“No, you don’t. You owe it to them, to those who walked this path before you, to your father—and yes, I’ll name him. He deserves to be named, to be remembered, for what he did: Áskell of the Mountains, prince of the noble house of Iárnkaré, last scion of the ancient Rock Wolf clan. When we still lived in caves like savages, your family led us; when magic first stirred in our veins, your people ruled.” Arsen tried to pull away, but the old fey held on. “Long before the gods came, long before our world was torn asunder, you called and we came, and we followed.

“They will follow you again. But not now. Not yet.”

“Then when? After he’s destroyed us? I don’t care who leads; I care what we become—”

“And without you, what do you think that will be? Patience—”

“And how many more will die while I am patient?” Arsen said savagely.

“However many need to. Better to lose some than all, and to forfeit a battle than a war. You want revenge, I understand—”

“Then you understand nothing! What’s done is done!”

“And may yet be undone. Your father died for a cause he believed in. Honor him by completing that task, not by throwing your life away to no purpose.”

“It has a purpose if it removes that thing from the throne!”

The bearded fey just looked at him calmly, and said a single word. “If.”

Arsen stared at him for a moment, then tore away, striding down the hallway. This time, no one followed. Although I honestly don’t think it would have mattered.

His thoughts were too jumbled to listen to anything else anyway, and so were mine.

There were more wonders to be seen, but I barely noticed. We exchanged the blue expanse for a white one, with walls of what looked like ice. The cracks in the brittle-looking exterior constantly changed as we strode underneath, with soft, splintering sounds that kept making me flinch, thinking the whole ceiling was about to come down.

After that came huge crystal formations in a dull pinkish red that curved over our heads like a bower, like masses of stone flowers, and which should have been lovely. And in a way, they were, like walking through a garden—one caught in a stiff breeze. Because the rock clusters were moving, opening and closing and wafting back and forth, like garlands blowing in the wind.

Or like what they were: living rock.