When she’s five steps away, the fae flings something in Croi’s direction. Croi smells smoke before she sees the ball of fire rushing toward her, its heat so intense, the air shimmers. The orange in Croi’s eyes deepens. She gets to her feet, easily this time. She does not avoid the fireball. Rather, she opens her arms to it, stepping back at the impact. The flames sink through her skin and into her veins.

The red-haired fae comes to a sudden stop, stumbling when her body reacts more slowly than her mind. Shock steals all expression from her face, and her eyes learn the color of fear.

Croi smiles at her. “My turn.”

The red-haired fae’s magick, a robust red and gold, coils around her body in plentiful abundance. Croi’s smile widens.

She doesn’t bother to sing to the fae’s magick; she doesn’t need to make an effort for such a trifle. She simply crooks a finger to it, commanding it to obey, and the fae’s magick is helpless to do otherwise.

The fae screams like Uaine did. Like the Redcaps did. Her eyes meet Croi’s for all of one terrified second. Then Croi lets go of the magick, and it trickles back to the fae, pale and subdued. The fae crumples to the ground. In the next moment, there’s a shout, and Croi senses a sword slicing the air before arriving sharp at her neck.

She tilts her head to the side and looks at the soldier holding the sword. He is dressed in a black tunic and pants of the same color; his face is beautiful but stern. He meets her eyes for half a second before his hand trembles. The sword falls first, then he follows, dropping to his knees before Croi. At that point, a number of similarly dressed fae slip out of the forest and into the clearing, keeping Croi and the other two fae at the center.

“You’re alive!!!” A high-pitched musical voice pierces the air, forcing the black-clad soldiers aside. The pixie comes to a stop, hovering in the air above them, looking around in bewilderment. “What happened to Ceara? Daithi? Why are they on the ground?”

At her words, Croi turns to look at Tinder, and the fae soldier on the ground immediately gets to his feet and rushes to the red-haired fae, or Ceara, as Tinder named her.

“Your friends?” Croi whispers. She can barely deny the fire’s desire to leave. The pixie nods. “Let them not attack me.” Before the final word is fully out, Croi falls to the ground and writhes as the fire burns through her skin before leaving. She is severed again. Broken once more. The fire flows back to the pit, burning brighter, replete with Redcap magick. Croi lies on the ground, smudged by the ash, convulsing with the pain.

Breathe.

“I suddenly no longer want to,” she thinks to her other self.

Breathe anyway. Think about this. The Hag knew of our severed self all along.