The object of their deference is a fae man of Lorcan’s age, with hair much like a lion’s mane, yellow sprinkled liberally with red. His body is tall and strong, and his arms are corded with muscles. His skin is a mixture between orange and brown, gleaming with health and power. He’s dressed in an embroidered white tunic and black pants. His boots are made of a supple brown material that molds to his legs. A crown made of phoenix feathers and gold filled with flames rests on his head. Croi wonders that it doesn’t burn him.

She turns to her companions and sees that each one of them has bowed their head. Something in her resists looking at the Fire King’s face, but she overcomes that reluctance. His face is lightly bearded and boasts thin lips, high cheekbones, a narrow forehead, and thick eyebrows that frame densely lashed tawny eyes ringed with red. His face is unlined, but his eyes give his age away.

His magick is so powerful that it shocks both Croi and her other self.

We know him… don’t we?

“We’ve never seen him before today. How could we know him?” Croi keeps her eyes on the king, almost greedy for his attention.

His magick feels familiar. Too familiar. I don’t like this feeling.

Croi doesn’t bother replying. She knows exactly what her other self means. This is Ceara’s father, Aodh, the king of Tine. That much is obvious.

“Who are you?” His words are a command, demanding that Croi respond. She, however, doesn’t feel the urge to tell him any of her secrets.

Frowning when Croi doesn’t reply, the fae king gives the kneeling kin permission to rise, and they, especially Monca, rise gratefully. Then he starts walking toward where Croi stands, at the back, near the entrance.

Be careful.

Croi stays still, waiting for the king, barely breathing as he approaches.

“You are familiar to me,” the king says, looking down at Croi from his greater height.

Croi doesn’t respond. What can she say that will make sense? There’s a roaring in her ears.

“Who are you, child?” the king asks again. His voice sounds like crackling fire.

Instead of replying, on a whim, Croi reaches out and touches his hand. At the moment of contact, both the magicks inside her are shocked awake. One of her magicks sings the same song as the Fire King’s magick; it undulates to the same tune.

Croi finds the word for this fae king, and she knows by his surprised look that he knows the word for her as well. He holds her hand tight in his for a second before he lets go and walks, almost flees, away. Croi ignores the questioning looks everyone directs to her and follows a servant kin to her living quarters. The room Croi is given is empty of all furniture except for a bed. She has never slept on a bed before, so she takes one long moment to luxuriate in its softness. She places her pack beside the pillow and takes off the veil she was wearing. The windows in the room are curtained, making the room dark. She walks over and pulls the curtains aside, and a breeze, unlike any other she has ever felt before, wafts in through the windows, tracing eolian fingers over her skin. Unlike the cold earthy breezes of the forest, this breeze has an underlying heat to it, like a promise from the sun fulfilled. Croi lifts her head, looks outside, and blinks twice.