He walked through the yard. Past the Forge Born who still slept, past those that thirsted for the blood of history. They did not harm him. Her voice led him, and he came to the steps of the keep, climbing them slowly.

The husk waited at the top, holding the crown. Pocket stood before him and looked up into the sack face beneath the wide brim of the rumpled hat. The husk spoke, but the voice was that of the girl. And she laughed.

“A half breed! The irony is rare and sweet after nine hundred years. Your ancestors broke the most sacred oaths, sacrificed the most precious gifts in life, all to try and gain dominance over immortals. Now here you stand, the blood of Fae and sorcerer mixed inside of you.”

Pocket heard cries behind him. Familiar voices calling his name. He turned and saw them running, fear on every face. But they were more than faces. He could see all of them now.

The piskie was made of sprouting seeds, drops of dew, gentle puffs of air and brief, tiny sparks; all the hopeful promises of the Elements. The tall, metal man had a heart that still burned and the flames flowed upwards into the iron cavern of his head, a gift given and one not taken away. In the coburn, he saw chained aggression, the links newly forged in the younger, and, in the older, they snapped before his eyes. Such raw emotions, held back with pride and vows. Mirth danced in the dying goblin; the joy of laughter, the pain of ridicule. In the other he saw the crushing burden of truth, made all the more heavy by the kindness that floated deep within the vast pool of knowledge. The black haired man carried a withering belief, a fraying thread between mortals and Faekind. They reached the steps, this group of frail beings. The husk raised the crown above his head, and the girl laughed again.

By the Hallowed! What is wrong with him?

“Pocket!”

She screamed his name as she flew towards the steps of the keep. Her voice was a feeble thing and the boy did not heed it. He stared down at her, the life gone from his face. Next to her, Padric also screamed as he ran, but his entreaties were cast at the husk. The gangly arms held a simple, terrible crown above its head, the featureless face an icon of contempt.

“Fight her!” Padric yelled. “Slouch Hat, damn you, fight her!”

Rosheen could hear the burden in his ragged shouts, rage and impotent guilt.

He knew there was a danger here.