Change the apple.
If this was a dream, like the ones he kept dragging her into—maybe it went both ways.
Change the apple.
Serrik!
Something shifted in the air then—a disturbance that made the crone’s hand falter. The shadows in the corner of the room deepened, coalesced, and then parted as a figure stepped through.
“Serrik.” The crone lowered her hand. There was no surprise in her voice, only a weary recognition.
The newcomer stood tall, his form seeming to absorb the dim light of the room rather than reflect it. He looked out of place standing in her mother’s bedroom—like a nightmare made real. His elaborate, antiquated clothing in deep black set off his pale, green-tinged skin. He did not seem surprised to be there, either.
“You have no business in this transaction.” The crone turned to face him. There was history between them, evident in her tone.
Serrik’s gaze moved to Ava, who was still clutching her mother’s lifeless hand. “This one has suffered enough.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle, carrying the weight of someone who understood loss intimately.
“The bargain?—”
“Can be fulfilled in other ways,” Serrik interrupted. “You are collecting upon a debt, crone. One of a mother lost, are you not?”
Ava looked between them, confusion momentarily overriding her grief. She had no idea what was going on. What was Serrik doing?
The crone studied Serrik thoughtfully, but didn’t answer at first.
Serrik moved closer, his movements fluid and silent. “Answer me, crone. A memory of a mother lost is what you seek in return for the shard. Yes or no?”
The crone's expression hardened. “I will have what I came for.”
“Then take from me instead.” Serrik lifted his chin slightly in defiance. The words hanging in the air like smoke. “An exchange. My memory in lieu of hers.”
For the first time, uncertainty flickered across the crone’s ancient face. “You would offer such a thing?”
“I am.”
“Serrik…?” Ava hesitated. “Why?”
He didn’t look at her when he answered. “You said it yourself. This is all you have left.”
“What memory would you offer?” the crone asked, her interest clearly piqued. “It must be of equal value.”
Serrik closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, there was resolution in his gaze. “My only memory of my mother, the Morrigan.”
The crone’s breath caught audibly. The name alone seemed to change the atmosphere of the room, making the shadows deeper, the air colder. “You have never spoken of that moment,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I have never had reason to,” Serrik replied simply.
Ava looked between them, sensing the shift in power. “The Morrigan? Like from mythology?”
“Aren’t we all from stories, in one way or another, little brass bird?” The crone chuckled. “His mother. Well. One of them, perhaps. Our goddess of the fae. The mother of Seelie and Unseelie alike. The goddess of war and fate.”
Serrik’s jaw twitched. “Do you accept the trade or not, crone?”
A heavy silence filled the room. Ava could feel the weight of centuries in it, but she didn’t understandwhythis was so important. “Okay, so? So what, his mom’s the Morrigan, and…?”
The crone’s eyes gleamed with hunger. “Oh, my dear. The only time he ever met his mother was the moment she pushed him into his own prison and locked the door behind him.” She laughed. “To see that memory—to have it, tofeel it—could tell me so much about our dear Serrik.”
“Or perhaps it will teach you nothing.” Serrik’s voice carried an edge that hadn't been there before. “Choose.”
