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When Aithinne speaks, resignation weighs down each word.

“The Book began as a straightforward history of my people—our origins and lineages, rich details about the old fae kingdoms.” Her voice takes on a rhythmic cadence as if repeating a tale learned long ago at her mother’s knee.

“As the Morrigan rose in power, she adapted it as a spellbook to focus and amplify her magic. The Book became a living repository imbued with the Morrigan’s essence.

” Aithinne must read the unease in my expression because she clarifies, “When enough magic and significance become invested in an object over centuries, it gradually awakens. Takes on an identity.”

“So you’re saying this book . . . gained a soul?” I rub my temple where a headache blooms. A mirthless laugh spills from my lips. Of course. Because things aren’t complicated enough with the world coming apart at the seams. “Does the thing speak? Offer unhelpful opinions on prose?”

A whisper of a smile plays at Aithinne’s lips.

“Sadly, no. Though that might prove entertaining.” The brief flash of mirth fades as she continues, “The Book became a wellspring the Morrigan could tap, magnifying her abilities tenfold. Drunk on that power, she delighted in testing the limits of what she could achieve, growing more volatile and unpredictable with each cruel act. She became the first Unseelie monarch, granting that same corrupted power to her most loyal followers and birthing the Unseelie Court. Dissent spread through the kingdoms, rebellion brewing. The other fae would face outright slaughter against her forces. The Cailleach was the only one who stood a chance confronting the Morrigan.”

Here is where our grim fate intertwines with the Morrigan’s bloody history. Two sibling monarchs destined to kill or be killed. A cycle repeating once more.

“Did the Cailleach succeed in stopping her?” I hear myself ask.

Aithinne spreads her hands. “That’s where the tale grows uncertain.

No one knows if the Morrigan’s consort betrayed her or if the Cailleach lured her into an isolated prison realm, cut off from the living worlds.

But the Book of Remembrance vanished along with its maker.

” She shrugs. “Some insist the Morrigan recovered it and only bides her time, gathering power until she returns.”

I exhale slowly. Of course. Vague rumours and ancient hearsay are all we have to guide us. “Let me guess, your soused informant provided no useful clues before keeling over into his cup?”

“Unfortunately, no. But before her banishment, the Morrigan cursed the Cailleach’s line.

” Aithinne shuts her eyes as if steeling herself.

“She gifted one child power over life, the other over death. The child of death would know an insatiable hunger until they killed their sibling. One was to be the conqueror, and the other to be the conquered—the sacrifice. And if we defy that order . . .”

She doesn’t need to finish. Our world will pay the price.

When Aithinne finds her voice again, it emerges raw, scraped hollow.

“‘As it begins in death, so shall it end in death. Until the day a child of the Cailleach confronts their fate with a true lie on their lips and sacrifices that which they prize most: their heart.’ That was the Morrigan’s final curse. ”

I turn the ominous words over in my mind, seeking any hidden meaning. But the curse seems ironclad—the fae can’t speak outright falsehoods. Which leaves only one way for the stalemate to end.

Unless the Book can offer a third path that breaks the vicious cycle.

“She might as well have said, ‘Suffer eternally, you gormless fools. May your misery never cease.’” I force a brittle laugh past the dread constricting my throat. “I don’t suppose Drunk Dennis the Wisp had any insights on circumventing impossible magical bindings?”

Aithinne’s features constrict. “The curse names me sacrifice, not conqueror. It’s been three generations since the first Cailleach, and the child of life is killed each time.

But after two thousand years entombed underground .

. . I want more than this. Maybe someone who looks at me the way Kadamach looks at you.

” Longing cracks her composure before she recovers. “But we don’t choose our fates.”

My chest aches, a physical pain beneath my ribs.

But before I can offer any hollow comfort, Derrick explodes into the cottage, a crimson streak trailing glittering magic.

“We’ve got a problem,” he says, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush.

“Soldiers. Crossing the border. They’re coming in fast.”

I quickly slide on the last of my knives. “How long?”

“Minutes,” he replies. “Now would be a fabulous time to unleash your new powers—a little maiming, a little dismemberment, some violent evisceration.”

Aithinne shrugs into her coat, magic already gathering around her in a shimmering nimbus. “My brother?” she asks, voice tight with dread. “Is Kadamach with them?”

Derrick shakes his head. “Didn’t see him. The humans left on horseback to lead any soldiers away from the other camps.”

“Go with them and keep them safe,” Aithinne says. “Aileana and I will remain.”

Derrick nods sharply and zips away in a blur of wings, leaving only a faint trail of sparks in his wake.

And then Aithinne and I leave the cottage and wait—still and watchful, every sense straining. The camp is too quiet. I can hear the rush of blood in my ears, the rasp of each exhale. Magic prickles along my skin, raising fine hairs on my arms.

The calm before the violence descends.