“Indeed you have, child. But the story isn’t over yet,” Uaine replies.

“How could it be over? I’m still alive,” Croi says, turning to look at the stone wall.

How long do you think it will take for her to arrive?

The wall slides open, and Croi swallows her reply. Mabh, the daughter of the murdered Forever King, steps through, but this Mabh has changed so much from the coddled maid she was in the fragments Croi saw that she might as well be a different person.

This Mabh has a destroyed kind of beauty. She wears her hair short, cropped close to her skull, bringing her delicate features into stark relief. Her eyes contain the wreckage of a tragedy, and a gleam that promises retribution. She is dressed in a plain black tunic and black leggings on top of which she wears complicated fae armor. On her feet are black boots. On her hands are fine silver claws with sharp, pointed tips, delicately crafted but deadly nonetheless. A scabbard hugs her back. She looks like she has scrubbed the softness out of herself. Croi looks closer at her and notices the rock Mabh’s fingers are clasped around. The magick in the rock is decreasing as Mabh absorbs it; this magick filters into Mabh’s body, repairing her dragon-damaged magick. But the repair is tenuous and temporary. Croi sucks in a cold breath when she realizes that the magick in the rock looks familiar. She saw it last in the mountain where the monster sleeps.

When the magick in the rock is drained, Mabh tosses it to one of her companions. She, of course, hasn’t come alone. Unlike the rebel soldiers who are all young and inexperienced in battle, the kin following her all look fierce, as if they are well versed in the art of spilling blood. They are all armored with sharp weapons.

Has she not told these kin the consequences of spilling blood in the central hall of the Caisleán?

“I wouldn’t have if I were her.”

Mabh looks over at Croi; her gaze is a violation. “My daughter. I have been waiting a long while for you.”

Croi’s temper stirs. She tries to access the power that allows her to call kin magick to herself, but, unsurprisingly, she can’t feel her magicks at all. In this moment of broken bodies and divided souls, she has become emptied of power and agency. She might as well be human.

The doors of the hall open with a bang, admitting the wraithlike form of the Robber Queen, but unlike Mabh, she comes alone. Croi would applaud her courage, but she is uncertain of her ability to raise her arms.

The opponent is onstage. The scene is set.

The Robber Queen’s eyes are red, and her face is wan and lifeless. Seeing her makes Croi think of Irial. She is dressed even more plainly than Mabh, her black dress and black gloves complementing her black hair.

“Hello, Mabh. I’ve been waiting for you for a long while,” the Robber Queen says, echoing Mabh’s words.