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“Fetch his crown, will you, Raldo? And his throne.”

A Sorronian faerie with peppery hair glanced uncertainly at the rest of the Good Council before jerking his head. Within mere minutes, Jagaros’s crown came soaring to a halt before his curled, jerking form. It didn’t take long for that throne made of stone to follow, uprooted from his domed palace to perch itself on top of the mountain.

Dyonisia withdrew her antipower. She waltzed down to tower over him.

“You surrender?”

Still on his knees, Jagaros choked out, “You know I did not commit the crime you accuse me of. I would never. You have slaughtered thousands of my people for nothing.”

“Mmm.” Dyonisia tapped a finger against her chin. “Yes, I’m beginning to believe that. But unfortunately—” She took a careful, calculated step toward him “—that means we have a much larger problem on our hands. So let me repeat the question, king: do you surrender?”

At this, Jagaros finally dragged his head up. He had no idea what she meant by much larger problem. He just knew that if he made a single move to claw through her throat like he so desperately wanted, she would destroy every last faerie that she hadn’t already. He had to shove his pride down to a place he’d never be able to retrieve it again.

Pulling himself to a trembling stand, Jagaros rose to his full height.

“If I do, you will never harm another one of my people again.”

Dyonisia considered him for a moment. Then sighed.

“Fine. Every faerie born of this island from here on out is yours to claim and protect however you see fit, and I will not take any further action to harm them.” Her antipower puffed out, and Jagaros cringed as it brushed against his skin. “But I am the ruler of this island now. And as such, you will not take any further action to harm me or my council. Swear it.”

Jagaros stared at her as she reached into one of the pouches tied at her waist and brought out a bottle filled with bubbling black liquid. Tilu naha. The ink that forged oaths—and the ink my mother had imbued with her own magic for Mydusia. Based on a few crimson bottles in the pouch, it seemed Dyonisia had nicked a stash of that, too, though she didn’t use my mother’s blood on Jagaros now.

I could see the same thoughts roving across his face as Dyonisia uncorked it and poured some of the liquid onto her hand. After dropping the bottle back into her pouch, she held out her ink-smeared palm.

Jagaros shuddered, eyeing that palm with such repulsion I wouldn’t have been surprised if he vomited all over it.

But the next second, he grasped it.

Dyonisia began to mutter an incantation in no language I’d ever heard. A black, smoky substance rose from their clasped hands, billowing into a dark cloud above Jagaros’s head.

When it burst apart, droplets sprayed over him like blood, squirming into formation until a tiger-like stripe encircled his throat, chaining him to that single command. You will not take any further action to harm me or my council.

Yet none of the ink splattered on Dyonisia herself. None of it etched her own promise into her skin to ensure she would keep her word.

With a smile of canines on full display, she bent and plucked Jagaros’s crown from the ground.

Then threw it as far as she could off the edge of what would become Bascite Mountain, turning away before she could notice the harpy eagle diving after it.

The mist changed.

It must have been centuries later, because the island looked different. Domed by Dyonisia’s antipower and sprinkled with human villages, this looked more like the place I’d grown up in. Far up in the sky, that single harpy eagle slashed across the Esholian Institute campus and soared down toward a wedge of classrooms crisscrossed with lines of hanging objects.

No, not the same harpy eagle. A replica of it. Jagaros, taking the eagle’s form.

My entire body began to shake—bones rattling, heart quivering—as the eagle aimed for an all-too-familiar road toward the back of the Object Summoner sector, where a lone student was practicing his magic.

A lone student with wild, curly blonde hair, jade-green eyes, and a splatter of freckles like mine.

“Come on. You can do it,” young Fabian muttered to himself, levitating a bucket of water above his head and cursing under his breath when some of it sloshed out onto the dirt road.

I could hardly breathe. This was it. The moment Jagaros must have witnessed my mother with Fabian from the viewpoint of the eagle he’d shifted into. The moment that would change everything. How long had it been since he’d seen her? Since right before Dyonisia’s invasion? Did Jagaros blame her for it? Certainly, he would blame her for moving on with someone else. For giving up on that fight for their future.

Talons extended, the harpy eagle aimed for Fabian’s shoulder and gave a croaking screech. Fabian barely had time to look up when a single curved claw grazed his skin.

He cried out in shock. The bucket fell, splashing water all over him, and Fabian threw his arms over his head, ducking into a crouch to protect himself from any further attack.

But Jagaros didn’t attack him.