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But I won’t fall like I did last time. Golden briars spring up to grab me just before I hit the ground.

“Rosalina!” Mom sprints over to me, followed by Wrenley. They fall to their knees at my side.

I fight to catch my breath as Mom helps me sit up.

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I couldn’t hold it,” Wrenley gasps.

I look to Caspian, but there’s no way for him to leave his post. His face is pale, teeth gritted as he barely holds on to the right arm. Sira screeches, tearing at his briars, but she’s pinned in place…for now. I don’t know how long he can maintain it.

I turn back to the battlefield before the bridge. Maybe one of the princes…

But each one is surrounded by dark shadows. Goblins and trolls have crossed the bridge, joining Sira’s other creations. My princes are each fighting for their lives and the lives of the soldiers with them.

“I’ll help you,” Mom says. She places a hand on Wrenley’s shoulder. “We’ll make the briars together.”

“What are you talking about?” Wrenley says. “You’re a human. You don’t have any magic.”

“She’s right,” I say. “We’ll have to think⁠—”

My mother’s brow furrows, and her eyes shine with determination. “I may not have magic, but Castletree still does. Its roots are deep. Magic is everywhere. In everything. In everyone.” She places her hands on the dirt. “And Castletree will answer me.”

I tilt my head, examining her. When I first arrived at Castletree, before I discovered my faeness or my magic, Castletree responded to me, shifting and rearranging as if by its own will. If there’s a part of it left that Sira hasn’t taken over…

“Stand up,” I tell them.

We do.

Mom and Wrenley run back to the other side of the tree. I plant my feet, letting the energy of the earth flow through me. Then I fly.

Sira lets out a monstrous screech as she tears her left arm up. I swoop. My wings are powerful as I arc to avoid another hit. But her arm is relentless, coming at me again⁠—

Luminescent briars, woven with dark brown roots, snatch the arm, tugging it down to the earth. I look to see Mom and Wrenley standing together, their arms up, stances matching.

Fly, Princess, Caspian says in my mind. His purple briars have formed a cuff over the right arm. Sira cries and tears, the briars ripping. Fly!

“No!” Sira screams.

Past the legs, the torso, nearly at the heart. I reach back and grab the bow. I’m almost there⁠—

“We can’t hold it!” Mom yells from below.

“Rosalina, hurry!” Caspian calls.

The scream of briars rips through the air. Purple and luminescent briars snap on both sides, and Mom’s roots rip from the earth. Sira tears her arms upward, nearly free, but I can’t go any faster⁠—

A gust blows from beneath me. A wind that smells of cherry blossoms and fresh rain. Of salty seas and sugary fruit. Of bonfires and harvests. Of the first snow and cranberries straight from the bush.

I look down. My princes are staring up at me, their hands extended, giving me their wind. Upon the breath of the four seasonal realms of the Vale, I burst upward…

And hover before the heart of Castletree.

Sira’s waiting in the hollow, surrounded by stained glass. The images are rearranged, different from the ones that once decorated the Queen’s Tower. There’s one of a crying fae, her dark hair blanketing her. Gray wings hang in tatters around her. In another, the same fae but older kneels before a giant not-quite fae, his body wreathed in green flame. On the other side, the woman cradles a young boy with black hair, a content expression on her face.

Sira—or what remains of Sira—looks at me. She’s only a head, torso, and upper arms now, the rest of her completely engulfed in the tree. Her eyes widen, and her mouth drops to an O.

The bell jar that contains the rose is half-covered by bark but sticks out right where Sira’s hip would be. I craft a briar, growing it from the trunk of Castletree. It skirts across the twisted wood before a sharp thorn smashes through the glass. A gust of air escapes. My briar delicately weaves around the rose’s stem, then brings it back to me. Fingers shaking, I tuck the rose safely into my armor.

“No,” Sira whispers. “Please, no.”