidgeting.

Finally, she spoke again.

“The fae realms are many. They are here but not here. Layered upon this world. Parallel, but on separate planes.”

Her eyes flew open, and she dropped her crystal to the surface of the table. “The fae are real,” she muttered. Then, shifting in her seat to face Desmond, she said it again. “The fae are real .”

His lips curled with the slightest hint of amusement, but he quickly steeled it behind an icy mask. “Yes, but how do I get to their realm?”

Emylia rose from her chair and began pacing the room. “I saw…many realms. There isn’t just one. Fae of different races and species exist on parallel planes. I can’t ask to see how to get to your particular realm unless I know more about it.” She halted before Desmond. “What is the name of the realm you seek?”

He pursed his lips. “I can't say.”

She propped her hands on her hips and stared down at him. “I can’t be of any help if you keep vital information from me. Honestly, I’m surprised I saw as much as I did, considering my skepticism. But what I’m seeing is taking me in too many different directions. I need to know the name of the realm if I am to see any more answers.”

Desmond threw his head back with a frustrated growl. “I can’t tell you because I don’t know.”

She arched a brow. “You don’t know?”

He stood and brushed past her toward the desk, planting his hands on its surface. His head hung low, sending his dark hair over his face. “My father sent me. He’s the one looking for the fae realm, not me. He’s its rightful heir, and I’m simply trying to return him to his throne.”

Teryn’s eyes widened. Desmond’s talk of fae heirs and blood rights reminded him too much of Morkai. Could Desmond’s father be…Morkai? While the sorcerer had looked only a handful of years older than Teryn, he was willing to entertain the possibility that he’d been old enough to sire this young man. If Morkai was truly Elvyn, he could have been ageless.

Emylia snorted a laugh. “Your father is the heir to a fae realm?”

His cheeks flushed. “I’m not joking, acolyte.”

“Right,” she said, trying to hide her amusement and failing miserably. “Open mind. I can do that.”

He glared at her for a few moments before speaking again. “He told me the fae realm has a name, but usurpers to the throne cursed him long ago, forcing him to forget. All I know is that it’s the realm of the Elvyn and Faeryn.”

Emylia nibbled a thumbnail, then gave a nod. She’d managed to rein in her mirth. “All right. I can work with that.”

“You can?”

“It might take me days or weeks, but I can continue to channel. I’ll seek the realm of the Elvyn and Faeryn and see if I can glean a name. Now that I know it’s real…” She met his gaze with a wide smile. “This is actually exciting!”

He blinked at her a few times. Then, ever so slowly, a warm smile melted over his face. “So you’ll come back? You’ll come back and we’ll try again?”

Her expression turned timid. “If you want me to.”

“Yes,” he said, voice soft, breathless. He reached a tentative hand and brushed his fingers against her wrist. “Thank you.”

Emylia bit her lip, eyes locked on his. “Of course.”

The image froze, and Teryn cast a glance at the real Emylia. Her expression was still brimming with mournful longing. “I don’t see what this has to do with Cora,” he said.

“You will,” she whispered. “And you will hate me for it.” She seemed so small, so defeated, as she turned to face him. “But don’t worry. I hate myself for it too.”