Ah. The fire magick speaks to me. Croi’s inner self relaxes slightly.

“Does that mean you are the true self and I’m the artificial one?” Croi asks her, feeling guiltier. Her inner self doesn’t reply.

“What causes her pain?” Croi raises her eyebrows at the king’s next question.

“The Glamour spell on the child is in the process of breaking,” the healer replies. “Her body is changing too rapidly; brownie physique is vastly different from fae. She is having to do the amount of growing in a month that other fae children do in seventeen years. I should tell you, sire, that the breaking of the Glamour is dangerous.

“Glamours are not meant to be cast long term. They erode the self, repress the true, and champion the false. Both her Tine and Talamh selves are extremely strong. Both of them will vie for dominance in the end. Unless these parts can be equalized and merged into one, her core will not survive the breaking.” The healer speaks softly, but their words are very clear.

“Is there no way to help her through the breaking of the Glamour?” the king asks. No expression mars his features; he might as well be made of the same stone as the Hag.

The healer closes their eyes, and when they open them again, the answer shines through. The king flinches, and Croi feels the absurd urge to laugh. Or cry. Or both.

I don’t want to die. I haven’t even felt the sun on my skin yet. You’ve been living on the outside all this time while I’ve been spending my days in the dark. How can I die?

“Can you not do it? Can you not make her whole again?” the king asks, and the healer shakes their head.

“That requires a magick far older, far stronger than I have… than what remains in this world.” The healer’s words linger in the silence that follows. “I’m sorry.” The healer bows once and leaves.

Croi stands beside the king, her eyes not moving from the illusion of the desert outside. Death has been on the horizon for so long, but the end Croi grappled with was a result of violence. Of monsters. A tremulous possibility when the wrong turn is taken. But the healer’s words promise that death is not a possibility but a probability. A conclusion that will be reached long before the embers have burnt out.

“I will not give up,” the king says suddenly, grabbing hold of Croi’s hands. “I will—”

Croi pulls her hands away. She does not want his sentiments. She understands his need to express them, but she will not accept them. It is far too late for him to assume responsibility for her.

“I am your father,” the king finally says, and Croi winces. She did not want him to name their relationship.

Just like the word “mother,” the word “father” is complicated for her. When she was still in the human world, she was desperate for parents to call her own. She saw how humans loved theirs. She thought that a father was someone who protects, someone who heals, and someone who makes things right. She was wrong. For Croi, a father is just another person she cannot call her own. Just another way she has been betrayed.