“I will live,” Croi replies, looking away from the fae couple.

“This is Ceara, and with her is Daithi,” Tinder says, rapidly making introductions. “They helped me track you. Ceara saw you and mistook you as part of the Redcap group.”

“Because all ugly things must be evil?” Croi asks faintly.

“I apologize,” the red-haired fae says, stepping forward and sketching a bow. “I should have known better than to act on assumptions.” Ceara’s voice is husky, and she brings a smell of spices with her. Something piquant. It’s not an entirely unpleasant smell.

Should we forgive her?

Croi nods at Ceara, indifferent to her apology.

“I’m not going to apologize,” the soldier, Daithi, says.

“I don’t recall asking you to,” Croi says. Daithi thins his lips and turns away, as if looking at her is beneath his dignity.

“How did you get caught by the Redcaps?” Tinder asks.

“Are you asking me if I did anything to attract their attention?” Croi asks.

“I guess?”

“Does eating a hot meal count?” Croi replies.

“How long were you on the Misery Train?” the red-haired fae asks, moving closer to Croi. Seeing her blank look, she explains. “That’s what the train of cages is called.”

“I don’t remember. Time didn’t seem to move outside.”

“That’s because you were on the Shadow Road. It’s a good thing the Redcaps love comfort. If they hadn’t left the Shadow Road, we would never have been able to catch up. The archers climbed the trees on the north side of the clearing to aim at the Redcaps, but then the night crows attacked and put some of the weaker ones to sleep. Thank Fionar Ceara was there. She set them on fire, but there were too many of them for her to handle. For a while I was sure we were going to end up in the cages right beside you, but all of a sudden, they just”—Tinder waves her hands around—“dissipated. It was really strange. What happened?”

“Presumably the Redcaps died at that moment,” Croi replies, wondering if she should tell them that she was the one who killed the creatures.

Tell them. The knowledge will make them wary and less likely to trouble you.

“How did they die?” Ceara’s eyes are a light orange ringed by amber and surrounded by long, curled lashes. She’s wearing a tunic and leggings of a fine silver material Croi has never seen before.

“I killed them,” Croi says. Her words fall heavily in the space between them, stark in their simplicity and certainty.

“How?” Daithi asks, the contempt on his face finally shifting to something more, something that looks a lot like respect.

“I burnt their magick.” Croi looks up at him and quirks her lips. “Do you need a demonstration?”

“Why did my magick not hurt you?” Ceara asks, not letting Daithi respond to Croi’s provocation. “Are you Tine? Why do you have two rings around your eyes? How can you hold that much fire? Why were you in so much pain at the end?”