When she emerges from a room that turned into a garden full of peonies in full bloom, the Caisleán shifts suddenly. Croi stumbles, barely managing to keep from falling. When she finds her balance again, she is in front of the path lined by trees with triangular leaves, the path the elder blue-horned faun was led up. Down this path, a little ways in front of her, motes of magick swirl, coming together to shape a fae form. This time the magick is a bit stronger and the fae figure lasts longer.

The Caisleán’s fae form is dressed in a bloody white dress; her hair is long, tangled, and snow white in color. The pupils of her eyes are also white but thinly rimmed by dark green. Her skin is brown, a deep earth brown. She stands on the path and beckons to Croi.

Should we?

“How can we not?”

Croi follows the Caisleán down the path, which leads into a courtyard that splits off into three different hallways; not one kin is present in this part of the Caisleán. While the Caisleán is millennia old, the parts Croi has seen of it are well maintained. In this section, however, decay rules. The air is stale and dusty, making breathing an interesting exercise. Croi suddenly hears voices talking and walks down the first hallway all the way to the end, where it opens up into what looks like a throne room. Torches burn on sconces on the wall, and a large chandelier illuminated by multitudes of fireflies hangs from the high ceiling. Several kin fill the room, but they are all shadowed by the two standing in the front. The first one wears a crown made of living wood complete with thorns, leaves, and flowers. The skin on his face is stretched tight, and his eyes tell tales of his ruthlessness. The crown makes his identity obvious. The second fae is also male, with black hair and thick eyebrows that resemble Irial’s. Croi identifies him as Lugid, the king’s strategist before he became the Usurper.

Everyone’s attention is on the elderly blue-horned faun who stands in front of the king and his strategist, head bowed in deference.

“The beast in the mountain is called Ocras, my lord. According to the teachings of our elders, he was trapped in the mountain by kin from before Fionar’s time. As long as the amount of magick in the mountain doesn’t lessen, he will remain asleep, but as soon as the magick level decreases, he will awaken. We cannot risk waking him; the consequences will be more than we can bear. Have mercy on us, sire.”

“We have heard you,” the Forever King says, the kindness on his face at odds with the look in his eyes.

Everyone in the throne room disappears in the next second as if the Caisleán is choosing what to show Croi. Only Lugid and the Forever King remain in the throne room. “Sire, it is better to heed the words of the faun elder,” Lugid says, breaking the stiff silence between them.