Don’t tell me I’m no danger.

  Don’t spare mercy for what I did.

  Pack my life like garbage

  and call this anything

  but carnage.

  —Berdorf, E. Poems of a Wingless Princess. Unpublished manuscript, Summer.

  Lolth stopped short when she saw the door to Eura’s bedroom standing open. For a heartbeat, heat flared in her chest. Eura hadn’t even left Pollux yet, and already they were emptying her life out of the rooms. Erasing her.

  She crossed the threshold in a rush and froze.

  Jaer was inside, kneeling by the bed. A bag lay open at his feet. He moved fast, but mindfully, selecting each item before placing it in his bag.

  Pants, books and trinkets she liked. He tucked Jericho’s necklace into the side pocket, fingers lingering there longer than necessary.

  “What are you doing?” Lolth asked.

  “What does it look like?” he said without turning. “I’m saving her things. The ones she’ll want.” He swallowed. “Her clothes. Her books. I’ve got Jericho’s necklace. I just can’t find the book she was reading.”

  He went to the shelves and began pulling volumes out one by one, stacking them too fast, knocking them over, then starting again.

  “Jaer,” Lolth said carefully, “I think you need a moment to—”

  “She said she wants to die.” He turned then, the words tearing out of him. “My little girl told me she wants to die. That she’s unworthy... My Sunbeam, my little girl, my reason for... She—” He stopped, tears started to run freely down his chin. “She told me that. She told me.”

  Lolth didn’t interrupt. “I know,” she said quietly. “She said the same to me.”

  Jaer dragged a hand through his hair and turned back to the shelves, anger surging through the movement. “I saw it happening,” he said. “I saw everything. And instead of protecting her—” Jaer’s hand slammed too hard into the wood. “I protected him. Him.”

  The tiefling laughed bitterly. “The same villain who is responsible for all of this. And I chose him.” He shook his head, voice rising again. “Why would I do that? Why would I ever choose him instead of her?”

  The books lay scattered at his feet. Lolth stood in the doorway, watching the pieces fall.

  “Because you love him. You always did.” Lolth regretted it the moment the words left her mouth.

  Jaer’s face twisted, something ugly surfacing there. Not anger. Something closer to disgust.

  “Love him?” he said. “You think I stayed all these summers because I loved him?” He shook his head. “No. That ended a long time ago. I’m not even sure when. Maybe when he chose Fiona. When I was reduced to background noise. A fuck to have around. My cock might still care for him,” he said. “But my heart has only eyes for one creature. And I failed her. Completely.”

  Lolth didn’t answer. There was nothing safe to say. Her eyes drifted instead to the corner of the room. A bamboo stick leaned there, forgotten. On the table beside it lay a book, half-hidden beneath folded clothes.

  She picked it up. Between Lore and Legacy: The Mystifying Histories of the Menschen — Vol. II by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune.

  “Is this the one?” Lolth asked, holding it up.

  Jaer turned abruptly. “Yes!”

  He took it from her and shoved it into the bag. “That’s it.” He pulled the strap tight. “I need to get my things now.”

  “Your things?”

  “I’m going with her.” The decision was already made. “I know people in Whitestone. It’ll be easier to plan from the inside. She is not going alone.”

  “I’m coming with you. I’ll go pack now!”

  “No!” Jaer turned back to her, suddenly collected. Familiar. Commanding in the way he used to be. “I need you somewhere else.” He stepped closer. “I need you to join Mediah,” he said. “I need confirmation that the Summerqueen’s army is ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

  “You still want her on the throne,” Lolth said. “I don’t think she even wants—”

  “If we don’t believe in her,” Jaer cut in, “how can she believe in herself?” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “You know her,” he went on. “And I know her. Tell me you see someone more fitting than her. Eura will be remarkable,” Jaer said. “She’ll learn to control her power the way Yeso did. The way those before him did.”

  He paused. “It’s a gift that comes at a price. We can’t expect a sixteen-summer-old to understand it already. For fuck sake, nobody taught her!”

  He looked past her, as if seeing the Map itself.

  “She needs guidance. Proper training. But more than that—The Map needs her. We’re fine here in Sorgenstein because we still had the Sun, we had her. But what about the other kingdoms? Aspana? Cragua? Ormgrund and the world remain still under Fiona’s domain. How long do you think that lasts if no one stops the Winter?”

  “I’m worried we’re pushing her when she needs—” Lolth faltered. “I don’t know. If I had been there… maybe I could have stopped it. Maybe none of this would have happened. I was drowning,” she admitted. “In hate. In self-pity. I didn’t see anything else. I didn't realise what was happening.”

  Jaer watched her carefully. “Where were you?”

  She hesitated.

  “Where I felt safe, in the Shadow World. Orlo was here,” she said finally. “He knew about her. He said things—nonsense things—about this having happened before.” Her words began to tangle. “All I could hear was that he knew. That he knew about her, our daughter and did nothing. He could have taken her away. He could have—When I came back, it was already too late.”

  She was spiralling now, sinking into her own guilt.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Jaer stepped forward and caught her shoulders, firm, grounding. “Enough,” he said. “I need you, Magi. More than ever. She needs you, Lolth, now, more than ever. I can't do this without you. But I have a plan—or” a brief, humourless breath, “—something closer to an unfinished draft. But we have allies. She won’t stay in that cage for long. Right?”

  Lolth didn’t answer immediately. “What cage?” she asked instead.

  “It was built for Yeso,” Jaer explained. “For him—or anyone like him.” He chose his words carefully. “It suppresses magic. Once she’s inside, her Saat will go dormant. I heard once it was meant to contain the Sun itself,” he added, as if repeating something half-remembered. He didn’t let the weight of it linger.

  “They’ll keep her there forever,” Lolth said.

  “It will break her,” Jaer replied. “Yeso, almost didn’t survive it. And he was only there for a few weeks.”

  “So,” Lolth said finally, “what’s the plan?”

  “Claramae.”

  Lolth blinked. “She went to Whitestone. I almost forgot.”

  “She’s from Faewood,” Jaer said. “Those faeries know how to discipline a Sternach. Properly.” His mouth tightened. “That’s all I have so far.”

  He hesitated, then added, dryly, “That, and kissing Regala Messe’s arse long enough to get access to her.”

  “And me?” she asked. “You want me at the Magi Camp, preparing for…?”

  “The Equinox. The inevitable one. It’s time for the seasons to change. Sorgenstein is already in Summer, but we’ll make sure the rest of the Map follows. We need more than rumours, we need a statement. This is a coup d'etat.”

  Lolth studied him, then allowed herself a small smile. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Don’t mistake my kindness for my weakness, Magi.”

  A knock interrupted the room. Then another. The door opened, and a maid stood there, pale, eyes fixed somewhere past them, as if she’d heard more than she should have.

  “Sir… Magi Jaer,” she said, voice shaking. “The King summons you to his quarters.”

  Jaer left the room without looking back. Lolth turned. She crooked one finger.

  The maid froze where she stood. Whatever she had meant to say died in her throat. “I swear,” the girl whispered. “I didn’t hear anything. I won’t tell anyone. I promise—”

  The words never finished leaving her mouth.

  A shadow with seven legs split across the floor behind her suddenly. The click of chitin filled the room. Something many-limbed closed around her, lifting her cleanly from the ground.

  There was no scream—only the soft scrape of claws against stone.

  Lolth did not move until the room was empty again.

  “Ah! Jaer, you’re finally here!” Finnegan darted across the room with a stupid and annoying smile, naked, circling two mannequins dressed in robes that Jaer didn’t recognise. Silk brushed against painted wood as Finnegan spun them, one after the other.

  “Which one?” he asked brightly. “The white is clean. Innocent.” He pinched the fabric between his fingers.

  “But the green, I don't know, it feels, you know—”

  The Elven King stepped back, thinking, “—the green has a flare of authority. Don’t you think? It reads like… regal, the man of the hour.”

  Finnegan turned, still smiling, and caught Jaer’s expression. “What’s wrong? Why the long face?”

  “You summoned me,” Jaer said at last. “To choose a robe.”

  “For tomorrow,” Finnegan said easily. “When she leaves.” He waved a hand, dismissive. “I can’t appear in public wearing just anything. I’m her father after all.” A pause, practised. “I need to show empathy. For the families. The victims and those who were lost.” He tilted his head. “To show that even as a loving father, I can be ruthless when it’s required.”

  “The only word I heard clearly,” Jaer said, “was ruthless.”

  Finnegan laughed. “What are you talking about? You saw her. You stood there.” He crossed the room in two quick steps and caught Jaer’s hands, squeezing them hard. “You even protected me.” His eyes shone with something like triumph. “You chose me,” he said. “All this time, I accused you of putting her first. And I was wrong.” His grip tightened. “You chose me.”

  Jaer pulled his hand free. “You think I chose you? I don’t even know why I protected you when I should have protected her!”

  Finnegan frowned. “Because you love me.”

  Jaer looked at him. “Do I?”

  The question landed badly. “I don’t understand you,” Finnegan said at once. “I never do.” He seemed to notice his nakedness then, sudden and awkward, and grabbed the first thing within reach. A plain white nightgown. He pulled it around himself, clumsily. “What happened to us?”

  “I try to remember the last time I laughed,” Jaer said instead. “Not smiled. Not pretended. Laughed.”He shook his head. “I can’t find it.”

  He turned toward the window, the light flattening his face. “All I remember is being on a boat to Whitestone with Yeso. We were talking about you.” A pause. “And I laughed. Truly laughed. It felt so good.” He looked back at Finnegan then. “When was the last time you heard me laugh? Or better, you made me laugh, Finn?”

  The Elven King opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

  “I don’t know when it vanished,” Jaer said. “Or how. I just know I stopped caring.” He shook his head once, as if testing the truth of it. “And it shames me to admit that I don’t even know if I ever did.”

  Finnegan didn’t move.

  “I stayed,” Jaer went on, “because she was here. I loved her the moment I saw her, Finn. From the first moment I saw that little piece of miracle. She is everything to me. Everything.” He looked directly at Finnegan now. “And you destroyed her.” A pause. “Not just her wings. Everything. You tried to strip her of who she is. Her identity. Her heritage. You tried to strip her from me!”

  Finnegan opened his mouth, but Jaer didn't let him talk.

  “You never trained her,” he continued. “Not properly. You knew better than anyone how powerful she is. I tried. Lolth tried. We are not enough to teach her. And I told you that. But all you ever cared about was keeping me, chaining me as if I still were a slave.”

  Finnegan recoiled. “That’s not fair,” he snapped. “She was treated as royalty. She was free within Pollux. Protected. Educated. She reads, she writes, she knows etiquette. She had the same education I did. Why wouldn’t that be enough?”

  Jaer laughed once. No humour in it. “Because she is the Sun,” he said. “The Sun warms the land. Prepares the harvest. Keeps people alive. It gives life meaning.” He stepped closer. “But stand too close, and you burn. Try to cage it, and it scorches everything.”

  Finnegan’s eyes flickered.

  “You know that,” Jaer said. “You knew Yeso as well as I did.”

  “Yeso. Yeso. Yeso!” Finnegan began pacing, hands raking through his hair. “That’s all I ever hear. Yeso this. Yeso that. That cursed name in your mouth—”

  “I’m going to Whitestone with Eura,” Jaer said.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  “When will you return?”

  “I won’t.”

  Finnegan was flabbergasted. “You’re choosing her.”

  “I am.”

  The silence screamed.

  “Then go,” Finnegan said at last.

  Jaer turned his back.

  He was already at the door when the Elven King spoke again, command slipping back into place.

  “And close the door behind you.”

  

  I have a love-hate relationship with the internet.

  Today, if I need information, I sit at my computer. I type a few words. I press enter. In seconds or even less, I am given dates, names, images, citations, and cross-references. The information presents itself as complete. If something does not exist on the internet, the immediate assumption is that it never existed. The online presence often defines reality, according to the Dead Internet Theory.

  That assumption is new and frightening.

  At the time of the Sixteenth Summer, things worked differently but with the same philosophy. There was no World Wide Web. No mirrored databases. No backups stored somewhere else. If something was not written down, copied, archived, and preserved, it was effectively gone. If a document disappeared, the event it described usually vanished with it.

  According to surviving records, Eura Berdorf was indeed born and raised in Pollux. She was a Princess, heiress of the Sorgenstein throne.

  That is correct.

  What those same records fail to tell is that an entire registry was never written. Before the digital age, this absence led to a convenient conclusion: the child mentioned in early notes had died in her teenage years, and the Summerqueen who appeared later, out of nowhere, was someone else. History separated the two identities and moved on.

  That separation did not hold.

  Not because of magic. Not because of secret documents resurfacing online. But because of Menschen, people like me.

  We live for a very long time. Longer than elves. Longer than faeries. Longer than any other creature on the Map. [Note (264): not sure if longer than Golems. Need research.]

  And our minds do not decay the way most historians expect. Memory does not simply fade. It accumulates. Over centuries, it has become a personal ego-database. Disorganised, biased, imperfect, but persistent.

  Some Menschen remembered Eura as a child. Menschen who knew what happened. Menschen who noticed the gap and never accepted the official explanation. They did not write it down. They did not publish it. They simply remembered.

  So yes, the records were altered. Successfully, for a time.

  But history does not belong only to paper or to Netizens. It also lives in people who outlast them all.

  And that is why, despite every attempt to erase her, the whole story of the Summerqueen refused to stay buried. —The Hexe – Book Three by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer.