A warm glow suffuses the white-stoned buildings of the Caisleán. From this distance, she can see wide arches opening into well-dressed balconies surrounded by exquisitely crafted railings, sheer curtains teasing at the treasures hidden within, and moon windows. Flower vines climb up the walls of these buildings while trees interrupt the stone every so often. Unlike the human city, the Caisleán isn’t built against nature but as an extension of it. The massive living trees that punctuate the stone have a curious green magick that displays the same lassitude as all other magicks here. The gardens of the Caisleán aren’t manicured and lifeless like those in the human world. They are wild, yet maintained. Brightly colored bridges provide pathways over the lone river. Numerous towers try to reach the sky. Scattered courtyards and arbors are overflowing with flowers; pergolas and gazebos dot the gardens.

The forest that forms a wall around the Caisleán breaks in two places, once to allow the streams to join the river that leads into the mountains, and again to allow for gates.

A happiness so potent that it feels like pain fills Croi. Her other self echoes this feeling. Croi’s chest heats again, and a sense of homecoming infuses her.

The soldiers, with the Tine King at the forefront, lead the way down the mountain. Croi, holding on to Enbarr, follows with her eyes open wide so she doesn’t miss anything.

The road they’re on leads to the large, imposing gates Croi saw from above. The gates—made of wood and magick—are guarded by several fae soldiers wearing shades of green and brown. They all have bows and arrows, although a group of them carry swords as well.

Croi ignores them, greedily savoring the glimpses of the Caisleán visible through the gaps in the gate. A stray ray of sunshine glints off a golden bell that hangs in the belfry of a tower just inside the gate.

The Caisleán beats like a heart. Croi can feel it, a ponderous boom in her chest, like a knock on a door.

What is that? Are we dying already?

“I think this must be what home feels like,” Croi thinks uncertainly.

As they approach the gates, the Tine soldiers tense and strengthen their grip on their swords while the Talamh soldiers remain stoic and silent, looking stiffly in front of them. They betray no awareness of the Tine procession. Croi is so intent on peering through the gates that the Caisleán catches her unawares.

She feels a rush of emotions: gladness, despair, and sorrow. The emotions are followed by mind-pictures, just like the ones Uaine showed her, of male kin with long solemn beards and merry eyes, of female kin with dresses made of flower petals and jewels, of laughing faces and crying ones. She is inundated by these images, moving from happy times to sad ones to those of blood and horror. When she is one image away from being overwhelmed, a gravelly voice that is not her other self whispers deep in her head.