Behind her cage is another cage and behind it, yet another. She’s in a train of cages, all full of prisoners. Fear pushes its way to the surface, and Croi looks around for her pack. It’s nowhere to be seen.

Croi breathes in sharply. She lost it. She has lost Uaine’s SoulSeed. Uaine is going to die. If Uaine dies, no one will help her sister look for the lost HeartStone. Without the HeartStone, the Saol ceremony won’t be completed. When the Saol ceremony isn’t completed, Fionar’s magick will fail. Her sacrifice will be for naught. And it will all be Croi’s fault.

Don’t be stupid. It’s not like we asked to be kidnapped.

“If I had been more careful…” Croi trails off, shrinking into herself.

How could you have done that? So what if the world falls into chaos? Why should we care? No one has ever cared for us. The Hag only brought us up because we were a debt she needed to repay. Uaine only broke the summoning spell because she needed us to transport her SoulSeed to her sister. She took the risk, knowing full well the dangers of handing herself to someone who won’t be able to guarantee her survival. As for Fionar, her sacrifice was her decision. We don’t need to worry about the fate of the world. What we do need to worry about is ourself. Are we going to survive this day?

Panic envelops Croi at her other self’s words, and for a moment she can’t breathe. She grips the cage bars with her hands and pulls. Her helplessness shames her. Her chest feels like it’s on fire. She tries breathing. It doesn’t help. The pain spreads from her chest to her arms to her fingertips. She stares outside blankly, fists clenched, forehead damp with sweat, enduring the agony.

The forest on the other side of the bars doesn’t seem quite real. The trees appear as though they were etched into existence by blunt crayons. The moss hanging off the branches is undefined, and the forest floor is made of darkness… just like her. She should not exist.

Stop.

The anger in her other self’s voice pierces through the dark haze currently trying to overwhelm her. The little flame she swallowed burns through this haze, ruthless in its determination to excise it from her body.

Croi breathes out, suddenly relieved. Her head feels lighter.

Stop existing? Croi shakes her head. She doesn’t want to die. She has so many things to do still. So many kinds of food she hasn’t tasted, so many places she hasn’t been. She still needs to find out who her parents are, what her body really looks like, what her face looks like. She needs to find a way to become whole. Fall in love. Find out the taste of kisses.

Croi shakes her head again. Her throat is thick with unshed tears, and her shoulders are bent with a sorrow that insists it is hers. However, this misery feels artificial.