I miss her.

“She’s my friend,” Croi says proudly.

She’s our friend.

Croi spends a while bickering with her other self before the day’s fatigue pulls at her eyelids. She’s almost asleep when they come. The shadowy soldiers do not give her a chance to scream, cry, or defend herself. A piece of cloth wrapped around her mouth gags, silences, and overpowers her. Her hands and legs are tied; she’s trussed up like the turkey humans like to sacrifice during feasts. Her attackers are Tine soldiers, though none of them are ones she knows. It takes two of them to carry her out of the room, through the corridors, out of the royal pavilion, and into the night. The guards around the pavilion avert their eyes when they see her. Fear prickles her insides; Croi reaches for her other self, finding her quiet and wary.

The soldiers carry her some distance away from the camp to a little clearing where a tremendous fire is burning. This fire is malevolent, with red flames and a smoky breath. Fear drums harder in her chest. Croi looks around and sees a dark figure detach from the trunk of a nearby tree and walk into the light. Lorcan. Why would he kidnap her from her bed?

The soldiers place her on the ground before the fire. Croi gleans some comfort from the earth pressing against her skin. Lorcan drops to his haunches before her and with one hand rips the gag out of her mouth. She takes a deep breath, wheezing as the cold night air stings her throat on its way in.

“Tell me who you are,” Lorcan says softly, almost kindly.

Croi stares at him stupidly. She still doesn’t understand why he brought her here. Did the princess order him to do this? Or was it the Tine King? Did she trust Tinder wrongly? But why would he do this? Croi doesn’t mean anyone harm.

“I heard that you hurt the princess, almost killed her,” he continues in that eerie voice, and Croi shudders. He is not wrong. She did do that. “How much pain do you think she felt?”

Without warning, he pushes Croi into the fire. She barely has time to gasp a breath before the flames reach for her. The heat has no bite, but the flames feel solid; they feel like they have the serrated edges of the swords beloved to the Tine soldiers. Lorcan holds up a hand, and the fire stills. This fire is unlike the other fires Croi has played with; its song is crooked. Still, both she and her other self wait for its heat, knowing that it will allow her broken self to be one again.

“Will you not tell me who you are and why you’re going to the Caisleán?” Lorcan whispers, his voice losing its soft edges for the first time.

“I don’t owe you any answers,” she tells the Tine general. She tightens her lips, grits her teeth, and readies herself for pain as Lorcan waves a hand, letting it flow toward her. The flames gain tangibility, become solid, and rush at her, cutting her skin with their edges as they continue through her skin and into her body. Croi screams at the pain; she didn’t think the fire would cut her like a knife.