Chapter 77

Chapter 77
Kate’s POV

Ashleen floats in front of me as if the air itself holds her up, no longer in the cocoon that once surrounded her, for it dissolves completely, threads of shadow fraying and sliding across the ground like smoke, retreating behind me until they vanish into a point I can’t see. But I believe they’re returning to Dan, outside the mirror.

For a moment, I’m afraid to look at her for too long. Afraid that, even after everything Cindel just did, I’ll still find traces of her ice. But I force myself to look, force myself to face reality as it is, and I see that her skin has color again — that warm tone I had so longed to see. Her lips, once pale as frost, now have a breath of life in them. Her breathing is calm, so soft it’s almost invisible, but it’s there.

She looks as if she’s in a deep, peaceful sleep, not merely inert. There’s no sign of the Ice Sickness. No trace of Varkhael’s presence.

My fingers tremble as I reach for her. Her weight in my arms is light but real, and the sensation of warmth — real warmth — against my skin completely disarms me. It’s like holding the sun after crossing an endless winter.

I hold her close, and it no longer matters that this is a place of magic, or that the ground is still damp from the changing of seasons. My knees give way, and I hit the soil, but I don’t let go of Ashleen. I can’t. It’s as if my whole body refuses to believe she’s here, that she’s not an illusion.

The tears come before I realize it. They fall warm, landing on her curly hair, and I breathe in a scent I haven’t felt since she was a baby in my arms — since the very last second before we were separated in the Pale King’s palace.

Nothing else exists now. No mirror, no winter or spring. Just the two of us.

“I did it…” My voice is a hoarse whisper, lost between sobs. “I came back for you, Ash… just like I promised…”

The weight of all these years crashes down on me at once. I remember every moment I blamed myself, every dream where I saw her cry, every time her face appeared to me in the reflection of water or glass — frozen and empty — without me knowing she truly was freezing. I remember thinking every time that it might be too late, that what was lost could never be restored.

But now she’s here.

I take her tiny hand, so warm, and press it to my face. It’s so much smaller than mine, smaller than it should be. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold myself together, but the crying doesn’t stop. It’s not just relief. It’s pain, it’s love, it’s the kind of happiness that hurts because it comes after so much suffering.

“You’re safe now…” I say, more to myself than to her. “I’ll never let them take you from me again.”

For a few moments, I don’t want to think about what comes next, about the consequences, the promises I still have to keep, the battles still ahead. I just want to engrave this moment into my memory — her warmth, her weight in my arms, the certainty that my sister is breathing.

And yet, deep down, I know none of this would have happened without Cindel.

That certainty makes me lift my gaze — and then I see it: right where the dryad once stood, there’s something on the ground, too small to notice at first, but impossible to ignore now that the soft light in the air glints off it.

Still holding Ashleen with one arm, I lean down for a better look.

It’s a seed.

It has the shape of a teardrop, with golden veins running along its surface like tiny roots, pulsing in a slow rhythm, almost like a heartbeat. When I stretch out my free hand to touch it, I feel warmth — not from the spring that has just bloomed in this place, but from something deeper, a remnant, I think, of Cindel’s own life.

My fingers close around it. The warmth grows, spreading through my palm, up my arm, until it reaches my chest.

I glance at the spot where the dryad stood. The ground there looks greener, as if spring had first been born in that patch, as if her sacrifice had left invisible roots already beginning to sprout.

“Thank you…” My voice cracks, almost a whisper, and I don’t know if I’m speaking to myself or to her — wherever she is now. “I’ll never forget.”

The seed seems to answer with a single pulse of warmth, as if approving my words. I hold it to my chest, between me and Ashleen, protecting it as if it were part of the promise I just fulfilled.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

“I’ll take care of her, Cindel. Of my sister… and him, for as long as I can.”

The weight of the seed against my chest is small, but the meaning it carries is immense.

I rise slowly, adjusting Ashleen in my arms. She’s still asleep, her head resting on my shoulder, her body limp and warm like any child who’s fallen asleep in someone’s embrace. Every step I take away from that spot seems to echo, as if I were leaving behind an invisible grave, carrying with me the last gift of someone who gave her life to save another.

The world around me still dances with spring magic, and for a moment, I feel as if the flowers and leaves lean slightly as I pass, as if they recognize the seed I carry. Maybe they do — even if this place is only a creation of the mirror.

The exit is just ahead, its liquid surface rippling with reflections of light and color. Beyond it, I know Dan, the Fairy Queen, Niv’leen… and the world where Ashleen will live again are waiting.

I take one last look at the scene around me — the newborn spring, the open flowers, the soft song of birds I haven’t seen but can sense nearby. It all feels like a silent farewell, as if this place knows the dryad who filled it with life is gone.

I press the seed against my chest and hold Ashleen tight.

I breathe in deep.

And I step through.

The surface yields as if made of liquid silk, wrapping us in a soft glow. For a moment, there’s no ground, no sky, no direction — only light. And with each step, the brightness grows until I can’t tell if my eyes are open or closed. Then, with an almost instinctive blink, the world changes.

The Hall of Mirrors greets us with warm, damp air. The ice is gone. In its place, puddles of water spread across the floor, reflecting fragments of the curved ceiling. The walls, once covered in frost, now reveal the frames of hundreds of mirrors and the living, rich wood of the Mother Tree, slowly absorbing the water as if eager to erase all signs of what happened here.

The first sound I hear on this side is Niv’leen’s voice.

“MY LITTLE PEST!”

He darts toward me so fast I barely have time to react. His small body crashes against my shoulder in an awkward hug, and he sobs openly, without a shred of shame.

“You did it… you really did it…”

Before I can answer, he lets go and zips over to Dan, who’s standing just ahead, and grabs a lock of his hair, clearly about to blow his nose on it.

“Niv…” Dan’s voice is dry, but there’s a glimmer of relief in his eyes as he slowly turns his head toward the fairy. “Do that and I’ll flick you so hard you’ll go through this wall.”

The little one jumps back, but not before shooting me a look mixed with tears and joy. I can’t help but laugh, even with my throat still tight.

The Fairy Queen is right behind Dan, and for the first time since I met her, she looks… genuinely pleased.

“I see spring has returned to more than one heart today.”

Dan steps closer, and when our eyes meet, he smiles. Not his usual sarcastic smile, nor something restrained, but a smile so, so happy I can see the sharp tips of his fangs.

“Well, look at that,” he says, tilting his head toward Ashleen. “Guess I’ll have to get used to the miniature version of my young mistress.”

I shift Ashleen in my arms so he can see her better. She’s still asleep, but her face is calm, serene, so different from the child we found.

My chest tightens.

“She’s fine, Dan. She’s really fine.”

He nods, and for a moment we just stand there, looking at each other, as if that alone were enough to understand everything we’ve been through.

Then, I remember the seed.

“Oh… and I found this.”

I open my hand, revealing the small golden object. The room falls silent. Even Niv’leen stops moving, his gaze fixed on it. The Queen steps forward, watching the seed as if she could hear something within it.

“Cindel?” she asks.

“Yes.”

The Queen tilts her head, and for a moment her expression is almost reverent.

“Plant it in Tir na nÓg’s soil. This is where it should rest, and here it will be able to bloom again.”

That statement catches me off guard.

“… Like before?”

The Queen folds her small hands in front of her.

“No… and yes. A new dryad? Perhaps, many, many years from now. The same Cindel? No. A new version, free to grow.”

I close my hand around the seed and nod.

“Then I’ll take Ashleen to the room first.”

“I’m coming with you,” Dan says, already stepping forward.

We leave together, walking down the still-damp corridor, leaving behind the solemn silence of the Hall of Mirrors — and carrying with us all it has witnessed.

The Mother Tree’s hallway feels quieter than ever, the floor absorbing each step, leaving behind a dark trail that slowly fades, swallowed by the living wood.

I carry Ashleen as carefully as if she were made of glass. I can’t stop noticing how warm her body is against mine — the gentle, steady heat of someone breathing peacefully. After so many years, after so many nights haunted by her image, it’s almost impossible to believe this is real.

Dan walks beside me, always close, as if making sure nothing will take us apart again.

When we reach the door to the room we share, I stop. The place seems to be waiting for us, soft light filtering through the cracks, the air holding the familiar scent of wood and fresh leaves. Dan pushes the door open for me, and the low creak of hinges shaped by the wood itself blends with my sigh.

The bed is covered in a light fabric, and that’s where I lay her down, arranging her small, fragile body over the sheets. My eyes can’t leave her.

Dan stands at my side, watching her for a moment.

“You think you’ll be able to sleep later?”

“I don’t know.” My voice is softer than I expected. “I’m afraid to close my eyes and wake up to find it was only a dream.”

“It’s not a dream.” He leans in slightly, with an almost imperceptible smile. “I see her too, don’t I?”

My throat tightens, and I don’t try to hide it. I lean over Ashleen and kiss her forehead, feeling, once again, the real warmth of her skin. I’ll never get tired of this.

Then, my hand goes instinctively to the side pocket of my clothes, where I kept the seed. I open my palm, and there it is — golden and smooth, as if it had been shaped to fit perfectly in my hand.

Dan looks at it in silence, and I wonder what might be going through his head.

“Let’s go,” I say. “She’d want you to be part of this.”

He nods, and without me having to ask, he’s already opening the door so we can leave. I leave Ashleen under the care of the tiny guardian fairies the Queen sent with us — two small, serious creatures with ladybug wings that shine in a deep violet. They say nothing, but bow slightly as I approach, like a silent promise they won’t let anything get near her.

We make our way back through the corridors toward the Mother Tree’s entrance. The air begins to change as we approach the outside; there’s more fragrance, more rustling of leaves, more distant sound of running water. It feels as though Tir na nÓg itself is responding to what’s happened.

The Fairy Queen waits for us by the main entrance, her open wings reflecting the colors of sunset. Beside her, Niv’leen is more restless than ever, darting back and forth.

“Took you long enough,” he says, though his voice holds no reproach, only impatience.

I smile without answering, simply opening my hand to show the seed. Its golden glow brightens for a moment, and I see the Queen’s gaze fix on it with a kind of respect.

“Come,” she says, turning to guide us.

The path takes us to a small circle of bare earth at the base of one of the Mother Tree’s roots. The spot feels as if it’s been prepared long ago, as if it already knew what it would one day receive.

“Here,” the Queen indicates, with a delicate gesture. “Plant it and cover it with soil. The rest is up to her.”

I kneel, feeling the soft earth beneath my fingers. For a moment, I just stay there, holding the seed over the small open space, as if I don’t yet dare to let it go.

Dan comes closer and crouches beside me.

“You dig. I’ll cover it.”

I close my eyes and let the weight of those words give me strength. I dig with my fingers and place the seed into the soil. Then Dan carefully covers it, keeping his hand on the mound for a few seconds.

The silence that follows is broken by the soft sound of wind moving through the leaves. Then, suddenly, small green shoots begin to break through the freshly closed soil. They rise far too quickly to be natural, and in seconds, a delicate sprout appears, topped with amber petals that slowly open, like a yawn at waking.

Niv’leen lets out a loud sigh, floating closer.

“Well… It’s like she’s saying ‘hi.’”

I can’t help but smile, even with tears in my eyes.

“Hi, Cindel.”

The Queen tilts her head, watching the flower.

“Now she is part of our Tir na nÓg. And Tir na nÓg will be part of her.”

We remain there a little longer, until the fairy sun decides to stop teasing the moon and begins to slip behind the horizon. Then Dan rises and offers me his hand so I can do the same.

“Let’s go back to Ashleen.”

“Yeah.”

As we walk back, I realize something in me has changed. There’s a weight I no longer carry — maybe because, for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like I’m losing. Today, I won. And I’ll protect it, no matter the cost.