(POV Fheall)
Thankfully, my sovereigns followed me without protest…
even though I practically dragged them out of bed.
Dawn has just broken,
and we've appeared on the Crystal Shore.
Baelnes, Aeltiàfisar, and Baelkers are already deep in a heated exchange with Queen Silèna, King Niùt, and Adalberto.
The moment she sees us, Silèna turns toward them.
"Ciallmhar, Bànrion! Welcome," she says, seated atop a smooth rock.
"Stella, Neptunes, Desideria, and Aisling will be here shortly. We'll all be assembled in moments."
Good.
Then we begin.
(POV Aileen)
"And with that… we're done. You're ready to enter the Inner Realm—fairy's word!" Gamy says, clearly pleased, watching us closely.
"Th-thank youuu…" Grogher replies.
He looks completely exhausted.
Poor thing.
And honestly… I get it.
He's trying—very carefully—to land the chair he's balancing on
right beneath the legs of a tiny table…
without losing visual contact.
It's not easy.
Not even close.
He almost has it…
Almost—
BAM.
Crash.
We all turn at once.
Brick bursts in like a streak of lightning, visibly agitated.
"Well? Are they ready?!" he demands.
"Ready!" we answer together.
His face lights up instantly. He turns toward the doorway and gestures for someone to come in.
"Excellent. Come in, boys!"
Six little figures step inside—almost identical to him.
They must be the other members of the Grand Council.
Crill. Dran. Gren. Lin. Ploc. Norc.
They line up in front of us, their posture composed, almost ceremonial.
And then… they look at us.
Once Brick takes his place among them, Gamy lifts into the air, gives a graceful bow, and presents us.
One by one, we step forward… slowly… lowering our heads in respect.
Brick looks tense.
He waits a moment.
Then steps forward.
"At the presence of Fairy Instructor Gamy, witness and member of the Inner Realm… I speak.
This is no small matter.
You alone hold the power to save the Realm of the Outer Wings—us…
and the Inner Realm—the Fair Folk.
Given this… we have deliberated.
And we have decided.
We will grant you the title of Honorary Sprites.
Through it… you will take in the abilities of each of us."
He pauses.
"My power is dominion over fire.
Through it… even those among you who already know its secrets…"
—his gaze shifts, locking onto Dorcha—
"…will become one with it."
I glance at Dorcha.
He's so tense.
Then another fairy steps forward—straw-colored hair, bright green eyes.
"I am Crill," he says.
"My gift… is the bond with nature itself. With every living thing within it.
Through it, you will hear every whisper… and speak with any creature you encounter."
A second one raises his arms—hair like autumn leaves, red and warm.
"I, Dran, grant you the power of the sun!
From this day on, it won't be only Princess Aileen lighting your path… you will be able to do it yourselves."
Another steps forward—olive skin, long dark hair—pointing at a tiny ladybug.
"I am Gren. I will help you understand the needs of every living being you meet."
Next.
Gray eyes. Sharp gaze.
"With me… the night will no longer frighten you," he says.
"I am Lin. Through my power, you may shroud any place… any thing… any person in darkness."
Then—
A voice like dew dripping at dawn.
"And should the waters rage… and the winds grow restless…"
he says softly,
"no fear shall move you again. For you will command every current… every breath of air."
He bows slightly.
"I am Ploc."
Finally… the last one steps forward.
Taller. Broader.
Wearing thick glasses that give him a grave, almost heavy presence.
He moves… carefully.
Very carefully.
And waits.
We all watch him.
Waiting.
"My name is Norc. What I bear… princess… young knights… beings of light already filled with power… I do not know if it is truly a gift. Certainly… it is not for everyone. It is the power of destruction. The one you must fear the most."
Silence.
"If it is true that every destruction births something new… then it is equally true… that it demands a price. Nothing can be destroyed without a real reason.
And, young sprites… there are so few reasons in this universe that are truly just… that I myself have never used this power."
We stare at him.
He's never used it…?
Then, after a long, deliberate pause, the fairies speak together:
"Do you consider yourselves worthy of our gifts?"
Hercules and Raertha lower themselves onto one knee, bowing their heads.
Sidae crouches, obedient, head lowered.
They didn't hesitate.
Not even for a second.
The fairies smile.
Pleased.
Then Brick turns to us.
To me.
To Dorcha.
To Grogher.
"And you?"
We…
I look at the others.
Fear tightens in my chest.
To become responsible for the secrets of an entire people…
for the balance of nature itself…
to be wise enough not to abuse it…
It's a heavy burden.
Am I really capable of this?
Dorcha and Grogher aren't helping.
They're just as shaken as I am.
Father…
Mother…
All I can see are our soldiers—turned to stone.
The shattered fragments of the scroll.
My father's body… my mother's.
It feels like a lifetime ago…
when we were happy.
And then—
Something rises inside me.
Unexpected.
Steady.
It doesn't matter if I'm afraid.
I have to do this.
And I will do everything in my power… to be worthy of it.
I take a step forward.
Lift my gaze.
Bow again.
"Yes."
(POV Brick)
I never doubted the girl would accept.
And now…
My gaze shifts to Dorcha.
There's something off about him.
Something dark… buried just beneath the surface.
Even I can't quite read it.
Is he truly reliable…
or not?
I can't decide.
But granting him the power of destruction…
I glance at Norc.
He feels it too—I'm sure of it.
And sure enough… he gives a slight shake of his head.
Maybe it's not his decision to make.
Still… better not to give it to the boy. Not yet.
"Do you consider yourself worthy?" I ask.
"I don't know… but I want to try. I'll do everything I can to be."
…Well.
That's the best answer I could have hoped for.
I nod, satisfied.
Then shift my attention to the orc-troll.
Sweat beads across his forehead.
He looks tense—very tense.
And yet… he bows.
And accepts.
Good.
Together, we rise into the air and scatter sparks of light over our new allies.
"Now…" I say softly,
"all that's left… is to enter."
(POV Dorcha)
The edges of the room dissolve—just like that.
One blink—
and we're somewhere else.
A stronghold.
Fairy-made.
This has to be the entrance.
(POV Urchoicha)
At last… a sound.
From below.
A ticking.
Fast. Precise.
"Listen…" I say. "Could that be him?"
Badney stretches her back, trying to loosen up—
and nearly topples over.
"Let's hophe sho. I'm shick of theesh two phoking me with that pointy little shtick," she snaps.
"Gnomes, dear Badney. Gnomes," Scrios corrects her.
"Actually… yes. Gnomes," Bàistec adds, almost apologetically.
"Oh, whatever they are! Let's just hope that little runt hurries up!" I snap, irritated.
Who cares what they're called.
They're all the same—annoying little pests.
"Forgive me… who, exactly, would be the 'little runt,' my lords?"
The voice is deep.
Too deep.
That cannot be a gnome.
We turn.
And yet…
It is.
A squat figure stands before us—short, yes… but thick with muscle.
I have to admit.
His face is worn, carved by time.
A large, round nose sits in the middle of it.
Beneath it—two long white mustaches, braided into a single mass with a rough, unkempt beard and a wild, bushy head of hair.
He wears a brown velvet overall,
and on his head…
a crown made of precious stones.
Ridiculous.
It's so oversized it keeps slipping over his eyes—sharp, almost white, unsettling.
He could simply take it off.
Not as if he were a king.
On his right shoulder, a furry bat perches proudly.
Disgusting pair.
"Oh… ehm… just a figure of speech," I reply. "You're Iarrthòir, I assume."
"You assume correctly, Your Majesty," he answers coldly.
"What do you want? I have much to do."
Much to do.
The urge to close my fist around him and crush him is… very strong.
"First, you could ashk those two dwarvesh to lower their little pointy shticksh. Then take us somewhere more comfortable, pleashe. We have shomething to dishcuss—shomething I'm quite shure will interesht you."
Iarrthòir dismisses his guards with a small motion of his head.
Then turns, leading us deeper inside.
The cavern opens into a much larger space, carved directly into the rock.
At its center—a long, dark wooden table.
Thick logs serve as chairs.
Finally.
We sit.
The gnome gestures for us to take our places, then settles at the head of the table.
He reaches down, picks up a tiny dish, and drops a handful of dead flies into it for the bat.
"Eat, Batty," he murmurs, stroking it gently.
Then he looks at us again.
That same irritating expression.
"I'm listening."