Right after the three half-kin leave, quiet envelops the surroundings. The Talamh kin stop whispering, and the Tine kin go still. Croi rises to her toes, trying to see what is bringing about this change.

“The Robber Queen has arrived,” Tinder says in a low tone. “Along with her attendants.”

For a while Croi sees nothing. There are many taller kin in front of her, but entirely of their own volition, these kin start retreating. Croi stays put, her curiosity overriding all other emotion. Tinder, too, seems reluctant to move.

They first see two female fae, dressed simply in green clothes with headpieces made of wildflowers, clearing the way. Their magicks are pale green, and their faces are wan. Following these two, entirely without ostentation, is someone who can only be the Robber Queen. She is dressed starkly: a shapeless brown ankle-length dress without any flounces or frills covers her body. Gloves, the same color as her dress, hide her hands and arms. On her head is a simple crown made of lilies. Her unadorned black hair flows down her back to her waist. Her face is expressionless, her lips are pale, and her eyes… Croi takes a breath.

The rings around the pale brown irises of the Robber Queen’s eyes are black. As black as the magick coiling around her body. Every breath this fae monarch takes is a lesson in pain. Croi thought that her pain was excruciating, but this queen’s suffering has an intensity she cannot fathom. Each breath must hurt; the black magick has imprisoned her original magick. Not enough to kill but enough to torture.

Croi recognizes the choked feeling in her throat as compassion. She has been so focused on the Robber Queen that she has ignored the kin following her.

Someone’s looking at us.

Croi heeds her other self’s words and looks around. There, just behind the Robber Queen, is a fae boy, one with the sun in his eyes and a spring-green magick with yellow running through it. His beauty announces itself in his high cheekbones, serious and sad eyes, full lips, and curly black hair. His skin is tawny brown. Croi forgets to breathe while looking at him until the lack of air makes her gasp. The dream-Irial was beautiful, but the real Irial is so vivid and so bright, she cannot take her eyes off him. Croi feels her other self’s disgust, and her cheeks flame.

“I’m appreciative of beauty, all right?” she thinks.

That’s a little bit more than simple appreciation. Your drool could make a river blush.

“Hey!” Croi protests silently.

Perhaps he feels her ardent gaze because Irial turns to look at her again. However, his gaze is cool and dismissive; he only spares her a very brief glance before turning his attention to the rest of the Tine envoy.

“He doesn’t recognize us!” Croi wails to her other self.

Why are you so surprised? He has never seen our true form.

Croi deflates. What her other self said is not a lie, but for some reason, she still feels let down.