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T he sight of Kael’s retreating back didn’t dampen Aisling’s anger as it should have, but stoked those flames further.

He didn’t care to learn the truth about his god—the god that had possessed him and taken away his agency.

The god that bade him to kill her. He wanted to deny that he’d been fooled into worshipping a dark deity that saw him as nothing more than a pawn in a cruel, cosmic game.

Fine. She’d let him.

“You’d best get inside,” Sudryl urged, her wings fluttering in the breeze.

Raif stared at Aisling as though he could still see the runic markings on her skin through the material of Rodney’s sweater.

She couldn’t read his face, nor did she particularly care to try.

He may not have been as guilty as Kael, but he didn’t press for more answers, either.

Aisling would have given them freely, had he asked.

She longed to spill out every wicked thing Yalde had said, if for no other reason than to share the burden he’d put upon her.

The knowledge of his plans for Elowas, for Wyldraíocht, haunted her.

And the implications for her own realm—she didn’t want to consider those.

Not now. Not while she was so very, very far from home.

“Come on, Ash.” Rodney took her arm gently and led her away from the ring of rowan trees towards the cairn.

The structure felt ancient. Special, somehow.

All that boiling rage and terror she was steeped in slowed to a simmer, overshadowed by a reverence that Aisling sensed deep in her bones.

Time seemed to stand still there at its entrance.

The weight of centuries pressed in on her, wrapped around her.

There was a quiet gravity that made her acutely aware of her own fleeting existence in the timeline of the Fae realms. Though Aisling’s prophecy had long stood, the Red Woman herself was barely a blip.

She drew in a wavering breath as she followed Rodney inside.

The timeworn stones were alive: they radiated an almost sacred aura, charged by bearing witness to countless stories, memories, long-forgotten histories.

And simply by standing amidst them, Aisling would be one of those stories, too.

She was connected now to something enduring and so, so much larger than her own small life. It felt good. It felt right.

The packed soil floor dipped beneath a vaulted ceiling, opening up the central chamber enough that even Rodney could stand straight, though the tips of his ears curled against the lowest stones.

The roots of that blackened oak tree that soared overhead had wound into the structure such that Aisling couldn’t tell which was supporting the other.

There was an hole in the far corner, a crude chimney under which a small fire burned.

Rodney pulled her towards it; the warmth was inviting as it caressed Aisling’s cheeks.

She held her hands out over the flames to thaw her fingers, though she knew that the cold in her veins had little to do with the temperature.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently.

She did. She didn’t. Aisling shook her head.

“What about food?” Rodney pressed, rummaging in his bag. “I have—”

Aisling cut him off. “I’m not hungry.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Her stomach roiled and her throat burned when she thought of the fruit Yalde had made her force down, bite after agonizing bite. She swallowed back the feeling and shook her head once more. “Later.”

Rodney let her be, finally, and simply stood by her side. Occasionally, he’d lean closer to nudge her arm with his. Aisling appreciated the silent reassurance that she wasn’t alone, no matter how deeply, achingly, she felt as though she was. The knowledge she carried was isolating.

Eventually, Raif joined them beside the fire. He sounded withdrawn when he asked, “It’s true?”

Aisling kept her gaze locked on the glowing embers at the base of the fire. Despite how long she’d been there staring at it, the flames hadn’t gotten any lower, nor had the logs crumbled away. The flames licked and leapt in the same patterns, repeating over and over in an infinite loop.

“Yes.” She paused, then added, “I guess I could have broken the news a little more delicately, though.” It wasn’t how she’d intended to tell them.

She wanted to be gentle. Empathetic. But in that moment, the last small bit of restraint she’d been clinging to had broken.

Anger had sapped the last of her dwindling patience, and the words had come tumbling from her mouth unabated.

She hadn’t wanted to hurt Kael—hadn’t wanted to hurt any of them—but she’d done so anyway.

Raif nodded. “Likely so.”

“What did He tell you?” Kael’s voice from the chamber’s entrance brought all three to turn.

His expression was cold and devoid of emotion; his eyes betrayed none of his thoughts.

But Aisling knew—could feel—exactly what he felt.

He thought her a fool at best; a liar at worst. She dug her nails into her palms. Before she could bite back, Sudryl stepped around his legs and gestured toward one of several openings in the chamber wall.

“The story of Elowas—of the Silver Saints and the Star-Eater—was recorded here in Antiata long ago. I can show you.”

Wordlessly, the group followed the alseid through the doorway into a smaller chamber, lit by two torches wedged into the roots that snaked between the stones.

Aisling felt it again—that profound sort of rightness—as she stepped into the center and turned in a slow circle.

Every inch of solid surface was marked with faded ink that swirled with the grain of the stones as though part of the rock patterns themselves.

Amongst the depictions in the mural, her eyes found Yalde instantly.

He held open his cloak to show the galaxies he hid beneath.

Aisling moved closer and pointed to him, careful not to let the tip of her finger touch the image. “Here—this is him. Yalde.”

Sudryl shook her head. She took hold of Aisling’s wrist and led her to the other side of the chamber, near the door. Kael, Rodney, and Raif all moved out of their way.

“Start from the beginning,” she said, pressing Aisling’s palm to the wall.

The version of Yalde there lacked the blindfold he wore when Aisling met him.

His eyes, even painted as they were, made her take a step back and withdraw her hand sharply.

The artist had captured so much cruelty there.

It was a cunning sort of cruelty; more insidious than plain evil.

Sudryl began to speak then, quietly. Reverently. “The gods came before the Fae—they walked freely between Elowas and Wyldraíocht. But they grew tired of tending to both realms. So from the stars, they created the first Fae race in their image to care for Wyldraíocht in their stead.”

“Light Bringers,” Aisling whispered at the same time as Rodney said, “Tuatha Dé Danann.”

Sudryl nodded. She continued to move her hand across the mural as though she were reading it. “The Tuatha Dé Danann worshipped the gods, and the gods grew stronger as a result. More powerful.”

“But not all, correct? You said Orist never needed worship.” Raif had moved closer, examining the art for himself as Sudryl told the story. She shot him a withering look.

“Would you like to tell our history, or shall I continue?” When he gestured apologetically, Sudryl nodded and said, “The god Yalde—your Low One—never cared to remain in Elowas with the others; he preferred to walk amongst the Fae, cultivating their piety in any form he could. He fell deeper and deeper into corruption. The more he was worshipped, the more worship he craved. The darker worship he craved.”

“Sacrifice,” Aisling murmured. Though she had already scrubbed away the markings on her stomach with the sleeve of Rodney’s sweater, her skin burned faintly at the thought.

She was to be sacrificed—Kael, Shadowbound though he was, was meant to sacrifice her.

Unconsciously, her hand slipped up beneath the fabric to rest against her skin.

It was hot to the touch, but still she felt chilled.

“By that time, many of the first Fae had intermarried with other Fae races. The Seelie and Unseelie Courts began to take shape, and Solitary Fae withdrew further. It was amongst the sects formed within these three groups that Yalde found his footholds. He became whatever they sought: guidance. Light. Shadow. He took on new names, new forms.” Sudryl’s tiny, pointed nails scraped against the stone surface.

It was the only sound in the chamber besides her thin voice as the rest of the group had fallen silent.

Aisling had to remind herself to breathe.

“But the last of the original Tuatha Dé Danann saw through his tricks—and Yalde took notice. He wiped many of them out until only three remained: your Silver Saints. In a great battle, they stole Yalde’s eyes, thus gaining their Far Sight.

With it, they saw their own demise and the end of their race at his hands.

So they imprisoned him here in Elowas and went into hiding, returning to the stars. ”

Their likeness was there on the wall, faded but unmistakable in the way they glowed. The Silver Saints stood together, hands outstretched to a Fae female kneeling at their feet. They held a small orb of light between them; the faerie reached up for it with both hands.