M y head was fucking killing me. When I opened my eyes to see familiar white stone dotted with uncanny carvings, I would be lying if I said
that I didn’t seize up a bit.
Everything about this place reeked of death. As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I felt a bit stupid for not realizing what lurked within these walls sooner.
I sat up. “Hello again.”
The burning girl smiled at me. Immediately, I looked away.
I stared at the wall, blood rushing in my ears to the beat of my pounding heart. I stood, carefully keeping my gaze on the stone.
“Why won’t you look at me?” the girl said.
Breathe, Max. You know what this place does.
When I had been imprisoned here, my broken mind had saved me. The burning girl had been horrible then, too, of course. The image alone, in any context, was horrifying. But now, knowing who she was—
Knowing what I’d done—
I shut my eyes and drew in a long breath.
“Why won’t you look at me?” the girl repeated. “I’ll have to, eventually,” I murmured.
Kira. The burning girl was Kira. I hadn’t recognized her back then—a strange kind of mercy.
Since my memories returned, I often dreamed of how my favorite sister looked when she died. Facing her here, where everything felt so much more real, was another matter.
This isn’t real. It’s a memory.
You can’t change your past. You’re here for the future.
I heard two hesitant footsteps. The crackling flames drew closer. She was right behind me.
I decided I would turn and quickly walk down the hall. I would barely glance at her. I’d keep my eyes straight ahead until I found Tisaanah—the real Tisaanah, not whatever nightmare this place would conjure.
I exhaled slowly and turned around.
“Why did you do this to me?” the burning girl asked, blinking rapidly, trying not to cry but on the verge of tears. She stood so close that I almost collided with her
Keep going. Walk right past.
But I froze.
Because this girl was not Kira.
She too had long black hair, but this child’s was sleek and wavy instead of pin-straight like Kira’s had been. Her features were different, though I saw myself in them still. Her eyes were wider, and green instead of dark brown—amber-green, like the sun shining through leaves.
A familiar green.
And then it hit me: The burning girl was not my sister. The burning girl was my daughter.
I had prepared myself for my worst memory of the past. I had not prepared myself for my worst nightmare for the future.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
The little girl’s lip quivered. “Why— why would you do this?”
Reality shifted, blended with the twisted logic of a dream world. I looked down at my hands. They were covered with ash and blood.
{You think you can have a future?} Reshaye’s voice whispered. {You think you deserve one, after you brought nothing but agony to your past?}
I closed my eyes. Centered myself. Focused on my breath. In. Out. This was not real. This was Ilyzath. I had survived this place before. I opened my eyes.
I allowed myself to actually look at her, even though I wanted more than anything to avert my gaze. I realized that her features changed slightly every time I looked at them, as if compensating for a million different
combinations of the future. The only thing about her that did not change were those green eyes.
I reached through the fire and cradled her face, ignoring the pain. My chest tightened. I loved this child. I loved her so much that the very possibility of her existence terrified me.
Wake up, Max.
“You aren’t real,” I murmured.
The crying stopped. The girl smiled, eerily. “Not yet. But I will be. And then what will you do?”
Protect you. Fight for you. Love you. But right now, you aren’t real.
I stepped away from her.
She lurched towards me, the strange adult calm on her face replaced with the innocent fear of a child—and even now in this dreamworld, that cry awakened some primal instinct in me.
“Don’t leave,” she wept. “Don’t leave me alone. Don’t leave me.” “I’m doing this for you,” I said.
Wake up.
The dream shattered. I opened my eyes.
For several long seconds, everything was silent except for the thrum of my blood pounding. I’d forgotten exactly how fucking creepy Ilyzath’s silence was. Unrelenting. Unnatural.
Then, words parted the silence, not quite a voice, perhaps not even a real sound.
Welcome back, my ashen son. Ilyzath’s whispers surrounded me like mist. You have brought my missing pieces home to me. I sense them within these walls.
The Lejaras. My consciousness was still fuzzy. I couldn’t make my mouth form the word.
Strange, Ilyzath murmured, in groans of stone. I thought you would fail.
But of course, you have not shattered inevitability yet.
I cut through the fog of my dream. “Wait,” I started to say, but before I could speak—before I could ask the questions I desperately needed to answer—its voice faded.
It was replaced, moments later, by the sound of approaching footsteps.
Relief flooded me. I sat up.
“Tisaanah, I’m—”
—so fucking glad to see you.
The words died in my throat. Standing before me was the Fey king.
