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S he hadn’t wanted to snap at him the way she did. It felt like a breakthrough, almost: telling Kael about the trials. She’d come close, so close, to letting her guard down. She knew his anger was justified; she knew he only wanted to protect her.

But she was sick of being protected.

Aisling was sick of all of it—of everyone else giving things up for her.

Kael should have never given his life so willingly.

Her friends shouldn’t have come with her to Elowas.

Maybe that was the reaction she’d wanted from Kael: selfishness.

She wished he would stop giving himself up for her and accept that she would no longer allow it.

She wished he would fight not for her, but for them .

Rather than chase him down to tell him as much, Aisling remained beside the mural.

She’d been going over it again, pouring over the painted figures inch by inch.

If there was some hint or clue to be found in it, Sudryl surely would have identified it already.

Even still, Aisling felt driven to memorize the history of Yalde and Merak and Elowas.

She wanted to know the story of the evil they hoped to kill.

“That’s my favorite part, there.” Sudryl had crept into the cavern unnoticed and was standing at Aisling’s side. She reached up and tapped a nail against the piece of the mural that depicted the Silver Saints standing around a kneeling female.

Aisling leaned in to peer at the figures more closely.

She’d paid little mind to this bit, distracted by Yalde as she was.

Merak stood together in a semi-circle, almost exactly as they’d appeared before her in The Cut what felt like a lifetime ago now.

The female that knelt before them was unmistakably Fae, with delicate features and tiny pointed ears.

The artist had given her a serene expression—grateful, almost. The details were small and worn, but the painter’s intent was clear. Aisling could feel it.

“What are they doing?” she asked.

Sudryl stood on her toes to place a finger in the center of the orb of silvery white light the Silver Saints held between them. “Seren—the magic of the Tuatha Dé Danann. As pure and strong as the light of the stars they were born from.”

Light Bringers. The name made sense to Aisling now.

“Your Silver Saints were wise beyond measure. Before they returned to the sky, they hid the last kernel of Seren in her.” Sudryl’s finger drifted over the female, almost as though caressing her long painted hair.

“Who was she?” Aisling was breathless; Fae history was as beautiful as it was brutal. She regretted not taking more of an interest in those dusty tomes Kael had tried to convince her to read.

Sudryl shrugged and dropped her hand. “No one knows; her identity was lost to time, quite possibly on purpose. But legend tells that her line continued to pass that secret kernel on and on down, always to the firstborn female of each generation. It was not to be used, but guarded.”

Aisling smiled a little as Sudryl’s words gave meaning to the painting. She imagined a long line of fierce Fae females, tasked by demigods to protect an ancient magic. Whether fact or legend, the story was powerful either way.

“Ruminating will do you little good, girl. There are no secrets hidden in this mural that will help you,” Sudryl chirped. “Leave it alone. You’ll drive yourself mad looking for something you won’t find.”

The faerie was right, as much as Aisling was reticent to acknowledge it.

The mural was just a mural. The history was enchanting and horrifying and fascinating all at once, but it was just that: history.

There was no prophecy painted here, no map or guide that would show them safe passage back to the Wild.

They were alone in the present to figure it out for themselves.

This time, there was no Door Number Three.

Rodney was pacing the main chamber when Sudryl shooed Aisling away from the mural, and Raif had just returned with Kael in tow.

He still looked agitated, albeit calmer than before.

Aisling kept her distance, though she noticed a muscle in his jaw tick when she crossed the space to sit on the opposite side.

“Rodney,” she said his name loudly when he almost tripped over her foot.

He was radiating an almost manic energy.

His messy hair— fur —was even more unruly.

She could tell he’d been raking his long fingers through it, tugging at tufts here and there.

His tail twitched back and forth like the arms of a broken clock and he toyed nervously with his sleeves.

“Good, you’re all here.” He ignored Aisling’s warning tone and continued his erratic pacing.

“Quit that,” Sudryl groused when he almost ran her over. She gave him a disparaging glare before disappearing down a dark side passage.

“Sorry, sorry.” Rodney’s voice was shaky and his eyes were wide; Aisling couldn’t tell if he was terrified or excited or both. He stopped and stood in the center of the space, then drew in a steadying breath. “I’m sorry,” he said again, a little more even this time.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer once she’d asked the question. His nerves were making her nervous now; her stomach twisted and knotted in response.

“Not wrong , exactly. Nothing is wrong.” Rodney’s assurances were unconvincing as he overemphasized the word.

“Well, púca? You have your audience, captive as we are.” Raif leaned against the wall, arms crossed with one eyebrow raised. His sarcasm wasn’t lost on Aisling; she dipped her head to hide a brief smirk.

Rodney held up Kael’s dagger ceremoniously.

Aisling squinted at it, but it looked unchanged. It was still just a dagger. Still just the dagger she’d killed Kael with. She averted her eyes from it quickly.

“I did what I could with Antiata’s threads.

They’re strong. Do what you will with this blade; I do not believe it will break.

But it still won’t kill Yalde. It needs more—more power—if it’s going to take down a god.

” Rodney didn’t pause once for a breath.

He was speaking a hundred miles a minute, his words running together.

“Rodney,” Aisling said, more firmly this time. “Slow down. You’re rambling.”

He apologized again, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “I’m a little all over the place. But I was talking to Raif before, and…well, I think I figured out what it needs.”

“Out with it then,” Kael growled. So he was still angry. Aisling winced.

But Rodney was unmoved by Kael’s impatience and ignored the bite in his tone entirely. He just rolled his eyes, turning his back on the males to face Aisling instead. “It needs something from each of you. Something important.”

“What does that mean?” Aisling understood very little of Rodney’s magic—of most Fae magic, really, but his seemed particularly nebulous. He could weave, could Create things out of nothing; what could she or anyone else offer him that might turn a plain dagger into a deity-slaying weapon?

“We need to give it something. To give up something.” Raif answered for Rodney, pronouncing each word slowly as understanding began to dawn on him. Aisling couldn’t keep up.

Rodney nodded. “This weapon will be used to kill. What you give it—it has to be dark. It has to be a part of you that hurts to give up.”

Nausea swelled and burned in Aisling’s throat and that horrible, horrible taste of iron returned to her tongue.

She wouldn’t do it again—wouldn’t allow any of them to do it again.

She’d rather rot away in Antiata for the rest of her days than see a single one of them toy with that sort of cruel magic one more time.

Her voice cracked when she said, “We can’t—”

“This isn’t blood magic, Ash,” Rodney interrupted, knowing where her mind had taken her. “It’s nothing so corporeal. More like…a feeling. Something you’ve held onto. Anger, sadness, hatred. But specific, not quite so broad as just an emotion—something you could describe.”

She couldn’t yet quite grasp the concept, but the others seemed to. Raif’s face was drawn; Kael just gave a tight nod.

“When?” Raif asked.

Rodney’s shoulders lowered as he relaxed some, knowing he had their support—however tacit. “I need a little time. Not long, but that last go was draining. Does anyone know if there’s leftover stew?”

Raif snorted, and Kael exited the cairn again without another word.

Aisling imagined he’d returned to pacing, wearing that same path deeper and deeper as he passed over it for the thousandth time.

It agitated her just to picture it, but she was thankful at least that he did so out of sight.

Finished with his own pacing, Rodney joined her on the floor.

“I’ll talk you through it, Ash,” he promised. “We’ll do it together.”

Aisling was grateful for his reassurance. It didn’t go far in easing her nerves, though she knew at the very least whatever he would have her do, she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

“Will it hurt?” she asked. She’d gone through so much pain already—her time in Yalde’s grip had been a blur of agony and heartbreak and frustration.

And although her injuries disappeared along with those spectral illusions Yalde had created, her throat still felt angry and raw.

She’d hoped the stew’s broth would have soothed it, but its heat only scalded her further.

“Not physically.” Rodney’s eyes were closed, his head tipped back to rest against the wall.

He spoke faintly as his breaths grew longer and deeper.

Aisling had always been envious of how easily he was able to fall asleep, how little he needed to be comfortable.

She longed for a pillow; one filled nearly to bursting with down.

A blanket, too—Kael’s cloak had done a fair job of keeping her warm, but it was rough.

She’d hated laying him to rest in those damned burial robes.

If she had known they were what he’d turn up in here, she’d have fought harder to burn him in something else.

Something soft. He deserved at least that.

But she couldn’t keep quiet for long; the sound of it was too agitating. Unsure whether or not Rodney was still awake, she whispered, “I’m afraid it won’t work.”

He cracked one eye open to look at her and smirked lazily. “What, you don’t think two emotionally constipated Fae warriors, an exhausted human, and a washed-up Weaver with a half-cocked plan can come together as a god-slaying dream team?”

“Take this seriously, Rodney.” Aisling swatted at his leg but smiled in spite of herself.

“Believe it or not, I used to be a cocky bastard when it came to Saothrealain.” He winked, then closed his eyes again.

Aisling rolled her own. “I believe it.”

“It was baseless; I never was much good. If I can pull this off, it might be the biggest thing I’ve ever done. And if I can’t, well…” Rodney shrugged, rustling the fur on the back of his neck. “At least I’ll die knowing I tried.”

Aisling’s smile fell quickly.

When she didn’t respond, Rodney sighed. “Fine, I’ll take it more seriously. If I can’t figure this out, I promise I’ll make my last words something profound. I’ll give a whole damn soliloquy if there’s time.”

“I don’t find that funny,” Aisling shot back. His humor was as dry as ever. She appreciated it most of the time, but less so now.

Rodney heaved another exaggerated sigh and slid a bit further down the wall, shifting until he found a comfortable divot for his head. “I’ll save us all, Ash. Promise. Just let me rest first.”

Two emotionally constipated Fae warriors, an exhausted human, and a washed-up Weaver.

On his description of Kael and Raif she wouldn’t comment, but he was right about at least one of those things: Aisling was exhausted.

Lulled by the crackling fire and soothed by Rodney’s steady snoring, she tilted her head to rest it on his shoulder and closed her eyes, too.

Aisling’s sleep was light and restless. It was plagued with images of the mural, moving and shifting and changing.

Cracks split open near the ceiling where the roots gripped the stones and spewed freezing water streaked with crimson blood.

The depictions of Yalde grew and grew, inky paint spreading from the cosmos in his chest and covering over all the rest, until the wall was solid black.

That tiny kernel of Seren pulsed with light, fighting against the paint until it finally succumbed.

Then from below, something grabbed her ankle.

She woke with a start just as the light flickered out, gasping as though she’d been submerged in the paint and the blood-soaked water, too. Kael was crouched in front of her, one hand on her ankle. He’d shaken her awake gently, though in her nightmare-addled mind it felt far more violent.

“You were dreaming,” he said.

Aisling looked away and rubbed her cheek, hot and flushed from where it had been resting on Rodney’s shoulder. “I’m fine.”

His silver eyes just examined her face in silence, taking in the tracks her tears had carved through the dirt on her cheeks while she slept. Suddenly self-conscious under his gaze, Aisling lifted an arm to scrub them away. He was quicker, though. He always was.

Kael caught her arm and lowered it, instead raising his free hand to smooth his thumb over her cheek.

Her body betrayed her resolve to stay distant: Aisling couldn’t keep herself from leaning into his touch.

She held her breath, not because of his sudden closeness, but because there were dozens of words stuck in her throat that she didn’t dare let escape.

He was so impossibly gentle with her, as though she were something precious, something fragile.

The realization twisted painfully in her chest, because she wasn’t fragile—not anymore.

She may have been, once upon a time. She’d changed so much; she felt she’d become hard and unkind and detached from her friends, her life, herself.

Yet under Kael’s touch, she felt soft again, and that terrified her.

“Come with me, Aisling,” he murmured, still with his hand on her cheek. “I’d like to speak with you.”