Much quicker upload than I thought... last chapter coming soon.

"We can stop playing games now, right?" I called out to Ciaran as I made my way up to where he perched innocently against a grave marker.

Hunter, as per Ciaran's orders, was not with me—but he was nearby, filling local council authorities in on the situation, ready to step in when the time came.

"I'm not playing games, Morgan." Ciaran said with a smile. Killian, next to him, looked solemn and pale, as if he'd just been tortured for two weeks straight with no sleep in between.

Why was he even here? I wondered. Did Ciaran find out Killian had spoken to the council? If I was a traitor for denying my blood inheritance, then what was Killian? Killian, who knew nothing yet spoke to the council about his family anyway. Killian disobeyed his all too powerful father for a few laughs. Killian made a fool of the MacEwan name, made Ciaran seem weak and unable to control his children. And if you couldn't control your children, what kind of a leader were you, really?

"Where's Mom?"

Ciaran offered his hand and I declined. His nostrils flared for just a second—rejection was not something he took lightly—and he nodded at Killian. Zombie-like, Killian stood, came around me, and pulled my arms behind my back. They were locked in his tight grip, and he pushed me forward, my feet unable to dig into the dry ground to halt him.

As Ciaran walked ahead of us I whispered, "Why are you doing this?"

Killian said nothing.

The sky was darkening rapidly, the full moon showing brightly in the dusk. Towards the woods that lined the cemetery, I saw flashes of orange just before we came into view of the bonfire that was rapidly licking at the dry wood and building, embers sparking off and winking out against the dark blue sky.

I had seen this before.

From my view in the dream, I'd come from the woods on the opposite side, where Maeve was standing, looking frail and frightened as Amyranth witches led her by either arm to the fire. My eyes darted around frantically to place Moira. I needed to see that she was safe. My senses were clashing with the chaos that surrounded me, making it impossible to cast them out to her. I couldn't even send a message to Hunter. I felt defeated and so stupid—I'd walked into the lion's den completely unprepared. Ciaran wouldn't keep his word, and why would he? What was in it for him?

"Did you make your decision, daughter?" Ciaran asked, his voice suddenly at my ear.

"What are my options, Father?" I spat, my anger igniting like wildfire.

He placed his hands on my face, cupping my cheeks in a loving gesture. "Give in to your powers, let yourself accept the dark. You would be unstoppable by my side." He was being gentle, fatherly, his expression filled with hope at the possibility of joining with him.

"Or?"

Ciaran's eyes narrowed, and his hands dropped from my face. "Or…" he turned and gestured to Maeve, whose eyes were fixed on me. "Your poor mother, who has already seen so much pain in her life—"

"At your hands!"

"Because of her actions," he insisted. "That woman will have to watch her only child, the person she loves most after me—"

I scoffed, and he slapped me. Hard. So hard it knocked the breath from my lungs. I blinked up at him, feeling, for the first time since arriving here, actual fear. This man is going to kill me, I thought. He is actually, undoubtedly, going to kill me. Here. Tonight.

"She will watch you die. She will be all alone and won't even have her grandchild as a connection to you." He threatened. "So what do you say? Let go of the light, embrace who you truly are, or let your mother die alone?"

"I won't join you." I said firmly.

"Your daughter will be an orphan," he said incredulously. "Do you realize how selfish you are? How naïve, how small-minded? You would give up your life based on principles rather than raise your daughter?"

I shook my head, refusing to let myself give in. "She has a father," I argued. "And he'll raise her to be light. You're not going to win, Ciaran!" I hissed. "You can kill me, but you will never win!"

Ciaran gripped the back of my neck and pulled my out of Killian's mechanical grasp, my wrists feeling bruised. I felt my shoulders pop as I got yanked away too fast, my arms stinging with pain and utterly useless as the blood rushed back through them.

Unable to fight back, Ciaran dragged my down to the fire and threw me on the ground, face first. My right cheekbone hit a rock and I cried out, feeling the tiny bones crack apart beneath the skin.

Ciaran grabbed my hair as I tried to roll away, keeping me pinned to the ground as he had me exactly where he wanted me. My arms were weak, the muscles feeling as though ripped from their joints. My face was stinging with pain so strong my eyes watered uncontrollably.

"You did this to yourself," he whispered, his face inches away from mine. He reached behind him and pulled out an athame—a deadly looking blade carved with runes for power, a dark, almost black handle studded with garnet, my favorite stone. This wasn't Ciaran's athame that I had seen hundreds of times in various rituals. This was Amyranth's athame—the athame that destroyed lives, families, covens. The athame that brought about the destruction of Belwicket. The athame that left my mother without a family, and me without a legacy. The athame that would ensure the Riordan line truly dies with me.

The masked witches of Amyranth began to surround us, blocking me in even if I had had the strength to run away.

"I never wanted it to end this way, Morgan." Ciaran said regretfully as a lifted the blade, hovering the tip above my heart. "You can still change your mind."

I shook my head. "I won't."

I closed my eyes as the chanting began, surrounding me, voices echoing off of each other as if we were in a tunnel.

I cried, letting myself sob. I had wanted to be strong when I died, to show that I was at peace with my decision, but knowing I would never see Hunter again, never hold my baby or watch her grow up, destroyed me. I could feel my heart start to bleed before the tip of the blade even broke my flesh. I would be leaving Moira motherless. Fatherless, too, if Ciaran gets his way.

This isn't how it was supposed to happen, I thought helplessly. I wasn't ready to go.

"Maeve," Ciaran whispered, horrified. "Maeve, no!"

My tear-blurred eyes snapped open and focused on my mother. Her face was pale as she sunk to the ground, hands gripping the handle of the Belwicket athame, the blade twisted deep into her stomach.

"Mom!" I screamed shrilly, over and over, trying to force myself to see anything else. I kicked at Ciaran until he let me go, screaming at the top of my lungs as I watched her green eyes close and her body fall limply to the side.

Ciaran ran to Maeve and cradled her body, burying his face in her hair and wailing brokenly. I couldn't move, couldn't hold her and push him away. I couldn't say goodbye.

I could only watch and scream and beg the Goddess to let this be a dream.

Kill me instead. Kill me instead. Kill me instead.

Helplessly, I watched as men pulled Ciaran away from her. He didn't fight them, didn't have the strength to.

I crawled over to her, placing my numb hands on her stomach and using every healing spell I knew to fix this and bring her back. She wasn't dead, I told myself. She was unconscious, but not dead.

This was my mantra; this is what I told myself as I worked on her lifeless body. This is what I told myself when Hunter had pulled me away from her, my hands soaked in blood, his eyes filled with tears at seeing me in so much pain.

Every morning for the next year I woke up telling myself that it wasn't true, that she was seeing friends and would be back. She would come with me and Moira to pick a tree in December. She would cleanse our house every spring as we went through everything we no longer needed. She would sit on the porch with my little family and watch summertime thunderstorms, humoring me and my childish desire to see a tornado firsthand. She would be there for me when I got married, when Hunter and I decided to have another baby, when it was time for Moira to be initiated.

Every morning for the year following her death, I would wake up and tell myself this. I would let myself believe things were fine, that I had had a realistic nightmare, but that she was okay.

I told myself this every morning until I accepted it.