I broke during week six of the eight-week countdown, which was—I mean I'd survived imprisonment under Fae control, death and resurrection, twenty-year-subjective prison, building civilization from rubble, and somehow coordinating my four-year-old daughter's position as the literal lock preventing dimensional apocalypse was the thing that finally shattered me.
It started small. Missed meals. Insomnia. Inability to focus during council meetings. Then escalated to anxiety spirals, dissociative episodes, uncontrollable panic about Hope being kidnapped or compromised or sacrificed for strategy.
Then it became what it became: complete breakdown during ordinary breakfast when Hope casually mentioned she'd made decision to consult with captured Fae operative about unbinding counter-rituals.
"Absolutely not." My voice was wrong. Sharp. Broken. "You will not. You will not meet with Fae. You will not consult on apocalypse prevention. You will not—" I couldn't finish.
"Mama—" Hope started.
