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I wonder if my Mother felt the same overwhelming loneliness and isolation when she was alive. I wonder if books once brought her joy and escape from the desolation of reality, like they do for me.

My fingers skim across the book’s spine. As the sun sets over the edge of the world, memories appear, crisp and clear and magical. When I was little, she spent hours telling me stories every day. She was an endless vault of them. A library unto herself. There was one in particular that was her favorite. Mine, too. I used to beg her to tell it every day.

I let myself fall into the memory, wrapping it around me like the blanket and safety my instincts have been denied.

“A long time ago,” she whispers, leaning close like she’s sharing a secret.

I giggle, because that’s how her stories always begin.

“There was a kingdom of beautiful, enchanting creatures who could speak to beasts, bend shadows to their will, and convince the very earth to answer their call, if they asked nicely enough.”

“They were a joyous people, and for quite some time, their realm thrived, existing in peace. But as so often occurs, some were unhappy with their lot in life. They wanted more. To prevent the world from ripping apart, the kingdom disappeared, folding in on itself. Trees, rivers, the very dirt itself, each piece of their realm fell into an unnatural slumber, and the rest of the world forgot their names. Their story was lost to time.”

“But not all had been lost,” she smiles like she knows something no one else does, eyes bright and beautiful in the firelight.

“Before they were all forced into slumber, a single heartbeat escaped the veil between realms. It searched until it found refuge in a girl child not yet born, her future hidden so deeply that not even the heartbeat itself knew when she would wake.”

“The rhythm of that heartbeat became a lullaby. One passed from mother to daughter for thousands of years. It lives on through blood and bone and memory. It will continue on for eternity, or until the stars fall from the sky, heralding the birth of the daughter that holds its secrets in her very essence. The last flicker of a forgotten land. The last hope against a forgotten foe.”

“How will they know who she is?” I ask, though I know the answer. It never changes no matter how often she tells the story.

She smiles. “She will be made of Flame to keep them warm and lead them to remembrance. She will provide the very Air they will need to shout their names into the void. She will call on Water to nourish their lost souls back to life. Her plea will stir the Earth to remember their grief, and the grief of those lost before her.”

“She will be born with a crown of starlight and carry fire in her veins. She will wake the sleeping kingdom, and worlds will tremble when she takes her throne.”

The last time she told me that story was a few weeks after my designation emerged. I was so upset by Father’s unending anger, and one night my frustration got the best of me. I remember complaining, insisting I was too old for fairy tales.

“I suppose you are, my Darling.” Mother frowns, her blue eyes darkening. I want to take the words back immediately. I don’t want to make my mother sad.

Before I can back peddle, she folds her hands in her lap and straightens her shoulders, leveling me with an assessing look. “Did I ever tell you the price? The one that the magic exacted right before the kingdom sealed itself away?”

I shake my head, frowning in confusion. Thousands of retellings and not once has she mentioned a price.

She hums, leaning closer. “Before the kingdom slumbered, the wild magic of the land lashed out. It was fractured. Bleeding. It could barely be contained. It struck out, latching onto the flesh of mankind, twisting and reforming the blood and memories of some into something different. Something dark.”

“Evil?” I ask, intrigued by the macabre turn the whimsical tale has taken.

“No. Not evil, exactly.” She cocks her head, considering the best way to explain. “It gave life to children of fang and claw. Of shadow and fur, and insatiable thirst. They weren’t curses, but neither were they precisely gifts, either. Just an echo of the magic that was slowly dying, reaching out to find a home wherever it could.”

“What happened to them?”

“Nothing happened to them,” she laughs. The sound is light. Airy.

Looking back, I wonder how often she was faking her joy. I wonder how often she was truly happy.

“But they’re important?” I press, wondering why she’s just now mentioning this part of the story.

“Oh yes. Very important. In fact, their threads will be bound to the daughter as surely as she will bind the realms together when she returns. They will guard her back and give her strength when she leads her forces in the fight against the Shadow.”

“Why haven’t you told me this part before?” My voice is a whisper. So is hers. We never speak loudly where Father or his men might hear us. Not even in my own bedroom.

“Because you’re right,” she whispers, brushing my hair from my forehead gently. “You probably are getting too old for fairy tales. You’ll need to forgive me, my little ember. It’s a mother’s biggest fear and greatest honor to realize her child is growing up. I’m doing you a disservice, trying to hold on to your childhood when you’ve already experienced more than most adults.”

“I like the stories,” I whimper, scared she might stop telling them completely. I don’t want that. I don’t want any of this. I want to rewind to an hour ago when Mother still saw me as her little girl.

“Stories don’t go away as you get older, Idril. They change. Just like you change. You’re an Omega now. I’ve spent years trying to preserve your innocence, but if I continue to rely on fairy tales, I’m doing you a disservice as your mother. It’s time to explore more worlds, my love. New adventures. And it’s time I start teaching you the truth. Fates know you can handle it.”

I want to ask her what she means, but it’s late and we’re both tired. Drained. Once again, Father’s rage has left us mere shells of Omegas by the end of the day.