Chaos creeps at the corners of my mind, even as I sleep. In my dreams I'm floating alone in inky blackness, or swimming untethered in a sea of stars that laugh and laugh… The laughter fills me up, bubbling out of me when I'm awake, uncontainable.

The only thing grounding me in the physical world is the lingering feeling of that warm touch gliding along my skin, gentle fingers tugging my wounds closed with a tingle of magic. Somehow he seemed to soothe even the hidden injuries, left by the spell that squeezed and clawed its bony fingers along my insides, but also by that crushing grip around my neck. It's like I can still feel it, cutting off my ability to breathe as I hopelessly gasp and kick.

The king's huge hands used to remind me of my papa's. They don't anymore. Too many invisible scars have been left by the cruel hands of men, each memory leaving an imprint deep within. Ezebel's assignments always had their risks, but she'd say it was worth it, that a grab or a squeeze mattered very little in the grand scheme of things. A price worth paying. No real damage done. Yet I can still feel Gregorius's knobby fingers, skin thin and veiny, pinching like the covetous talons of a bird of prey.

The next time I blink into consciousness the cave is dark, the campfire died down to embers. Aisling is sitting beside me in my little sleeping nook, her knees up and her head resting against the rocky wall. Her eyes are closed, but I can tell she's still awake. She's got a hand on the hilt of her dagger, ready to pounce at any second.

"Where is he?" I ask, my voice thick with sleep.

"Huh?" she gives a start, her honey-blonde hair falling over her face as she looks down at me."The prince? Resting. Like you should be."

I drop my head back down. "I'm sorry, Aisling," I say, the words muffled against the blankets. My body shakes with joyless laughter, but I'm able to swallow most of the sound.

"We'll talk about it when you've gotten some more sleep," she says softly. She must think I'm crying, I realize. "He said he only healed the cuts on a surface level, and there was so much blood…" She sighs, rubbing her face.

"He fixed the outside" I say, my voice thin with suppressed giggles, "but inside I'm all messy. My threads got unwound. Drifting loose."

Aisling frowns, brows furrowed with concern. "Rest, okay?" she says. "Go back to sleep."

...

I wake up to a soft fluttering near my head, alerting me to the pixie's arrival. The cave is d..ark, with the fire dying down to embers and sleeping forms huddled next to its dwindling warmth. Aisling snores softly not far away.

The pixie darts around me, trailing glowing blue fluff, before dropping something on the ground beside my chest.

"Lady left treats!" it says, zig-zagging above the delivery, which is larger than the pixie itself—a familiar napkin-wrapped bundle.

"You went back?" I try to keep my voice down so I don't wake the others. "You shouldn't have done that," I scold. I'm trying to be stern, but a smile twitches at the corners of my mouth. I reach out to touch the present.

"No nibbles for me. Only you!" the pixie says. "Eat! Eat!"

I push myself slowly into a sitting position, crossing my knees before me. Something about the rich taste of chocolate and the crumbly sweetness of the biscuits melting in my mouth calms my trembling fingers; momentarily quiets the tormenting laughter.

"Thank you..." I say to the pixie. "I don't know your name. What are you called, little one?"

"Me? A name?" it gasps. It lets out a bashful giggle and flies in a loop around my sleeping area. "I only have one, lady," it chirps. "I give to you?"

"I'd be careful with that," Owlodin says softly, ducking his head to step into my corner of the cave. "A name is a powerful thing, for a faerie."

"Huh?" I blink at him. My hysterical, swirly mind is throwing a party at his presence, celebratory sparks shooting around within my skull. Somehow he seems so much brighter and more real than anything else I've ever seen. So unbelievably beautiful, so here.

He gives me a small grin. "Can I?" he asks, gesturing to the pile of blankets next to me.

I nod, more emphatically than I mean to. Trying to hide my strange eagerness, I finish the rest of the biscuit in my hand, chewing slowly.

He sits, with a deep sigh. "That was some of the most intense spellcasting I’ve ever done. Took more out of me than I realized.”

“Should I be worried?” I ask.

"Worried?" That grin again. "Don't worry. I don't run mysteriously into the woods and turn up nearly dead the next day."

Nearly? Balsevor says. Farther than that, no?

"Twice dead, if it wasn't for you," I say. "All of you." I nod to the pixie hovering near us.

"Saved the lady. Hurry-hurry," the pixie says.

"I don't know if I want to ask, or…" Owl says.

I inhale slowly. "I… I got caught. Rogemere… I had to get away from him, and I…" The king. I have to tell him about the king. Laughter bubbles up; I clap both hands over my mouth.

The pixie launches down to my now much smaller stack of chocolate biscuits. "Eat!" it says, bouncing up and down. "Eat, eat!"

"Maybe you should listen to it," Owl says, chuckling. "We can talk about the rest later. If you want to. You don't… It's okay if…"

You have… What do the humans call it? Balsevor says. Mana sickness. Too much of the chaos flowing through your mortal shell.

My eyes widen. "How do you…?"

"That's not how mana sickness works," Owl argues. "It drains. People age, grow ill, fall asleep and never wake up again. Not…" He waves his hands vaguely in my direction.

Of course, Balsevor says. Human wizards pull mana out of their own physical being because they are too foolish to know otherwise. But that's not how magic works for us.

"Us?" I ask. "What do you—?"

Those who are directly connected, the dragon says. Tapped in to the chaos. Fae, dragons… Ancients. For us, too much magic does…. this.

"Oh," I breathe. A giggle slips out. "Oh."

You abandoned your shell, didn't you? Balsevor asks. Fully embraced the chaos. Let it take you.

"I had to," I say, my voice growing thin.

"Balsevor," Owl snaps. "What does that mean?" He seems to be growing genuinely irritated as the dragon and I talk back and forth.

"It means I died," I say. "To get away from Rogemere I… I died. But for some reason…"

Someone didn't want you to, the dragon says.

"I was drifting loose, and then… I wasn't," I say. "Owl... I'm so sorry… I…"

"Sorry? For not dying? I don't—"

"No, the king. Rogemere used a spell. He was controlling the king's body and…" I wince.

"Is he…? No, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure he’s fine. The Ironborn would have saved him."

"But what if he isn’t? What if he’s…" I wince, hating the laughter in my voice. "It’s my fault."

"No, it’s not," he argues.

"Yes, it is!" A high, muffled laugh sneaks out between my fingers. "It's my fault. I don't even know… I’m not even sure he's alive."

"He’s alive. Or he isn’t. I don’t care. I’m not going to get wrapped up in all of that again."

"All of what? Owl, it's your father," I say.

A cloud seems to gather behind his eyes. The lines of his face harden. "I am not the prince."

"He is still your father."

"Stop," he says. "Stop trying to turn me into someone I'm not."

"I'm not—"

"You are. It's not enough that I came back to this place to try and save my mother; now I have to care about him, too? I'm not hiding out here in the woods so I can swoop in and be the champion when you say the word. I'm out here because it's where I belong. Away from all of it. All of them. I don't ever want to go back.”

For a long moment, the only sound is the crackling of the campfire, and then a tiny, breathless chuckle emerges from my lips. My body starts to shudder with soundless laughter.

He glares at me, and that only makes it worse. The muscles in my face hurt from holding it in; from forcing my expression into a frown. The darkness feels so close, pulling at my being.

"Maybe this was a mistake," he says.

"What?" I ask, between wheezing giggles.

He stands and says, "I should have just done this on my own."

Owl, you're being too— Balsevor starts.

"Stop." Owlodin picks up his jacket from where he left it folded in his corner of the cave. He leaves the books and the Ironborn robes.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. My stomach aches from the unstoppable laughter. I hold my arms tightly around my midsection, like if I squeeze hard enough I can force the chaos back inside.

"It doesn't matter," he says. "It's not about you. You'll be fine. You're… You don't need me. I ruined it, anyway. I can't do this anymore."

And just like that, he leaves.