She screams. “Let me go, human! I will cut you down! In his name!”
Daed spins her, his hands clamping onto her shoulders, harder than they should. I reach to soften his grip, but he is stone beneath my touch, unmovable. He holds her there, breath shaking, staring into her face as though sheer will might rewrite what he sees… as if, by looking long enough, he can force the truth to change.
He exhales, a sound that carries more grief than I can bear. “Time moves strangely in the void. For us, it has been weeks. For Estra…her entire childhood has passed here.”
I swallow hard, my throat raw. Daed cannot truly measure human years. Fae time passes differently, though not as severe as in the void. But I can, and looking at her now, at the young woman before me, I know. She can be no older than nineteen.
Then she spits in her father’s face and before I can move, she drives her knee into Daed’s groin.
He hisses, teeth bared, pain flashing across his face, but he does not let go.
“Filthy Fae,” she snarls. “My father was right. You’re a traitor and a coward. How dare you refuse the gifts he so graciously gave you! I’ll carve his name into your flesh so he’s with you forever!”
Her voice is pure venom, but beneath it trembles conviction, the kind taught, not born.
“Why is she saying these things?” My voice breaks as tears sting my eyes.
Daed’s jaw tightens. “She doesn’t know who we are,” he says through gritted teeth. “Don’t you see, Amara? She’s been here too long. Under Gygarth’s thrall. He’s raised her as his own.” His voice fractures, low and bitter. “She doesn’t remember us.”
No. No, that cannot be.
We came to An’kel to bring our child home, not to find a grown woman who calls our enemyfather.
Who looks at us and sees monsters.
She doesn’t remember. Souls, she doesn’t remember.
How could she not know me? Her mother? How could she not see him? Her father? How could she not feel, even now, that we love her enough to face the dark and defy death itself to reach her?
Remember.
The word burns through me, cutting through the fog of grief. My spine straightens, my tears dry to salt on my skin.
“Hold her,” I say quietly.
Daed’s brow creases, but he obeys without question. He turns her in his arms to face me, even as she thrashes and kicks, a feral cry tearing from her throat. I would expect nothing less from my daughter. But I will not lose her again.
I reach for her face. She snaps at my hand, snarling, but I catch her anyway, threading my fingers through her dark curls, cradling the head that once fit in my palm. She fights me still, even when I press my thumbs gently against her temples.
Then she jolts. A shudder runs through her body, and she gasps.
I open my mind and I pour everything into her. Every memory. Every heartbeat. The moment her father and I stood as enemies. The moment we became something else. The battles. The loss. The rebuilding. The first flutter in my belly. Her tiny hands. Her laugh.
Every joy. Every heartbreak. Every shred of the love that forged her.
Light flickers behind her eyes, and a single tear slips free.
When the last thread of memory passes, I drop my hands, trembling with what might come next. We wait for another strike, another insult, another scream.
But none comes.
Instead, she looks at me. Reallylooksand in that moment, I see my child.
“Mother?” she whispers.
My heart fractures.
Slowly, she turns to Daed. He releases her, his hands shaking as if afraid to believe.
