He didn’t think Mallian could counter that with anything approaching her capabilities—not now Vince had stolen away his ability to do so—but he did not know for sure.

There was no more lightning, but something about the Fold had changed. The air was charged with potential. The land held its breath. Even Vince found himself breathing lighter and quieter, in case a heavy breath jarred the place from its condition of anticipation.

He edged towards the cave entrance, stick held out before him, ready to jump back and defend himself if anything should enter. As the seconds and minutes ticked by, he became less inclined to believe the lightning had been anything to do with him. It felt too significant, too impactful to have involved a mere human.

When he moved out of the cave it began to rain. It felt like the Fold crying. Something passed by to the south, moving quickly through the woods and across the grassland, and though Vince could not make it out, he tracked its motion as its surroundings were stirred. Trees waved and shook, rainfall was disrupted, creatures took flight away from the moving object, and he knew at once what it was.

Grace was rushing towards the site of the lightning, across the valley floor and up the hillside towards where the raging sheets had illuminated the sky.

Something gone wrong? Vince wondered. The Fold failing? He didn’t know and could not guess, but it provided something of interest to occupy his mind. Wielding the stick and grabbing a skin of water from his cave, he started off in the direction Grace had taken.

After three steps, the ground began to shake.

After another three steps, the sky to the east turned from night into day, and sunlight streamed in from somewhere beyond.

* * *

Mallian has been alive long enough to know what the lightning signifies. A fairy is casting her spells. This, however, is not Grace.

Held tight to the ground, he has to twist his head to the side and strain his neck to look up towards the eastern hilltops. There is no more lightning, but he understands that a change has occurred, a change that he never expected.

What he feared was permanent has now become temporary. The Fold suddenly feels paper-thin, like the painting of an idea rather than the idea itself. He is still trapped against the most solid part of this painting, but he can already feel something beginning to change. He senses a weakness settling around him, and as if in reaction his own strength begins to build.

His heart, old as the hills and witness to so much love and hate that he sometimes feels as if he has drowned a hundred times over, starts to beat faster.