The Fae turns to the third girl.
Silence stretches.
The shadow-child waits, form trembling slightly with anticipation. This is her moment. Her turn. Her destiny about to unfold like the others', revealing what wonderful future awaits, what crown will manifest above her patient head.
The Fae shakes their head.
"Nothing is destined for this child."
The words fall like stones into still water. Ripples of shock spread through the gathering, visible in the way the celebrating children freeze, the way the parents' satisfied postures shift to confusion.
The third girl's shoulders sink.
Her shadow-form doesn't just diminish—it begins to fade at the edges, as if the lack of destiny might unmake her entirely. Where before she stood equal despite lacking a crown, now she seems hollow.
Less real.
Less worthy.
The other two children look confused, turning to their parents with questions written in the tilt of their heads, the dimming of their lights. But the parents dismiss the concern with gestures that speak clearly even across time and memory—waves of hands that say "time will tell" and "too early to be certain."
The crowned children accept this with the resilience of youth. They surround their sister, jumping up and down in exaggerated motions meant to cheer. Their shadow-forms press close, trying to share their light, their warmth, theirdestinythrough proximity alone.
It almost works.
Almost.
The parents point beyond the Fae to where something magnificent rises from the darkness. A castle of shadows materializes, or perhaps was always there, waiting to be noticed. Spires of crystallized night reach toward a sky that doesn't exist, while bridges of solid moonlight connect towers that shouldn't be able to stand.
The children cheer—even the third girl manages some enthusiasm—and the two run toward this new wonder. Theparents follow with measured steps, their forms moving with grace that speaks of eternity to explore such marvels.
Only the third girl hesitates.
She stands alone as others move away, shadow-form trembling with something that might be rage or might be despair. The Fae being turns to follow the others, apparently considering their work complete.
The girlscreeches.
The sound tears through the memory like claws through silk. It's not a child's cry but something older, deeper—the voice of someone who refuses to accept judgment, who demands truth rather than dismissal.
The Fae stops. Turns their head with mechanical precision.
The girl flinches as they smile. The expression is wrong on their features—too wide, too knowing, toopleasedwith what comes next.
"You are destined for failure."
Each word precisely placed. Each syllable a nail in a coffin built from prophecy.
"Solitude... and love will never find you. Your greed and hate will be your end, and my kind will never accept you."
The Fae leans closer, voice dropping to whisper that carries more force than any shout.
"Without the chalice, your destiny is irreversible. The hate in your heart will come to light, and the same siblings destined to love you despite your flaws will be your end before you can try and taste the power of ruling."
They turn away then, dismissal complete.
The girl stands alone in darkness that no longer feels beautiful, surrounded by butterflies whose light seems to mock rather than decorate.
The vision shatters.
