Holly Ember Whitethorn was twelve when she was taken away. From her brother, her friends, her lands. Holly Ember Whitethorn was fifteen when she discovered the name that haunted her nightmares. Maeve, the Fae Queen had taken her. Holly Ember Whitethorn was seventeen when she tried to escape. She was locked in her bedroom for months, screaming for her brother. Holly Ember Whitethorn was eighteen when a Fae male tried to teach her how to use her magic. He was gone like the rest of them within a matter of days. Holly Ember Whitethorn was twenty five when she stopped aging and stayed the way she looked forever. The embers in her had disappeared. Holly Whitethorn was fifty one when she realised Maeve's true dark side as she was whipped by one of Maeve's cadre. Holly Whitethorn was over one hundred years old when she gave up hope. Every inch of her was dead, she had nothing to live for. Holly Whitethorn was one hundred and twenty two when she tried to slit her own throat. She was nothing, and as she lay down to bed, the sliver of hope that she'd once depended on, flickered. And once the last candle in the room went out, that sliver of hope joined it.