I’m no stranger to pain. I’ve fought in wars. I’ve sustained injuries that would kill a human and nearly kill a Fae. I’ve been cleaved with knives and swords and been stitched together more times than I can count. But this feels like pain turned inside out. I want to curl into a ball and die.

In and out. In and out.

More deep breaths as I attempt to sort through a haze of turbid thoughts.

What’s the last thing I remember? Lor. My father captured us. There was that strange black smoke, but that was not his magic. That was something else.

I remember a flash of red light, and I remember flying a long distance before my heart seized in my chest.

And then what? Nothing. Just darkness.

Why can’t I move, and where the fuck is Lor?

She left me. My father made it seem like I’d helped him, and like an idiot, I stood there and said nothing. I’d been too stunned to move. She has to know I would never have given her up to that monster, but everyone in her life has betrayed her. Why should she think I’m any different? It took everything for her to learn to trust me, and then my father wiped it away in one sweep.

But I am different. I would travel into the darkest pits of the Underworld to save her, and she knows that. Right? But where is she now? Does my father have her? Is he hurting her?

Why can’t I move? I’d cry if I had the strength.

Agony ruptures through my bones with every serrated breath. I hold perfectly still, hoping to ease my pain as I listen to my surroundings.

Where am I? Are we back in The Aurora? Why can’t I open my eyes?

A cool breeze ghosts over my skin, loosening some of the tension in my muscles. Something warms my bare feet—what happened to my boots? It feels like sunlight, though I can’t say why exactly.

So I’m not in The Aurora, then. Somewhere else.

I wiggle my fingers, trying to stretch them out, and even that hurts, pain radiating up my arms as I groan.

There’s a soft rustle of fabric near my head, and I scrunch my eyes together before I will them open. The effort is monumental. Staggering. I tow up my lids, dragging them open like pulling up a corroded anchor from the bottom of a frozen sea.

The world before me is a blur of colors, everything smearing together into a shapeless blot. I blink, nearly losing the will to open them again. I repeat the process over and over until they eventually become like well-oiled hinges, and my vision slowly crystallizes into coherence.