“That is evil?” Ambrose asked, his voice tinged with confusion.

  “We're all the heroes in our own minds. The difference between good and evil is the side you fall on,” I replied, regret lacing every word as they left my mouth. My voice felt heavier than before. It always did after remembering the Queen.

  I stood up from the table, watching Ambrose’s expression shift—wide-eyed wonder dimmed by something more complicated. His gaze, once bright with curiosity, softened into concern. He had so many questions, each one threatening to unravel me. I wasn’t ready to answer all of them yet. Not without time to breathe.

  I held out my hand. “Come with me.”

  Ambrose slipped his hand into mine, small and rough, and we stepped into the light together. The front door creaked as it opened, revealing the golden afternoon spilling over the grass. The warmth of the sun wrapped around us, a quiet reminder that the Earth hadn’t lost everything.

  We sat cross-legged in the meadow, the breeze stirring the tall grass around us like whispers of forgotten voices. I took his hands in mine and closed my eyes, listening to the heartbeat of the land.

  “Fae magic,” I began softly, “is ruled by emotion. The stronger you feel, the stronger your magic becomes.”

  I inhaled slowly, drawing on the life energy that threaded itself through the soil, the trees, the insects tucked between blades of grass. I felt them all—tiny pulses in the grand rhythm of the world. “But there’s a cost,” I continued. “You gain strength, but you lose control. That’s where the danger begins. You can’t just feel. You have to master what you feel.”

  A golden light spilled from our joined hands, so bright it bled through my closed lids. The warmth of my power surged outward in a wave, latching onto the grass around us. The light turned hungry. The grass turned brown.

  “Open your eyes,” I whispered.

  The grass surrounding us had wilted in a perfect ring of decay. The life I pulled from it coalesced in a glowing orb above our hands. It pulsed with quiet promise.

  “This is your power. To take. To strip life from anything around you.”

  Ambrose stared, silent. “But there’s more,” I added, gently gathering the orb. I parted the grass in front of us with a flick of my hand, revealing a frail rabbit hidden in the shadows. Its life energy flickered—dim, unsteady.

  “It’s easy to take,” I said. “Giving is harder. It requires intent. Focus.”

  With careful precision, I guided the orb forward. The glow split into strands of golden light, spiraling down like threads of starlight. The rabbit’s ears twitched. Its sides rose. The dull flicker inside it strengthened, like a spark coaxed back into flame.

  Ambrose blinked. “How did ya know that rabbit was there?”

  I looked at him gently. “Why didn’t you?” I gestured around us. “There’s an ant mound behind you. A flock of birds to the north. A dying oak tree just at the edge of the hill. I can feel them all. When you connect to life energy, you’re never alone.”

  He held up a finger as a butterfly landed on it—orange and gold, delicate and perfect.

  I saw his face soften as I admired the bright colors of the creature, and knew this was a lesson he needed to learn. With a flick of my magic, the butterfly’s color drained, and its body collapsed.

  Ambrose gasped. “Why would ya kill it?”

  “To show you this.” I drew the life energy from the tiny body. A small orb formed, I held it above the winged beauty and attempted to push its life energy back into it but this time, it refused to move. No matter how hard I tried, the butterfly remained still. Cold. Dead.

  “Even we have limits,” I said, my voice quieter now. “Death is death. When something gives everything, there’s nothing left to give back.”

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  He looked at the insect in silence, pain swimming in his eyes. “Who taught you all this?”

  I looked away. “I had many teachers. Most of them misunderstood the gift. Only one ever really saw it for what it was.”

  “Jabez?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “How did you learn so much?”

  “I didn’t,” I whispered. “I just failed enough times to figure it out.”

  He didn’t respond right away, but the weight of his thoughts filled the air. I stood and offered him my hand again. “It’s time we start reconnecting you to your gift.”

  He tilted his head. “How are we gonna do that?”

  “Think of magic like a battery. Yours has run dry. We need to give it a surge of energy. But not from me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Fullvalda can’t draw from each other’s life energy. That rule is absolute. You’ll have to find your power on your own.”

  He frowned, unsure.

  “When something dies,” I explained, “its life energy is released into the world. If you’re open to it—if you’re paying attention—you can feel it. That energy builds over time. Enough of it, and your gift will awaken again.”

  He crouched and reached toward the grass. “Like this?”

  I nodded. “Start small. Just a single blade. You won’t feel anything at first. But every death adds something. Every moment adds weight.”

  He plucked a blade and watched it shrivel. Then another. Then another.

  “It’ll take time,” I said. “But it will come.”

  As I watched him pluck each blade, my mind went back to the day I connected with life energy for the first time. The memory sent chills down my spine as each horrid moment pressed to the front of my mind.

  -------

  I was twelve when the moment finally came. Wrapped in a white ceremonial gown, I stood alone in the moonlit field—barefoot, trembling. The air clung to my skin, each breath sharp with cold. A thousand eyes watched from the tree line. Every noble from every realm had come. It had been three decades since the last Fullvalda, an unprecedented gap between our reemergence. In the time between Calrian, the last Fullvalda, and me, tensions among the realms had risen. Some feared the Fullvalda would not return.

  Calrian had been the last—an Amatharan known for his compassion and fierce protection of the realms. Jabez knew him well. They had been friends at the end of Calrian’s life. Jabez learned from him. Admired him. And now, it was my turn.

  I heard a footstep behind me. Then warmth. Jabez. He knelt beside me, brushing my shaking hand with his own.

  “You’ll be fine, little one,” he said. “Don’t let them take the goodness from you.” Then he was gone.

  King Rowen stood before me. He offered his hand, and I took it. The crowd was vast. Cloaks of velvet, embroidered crowns, and faces I had only seen from afar. I stood before them—a girl made perfect through years of brutal etiquette and posture lessons. A girl polished until she gleamed.

  The king raised his voice. “The Fullvalda returns to us when we need them most. And we need Juniper now.”

  A group of samorogs were led forward—majestic creatures with long, snow-white feathers and eyes full of ancient memory. The stable boy bowed and handed me a ceremonial blade.

  “The samorog is among the oldest of creatures,” the king said. “They carry life energy in abundance. Juniper must connect with hers.”

  I looked to Jabez. My hands trembled.

  “Let me feel it,” I whispered. “Please.”

  He said nothing. And I felt nothing. He had absorbed it all—every ounce of my fear, my guilt, my horror. All that remained was hunger. A hunger that was not my own, a desire for power, a hopeful feeling that neglected all the horrible things that I knew were about to happen.

  The king handed me an old blade blacker than the night sky. Its onyx edge shimmered under the moonlight, and I caught a glimpse of my reflection. My mother’s eyes stared back at me, and I whispered a prayer of forgiveness to any god who would listen. Samorogs were her favorite. She would sneak treats from the kitchen to their stables and spend hours curled up beside them.

  But all my reservations, all my doubts, were washed away. All the memories of my mother and these creatures no longer mattered. All that mattered was the power I could feel humming beneath my skin, begging to be set free.

  I stepped forward toward the first creature. Its silver eyes met mine—and it knew. I could tell that it knew it was going to die, but it did not run, did not show fear. Instead, it raised its neck to me in understanding.

  The blade sank into the samorog’s throat. Its blood, silver and gleaming, splattered across my chest. I didn’t flinch. I felt nothing. I killed the next. And the next.

  Until they brought the baby.

  I cradled it in my arms. It looked up at me with wide, trusting eyes.

  “You made me do this,” I whispered to Jabez.

  And then I cut its throat.

  And then—I felt it. All of it.

  The weight of every death slammed into me like a tidal wave. I collapsed beneath the pain, shaking with the enormity of it all.

  And then—only then—did the light come.

  My body lifted from the ground. Golden spirals danced around me. Wings burst from my back—delicate, shimmering things, thin as glass and threaded with radiant veins.

  Fae wings. Most never flew with theirs. They were fragile, difficult to master, unstable at best. That’s why we rode samorogs. Safer. Stronger.

  But I was truly the Fullvalda now. And nothing would ever be the same.

  -------

  Ambrose was still kneeling in the grass, plucking blade after blade, frustration etched into every line of his face. I watched him closely. He was trying so hard. Too hard. But I wouldn’t let this destroy him the way it had destroyed me. I would be better. I would make sure he didn’t suffer the way I had.

  Even if it took the rest of my life to do so.