Blood and bile rose in his throat, and he retched, spilling his guts on the stones as the crown poisoned him. He looked and saw his friends lying on the steps, dead and dying, tormented by madness. They had come to save him! He who was the product of a deceitful union. The issue of tyrants. A changeling! A gurg! An unwanted curse on the mortal world and with no place in the realm of the Fae.

Weak, thin fingers grabbed at him.

“I am sorry,” an odd, reedy voice said. “I am sorry.”

He caught a glimpse of the husk through seeping eyes and felt the fingers move to his head, prying at the crown. Pocket jerked away, causing a bolt of fell energy to slam into to the husk. It flew away and crashed into the door of the keep. Pocket had not wanted to harm him, but he could not allow the crown to be removed. Through the pain there was power and while his Fae blood burned, his mortal blood fused with the legacy of lost domination. His will would be absolute, even as his body fell to ruin.

He could feel them dying. His friends. The men in the yard and the goblins too. The Unwound crushing them into pulp. It was not what he wanted. It must stop!

And at his command the Forge Born slept. He led them back to the oblivion of mindlessness. No will, no bloodlust. Nothing. And they obeyed.

The crown fought his desires, screaming voices chastised him, and he felt the hot flow of blood spilling out his ears. He screamed, silencing the voices, forcing them to listen.

He mended Flyn’s body, his first true friend. The squire’s chest rose and fell, his breath restored. Pocket then returned the life of the one who had given him his; the knight that he worshiped and loved. He chased the voices from Curdle’s mind, restoring his peace and purged the venom from Muckle’s veins. Next, he repaired the form of the last true Forge Born, recognizing the necessity of his existence. He closed the throat of the man he did not know, for Rosheen loved him, and she had given Pocket so much.

They were his friends.

They had smiled with him, laughed with him, shared meals and stories. It was more than he ever thought he would have, and if he must give his own life to save theirs, he would give it.

He would give it gladly.

Padric sucked in air. He coughed and sputtered. The memory of choking on his own blood, unable to breathe, the feeling of his severed windpipe in his fingers, both still hung in his mind. He tried to rise, but his legs were quivering and useless. He looked over and saw Rosheen flying in weak sputters up the stairs, her eyes wide and staring.

“Pocket?” her voice broke.