“They will always need you.” Baba Omly held up a hand to stop Lina’s protest. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll understand that there will always be something to worry over. Every battle feels deserving of sacrificing yourself for, but if you destroy yourself over every problem, mea raga, you won’t be around long enough to lead them through it.”

Lina’s eyes sharpened as she clenched her jaw. Bri knew that feeling all too well—so desperate to burn herself to cinders in order to fix the wrongs of the world.

“I was born to make sacrifices for my people,” Lina muttered.

“Perhaps you’ve taken the prophecy of your birth too literally.” Baba Omly’s eyes flicked to Bri and Bri quirked her brow in confusion, wondering what Lina’s prophecy was. “Both of you.” Bri scowled but the Baba continued. “I told Queen Thorne the same thing and she had the same reaction. She was so certain she could defy Fate by sending your family away.”

“The Goddess of Death comes for us all,” Lina gritted out. “Fate or no.”

“Unfortunately, I have no potion or elixir to deal with headstrong young fae.” Baba Omly made a straining groan as she pushed herself to stand and gestured for the door. “But such is the way of youth to ignore the wisdom of your elders.”

Lina gave the High Priestess a begrudging hug as she rounded the desk. “Thank you for looking after Nelle.”

Baba Omly cupped Lina’s cheek with a smile. “You are already a better ruler than your mother, Lina. You don’t need to try so hard to prove you are so different than her.”

Lina’s eyes guttered, the weight of the Baba’s words crashing into her. The Baba had said the thing that Bri had been thinking since the moment she met Lina. It was evident in every choice and action Lina made: she wanted to prove herself worthy of her crown, but in her people’s eyes, she already had.

“Take care,” Lina said, ignoring the Baba’s comments and heading out the door. She didn’t wait to see if Carys or Bri followed.

Baba Omly looked between the two of them. “I’m glad she has you.”

Bri swallowed the hard knot in her throat, bowing to the High Priestess and leaving. She wanted to protest, but it wasn’t worth her breath. Baba Omly was wrong—soon they’d be gone.

*   *   *

Bri wished for the hundredth time that evening that she had declined the invitation to dine at the Wystron family manor. The residence took up half a city block, nearly the size of the brown witch temple itself. Everything dripped in unparalleled opulence, more so than even the palace. Where the castle was tasteful and rich, the manor bordered on gaudy—the eye having no place to rest amongst the riot of rich fabrics, gilded baubles, and gem-studded trinkets.