Chapter 91

Chapter 91
Kate

We emerge from the Mother Tree’s passage like crossing the surface of an invisible lake. I feel no impact, no abrupt displacement—only the sense that the air changes density around us. It even feels cooler now. I take two steps forward before stopping, because what opens up before us demands a moment to process.

It isn’t night yet. Tir na nÓg’s sky stretches in deep layers of color: amber near the horizon, diluted lilac higher up, and a dark blue that promises depth without yet surrendering to darkness. The light bathing everything doesn’t come from a single point; it spills, oblique and almost liquid, brushing leaves, branches, and living surfaces with a glow too soft to be called sunlight.

There is no moon in the sky. Even so, I feel it.

It’s strange to sense something that isn’t there yet. A gentle pressure in the air, like the instant before a musical note is held for too long.

The celebration area opens like a clearing that decided to grow beyond itself. Wide roots emerge from the ground in deliberate curves, forming natural steps. Branches interlace overhead, not closing the space, only suggesting its contours. Nothing feels final. Nothing feels improvised. The entire place is preparing itself, reshaping to accommodate this celebration.

Fairies move everywhere, and there is no chaos in it. There is a silent, almost organic coordination, as if each one knows exactly when to advance and when to retreat. Some hover higher, stretching threads of light between invisible points, braiding them with precise, patient movements. These threads don’t shine brightly—they pulse, like veins exposed at the surface of the world.

Other fairies remain close to the ground, singing softly. They aren’t words. I don’t recognize melody in the human sense. They are continuous sounds that vibrate in the chest before reaching the ears. There is something hypnotic about them, a rhythm that doesn’t mark time the way any ordinary song would.

Farther ahead, I see larger fairies shaping the physical space with their hands and with their entire bodies. Wherever they touch, the living wood responds. Branches bend. Roots shift a little farther apart, creating passages wide enough for many people to walk side by side. Natural platforms emerge without visible effort, as if they had always existed there and were merely being reminded of their purpose.

I stand still, absorbing everything in silence. I feel the dress rise and fall with my breathing, the golden fabric reflecting that indecisive late-afternoon light without drawing attention to itself. For a moment, I completely forget that I’m wearing something so different from what I’m used to.

I watch a fairy interrupt her own song for an instant, tilting her head as if listening to something I can’t hear yet. Right after, she resumes the sound, adjusting the pitch almost imperceptibly. Another responds without words, shifting the frequency of her own glow. Small adjustments. Fine corrections. Like musicians tuning instruments before a concert that allows no mistakes.

I take a deep breath.

The air comes in colder than I expected, carrying a soft scent I can’t quite identify—something between new leaves and wet stone. My feet feel the ground firm beneath them, gently pulsing, as if the earth itself were too awake to rest. That’s when I finally realize the fairies have taken my shoes. Being barefoot had felt so natural until then that noticing it causes no surprise at all.

Dan and Ashleen are still nearby, but my attention doesn’t linger on them now. Everything in me turns toward this space preparing to receive something greater than all of us. An instinctive sense of reverence swells in my chest.

Ashleen is the first to break the place’s silent spell.

Her eyes lock onto a point to the left, where a group of fairies rehearses movements in a circle—steps too light to be a dance, too precise to be play. They spin, retreat, advance again, as if testing the very air. Each time their feet touch the ground, a discreet response ripples through the roots beneath them.

Ashleen leans forward a little, her whole body moving before the decision does. Then, without asking permission, without looking back, and without any warning at all, she lets go of the tip of Dan’s tail and reaches out to grab his hand.

“Come on!”

That’s all she says.

Dan reacts on instinct.

First, the startle: his shoulders tense, his head snapping around, as if a protective reflex were triggered before he even understands why. His gaze sweeps the surroundings in a second—shadows, fairies, movement—and then returns to Ashleen.

She’s already pulling, and I start to follow them.

Dan exhales, a half-smile appearing on his lips, and adjusts his pace to match hers. My sister’s free hand swings a bit too much as she walks, and he corrects his rhythm, shortening his stride so she won’t stumble.

“Easy, little one,” he murmurs, his voice low and gentle. “I’m coming.”

Ashleen doesn’t reply. She just squeezes his hand tighter, as if that were the only confirmation she needs.

Dan’s shadows, so quiet until now, reorganize as they move a few meters away. They don’t retreat, but they grow less compact, more curious than vigilant, stretching out like attentive animals, watching this small detour with interest.

Dan leans slightly toward Ashleen.

“Is this what you wanted to see?” he asks, when they stop close enough to watch the fairies rehearsing.

Ashleen nods with exaggerated enthusiasm, her curls bouncing.

Dan positions himself so that his body stays between Ashleen and the heavier flow of movement, without blocking her view. His hand remains steady in hers, his thumb tracing an almost distracted arc over her small knuckles. Ashleen, in turn, leans subtly toward him, as if that were the most obvious place in the world to be.

Something warm settles in my chest.

Ashleen suddenly turns to him, eyes shining.

“Do you think the flowers will all open at once?” she asks.

Dan crouches a little to meet her height, his tail drawing an arc around the two of them.

“I think so,” he replies. “How many do you think there’ll be?”

“More than a trillion!”

Dan laughs under his breath and lifts an eyebrow.

“And do you know how much a trillion is?”

Ashleen seems to consider the question with absolute seriousness, and when she doesn’t reach a satisfying answer, she says, “I don’t know…”

This time I’m the one who laughs, and I let them carry on that conversation about how much a trillion really is. It’s good to see how much Ashleen likes him—and how much Dan seems to care about her too.

“Beautiful, right?”

My heart jumps at the sound of that voice, and Niv’leen appears at my side without any warning, as if he’d always been there and I was the one who forgot to look.

I don’t answer right away. My gaze remains fixed on the short distance separating Dan and Ashleen from me.

“Yeah,” I say at last, choosing the most neutral answer possible. “It’s beautiful.”

Niv lets out a low sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“I wasn’t talking about the scenery.”

I inhale slowly, feeling the implicit warning in the sentence. Even so, I turn my face just enough to look at him sideways.

“Then be specific.”

He relaxes his small body, his gaze returning to Dan and Ashleen as if he’s watching a scene he’s already fully understood.

“Alright, you asked for it.” He turns to face me, planting his tiny hands on the tip of my nose, forcing me to go cross-eyed to see a distorted version of him. “When does my little menace plan to stop this nonsense of pretending she doesn’t feel anything for that mutant lizard?”

I take a step back on reflex, more to reclaim my space than to flee the question. The touch was light, almost playful, but the words land with uncomfortable precision. Niv’leen smiles like someone who’s just poked a wound he already knew was there.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He just rolls his eyes.

“Riiight, of course you don’t. I could punish you for that, you know? Our contract was very clear on that point. You can’t lie—”

“I already said no, Niv,” I insist, my voice far too firm to sound natural. “Seriously. You’ve been really agitated lately, Niv. Must be your magical anxiety.”

The little fairy nearly starts puffing smoke out of his ears as he points a nervous finger at me.

“Do NOT use my MAGICAL ANXIETY against ME, you smart-aleck little menace!”

Then, in the span of a millisecond, the Niv’leen explosion collapses into nothing more than a tiny face turning away with its nose in the air.

“I know your Secret Name now.”

My stomach tightens before I even react.

“So what?” I shoot back. “That doesn’t automatically turn you into an oracle.”

“No,” he agrees easily. “But it does give me access to things you pretend not to notice. And between us—even without that… it’s already pretty obvious.”

I avert my gaze, turning it back toward the space between me and Dan, as if distance could protect me.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m observing,” he corrects. “Remember, I saw the almost-kiss.”

Heat creeps up my neck.

“Niv—”

“And I feel it,” he continues, relentless, “the magical reactions of your body when he gets close. The way your energy wavers. How your anfa’anam responds before you’ve even decided anything.”

I whirl around to face him.

“That’s invasive.”

“It’s honest.”

“No, it’s—”

“It’s inevitable,” he cuts in, his voice still calm, still casual, which somehow makes it worse. “You’re an open book to me now.”

The words hang between us, heavier than they should be.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, too quickly. “You’re confusing—”

He leans a little closer, just enough that only I can hear him now.

“You can dodge all you want,” he hisses in a deliberately high-pitched little voice. “You can stack excuses, build a whole mountain out of them, but that doesn’t change the fact that the two of you are walking in circles around each other.”

“We’re not.”

“You are,” he says, with a certainty that makes me want to scream. “And you won’t hold out much longer.”

I shake my head, denying it more to myself than to him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” he replies. “And sooner or later, someone’s going to give.”

Denial forms in me like a reflex.

“You’re ignoring important variables. What’s at stake. Ashleen. The Pale King. The world literally on the verge of collapse.”

“And even so,” he says without hesitation, “it’s still there.”

I feel irritation rise, hot, trying to mask something more fragile.

“Do you enjoy this? Provoking me?”

“No,” he answers immediately, and the fairy’s smile disappears. “I’m just worried.”

That catches me off guard. Niv drifts away, giving me space—but no relief.

“Don’t fool yourself, my little menace,” he casts one last look at Dan and Ashleen. “When it happens—and it will happen—I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

He flies over to join the two of them, changing moods so quickly it barely seems like we just argued about feelings that, the more I try to cut them away, the stronger they grow. Niv leaves me there, with the distant sound of the fairies rehearsing, Tir na nÓg rearranging itself, Ashleen’s laughter reaching me in soft waves… and the unsettling sense that, for the first time, my denial isn’t quite as well constructed as I thought.

Suddenly, the fairies’ song transforms.

The voices find a new axis, and the vibration that once spread through the space condenses—deeper, steadier. The wind follows the change, sweeping through the clearing in a broad, deliberate motion, sliding between roots and branches, bringing a clean cold that raises goosebumps on my skin. The fabric of my dress responds with a slow ripple.

Amber dissolves, lilac deepens, and blue stretches wide, receptive. Shadows lengthen gently, and all of Tir na nÓg prepares to receive another kind of radiance. Around us, movement slows. Fairies suspend gestures, hands raised, wings motionless for a long, held second.

Dan and Ashleen go still. She squeezes his hand. He lifts his gaze. The shadows draw back.

Then the sky opens.

The Pearl Moon rises vast and milky, filling the heavens with an opalescent glow that envelops everything. Its light pours over the world, touching leaves, skin, living wood, air. In the same instant, the ground awakens. Between roots and trunks, flowers bloom in sequence, petals opening in shimmering hues, reflecting the moonlight. The trees respond, releasing pearlescent leaves that drift slowly downward. The air fills with luminous particles, turning in slow, hypnotic motions.

The song rises.

The Night of the Pearl Moon has begun.