Power is not the monster, greed is. For power in the hands of the selfless can build empires, but in the grasp of the greedy, it demolishes them to ash. And luck? Luck is no gift, it is a debt, and debt must always be repaid.

The woman ran. Her bare feet struck the earth in hurried rhythm, the sound like the ticking of a clock, each beat marking time she no longer had. The ragged hood over her head clung to her damp skin, torn and stained, but she paid it no mind. She did not feel the sweat trailing down her face, nor the sting of the cold rain against her cheeks. The storm masked the fire in her lungs, the trembling in her limbs;only the adrenaline remained, pushing her forward.

In her right arm, she clutched a bundle, wrapped tight, fragile, desperate. A bundle that could be mistaken for cloth, for bread. But she knew better.

She stumbled, her knee slamming into the wet stone steps of a looming church. A holy place. A sanctuary. Surely, they would take her in.

She raised a trembling fist and pounded on the heavy oak doors, the iron dressings gleaming under the dim moonlight. The sound echoed.

No answer.

She pounded again, harder this time.

The doors groaned but only to slam shut, sealing her fate with a deafening finality.

She sucked in a sharp breath. She had known better.

Her eyes snapped to the trees beyond the cobbled path, the wild tangle of branches reaching toward the sky like grasping hands. The woods. The lore.

She ran.

Branches clawed at her skin, the cold mud sucked at her feet, but she pressed on, searching,waiting. Then, there it was. A dense, secluded bush, hidden in shadow.

She fell to her knees, curled into herself, and let the storm swallow her presence. She silenced her breath. She silenced the frantic pounding of her heart.

"Please help me," she whispered, her voice barely a breath of wind.

And then she recited, with lips trembling, the words from childhood’s myths:

"By leaf and root, by branch and bough, Heed my call and find me now."

Silence.

She waited.

She strained past the roaring of her pulse, past the howling wind, past the hammering rain.

Then; A sound, barely perceptible but distinct. The soft pitter-patter of feet, like tiny raindrops upon stone.

She exhaled, a breath of fragile relief.

And at the tip of her foot, she appeared.

A creature no taller than a child’s doll, but draped in majesty. Dark curls framed her sharp, ageless face, and atop her head sat a crown of jewels, small, but unmistakable in its power.

The tiny queen tilted her head, eyes brimming with something close to pity. Close, but not quite.

"You should not have called for me, sister. You longed to save them,now see how they have repaid your kindness."

The woman lowered her head, shame pressing against her chest like iron chains.

"Sister, please," she whispered. "I do not ask for gold. I do not ask for riches. I ask only for help."

She shifted the bundle in her arms and pulled back the cloth.

A baby. Small, blinking, his breath steady despite the storm.

"This is my son. He is the heir to our people."

The queen’s expression did not change.

"Wrong." The word was cold, sharp. "He is a half-blood. He can do nothing for our people."

A pause. A slow, knowing breath.

"But he is royal kin," the queen admitted. "And because of this, I will not punish him for your sins."

The queen’s face remained unreadable, her jeweled crown gleaming in the dim moonlight. But in the silence between them, something whispered.

"Glaonn an fhuil."

The blood calls.

The words echoed in her mind, old as the roots of the earth itself. A truth passed down through generations: no matter how lost, no matter how far, the blood of one’s ancestors would always call them home.

As if hearing her thoughts, her sister was ragged, and desperate, she lifted her chin and spoke.

"Glaonn an fhuil," she whispered. "Please, sister, do not let these humans kill us."

The queen inhaled sharply. Her fingers twitched at her side, curling into her palm.

"I cannot let him into our lands," she finally said, her voice steady but strained. "He is too big. The shoes we craft will be too small for him. The magic we weave will fail in his veins, his giant body will absorb too much, or too little, for it to manifest as it should. He does not fit."

She hesitated, then met her sister’s pleading eyes.

"And you... You rejected our ways. That is the law."

There was a brief silence between the sisters and then.

"You are my sister, and he is my nephew. And yes… the ancestors whisper through his blood. They call him. But I do not know why."

The queen did not move as the rain softened around them, mist curling at the edges of the trees like the breath of something ancient. Her sister knelt before her, broken and pleading, her arms still wrapped tightly around the sleeping child.

"Please," the woman whispered, voice raw with desperation. "I do not ask for gold. I do not ask for riches. I ask only for help."

The queen’s eyes flickered to the infant, small and quiet, unaware of the weight his birth had placed upon the world. She should have turned away. She should have let fate take its course.

But the blood called.

Glaonn an fhuil.

And so, with a breath deep as the wind, she lifted her hands and began to weave.

The magic unfurled like thread from her fingertips, gold and green light bending the air around them. The bush at their backs trembled, its branches twisting, stretching as it began forming walls, a roof, and a door. A cottage of deep wood and moss, warm with unseen fire, strong as the roots of the land itself.

It was a home that had never been. And yet, as the queen’s lips moved in an ancient tongue, it became truth.

The magic seeped into the air like a silent whisper, curling through the village beyond the trees. It moved unnoticed, sinking into the hearts and minds of the people like a forgotten dream. Their memories shifted, reshaping themselves, rewriting reality.

They would not question the woman’s presence.

They would not ask where she had come from nor would they persecute her for her differences or that of her child.

They would bring her bread and fresh milk, offer her wool in the winter, and firewood when the nights grew cold. Not out of charity, nor duty but because, in their minds, she had always been there.

The queen lowered her hands, her breath unsteady. The spell was complete.

Her sister exhaled a sob of relief, holding the child closer.

"You will never need for anything," the queen murmured, her voice quieter now. "But you will never return."

The woman swallowed, nodding.

"And him?" she asked, glancing at the boy in her arms. "Will they love him?"

The queen hesitated.

The blood calls.

And yet, she did not know why.

"They will care for him," she said at last. "That is all I can give."

Without another word, she turned. The mist curled at her heels, swallowing her whole.

By morning, the villagers would wake, and nothing would seem amiss. They would pass the small cottage at the edge of the wood and greet the woman as they always had. The spell would hold.

For now.

Omielly wandered through the marketplace, his small bare feet kicking up dust along the well-worn paths. The scent of fresh bread and ripened fruit filled the air, blending with the hum of voices that wove together like a song.

Everywhere he turned, hands reached out.

A plump baker placed a warm tart in his palm.
A merchant tossed a golden apple into his arms.
A passing woman ruffled his dark curls, laughing.

"A strong prince, you’ll be," she cooed. "Just like your mother always said."

Omielly blinked.

"Prince?" he repeated, the word curling on his tongue.

They all said it so easily. As if it were true.

He was no prince. He had no castle, no crown. His mother was sick in bed, curled beneath thin blankets. Yet they spoke as if the world was his to inherit.

Something deep within his little mind began to tick.

Leprechauns aged differently than humans; their spirits were wiser, sharper, even as children. And so, he noticed things. The way no one ever let him go hungry. The way no one ever questioned where he had come from. The way their smiles felt too certain, as if the kindness was not a choice but a rule they followed blindly.

He walked through the winding paths until the lively noise of the market faded behind him. The alley was nearly empty, save for three boys.

Two of them stood tall, sneering. One was on the ground, trembling.

A fight.

Omielly stepped closer, his small frame casting no shadow in the late afternoon light. The bigger boys did not notice him at first, too caught up in their cruel game.

"Say it," the taller one demanded, grabbing the smaller boy’s collar. "Say you’re nothing, and we’ll let you go."

The boy on the ground refused, his lip split and bloodied.

Omielly’s voice cut through the dust like steel.

"Let him go."

The bullies turned, startled. Their eyes roved over Omielly's small size, his fine but frayed tunic, the golden apple still tucked under his arm. The taller boy let out a scoff.

"Or what, little rat?"

Omielly tilted his head. A slow smile curled at the corner of his lips.

"Or you answer my riddle."

The boys paused, exchanging wary glances.

"A riddle?" the second one sneered. "What’s that supposed to do?"

"Simple," Omielly said. "If you answer it correctly, you may beat this boy as you please. But if you cannot… then you must treat him with kindness for the rest of your life."

The taller boy hesitated. He did not like the way Omielly spoke, as if he already knew the answer.

"Fine," he spat. "Let’s hear it then."

"I stand tall, yet I have no legs. I speak without a mouth, yet I am always heard. I can bring light to the darkness, yet I have no fire. What am I?"

The bullies frowned, brows furrowing as they repeated the words to themselves.

"A ghost?" one guessed.

Omielly shook his head.

"A wizard?" the other tried.

Omielly clicked his tongue.

"Wrong," he said. "Would you like to try again?"

The taller bully glared, but there was something uneasy in his eyes now. The little boy before him was too calm. Too certain. The riddle sat heavy on his tongue, curling in his mind like something dark and unseen.

"Forget this," he muttered, stepping back. "This kid’s weird."

Without another word, he turned and fled.

The second boy, still confused, scrambled after him, leaving Omielly standing alone in the alleyway.

Only the smaller boy remained.

Omielly turned, offering his hand.

"Take my hand," he said gently. "I won’t hurt you."

But the boy did not take it.

Instead, he smacked Omielly’s hand away, his face twisting in anger.

"Weirdo," he spat.

Then, without looking back, he ran.

Omielly stood there, hand still outstretched, confusion washing over him.

His first taste of cruelty.

His first taste of rejection.

"Omielly."

A woman’s voice cut through the air, soft but knowing.

Omielly turned.

At the end of the alley, an old woman stood beneath the shade of an awning, her shawl draped over her wiry frame, her silver hair coiling like smoke. A fortune teller.

She smiled at him, her dark eyes gleaming.

"I did not expect for you to carry your mother’s kindness," she said, her voice as smooth as silk. "For this reason, I will grant you a gift."

She reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled out a tiny toy, a leprechaun, no taller than Omielly’s hand.

"Do not be fooled," the old woman warned. "This leprechaun is clever, cunning, and a little tricky. But he is fair. As long as you are fair and kind to him… he will bring you wealth and good fortune."

Omielly stared at the toy, his young mind still reeling from the boy’s rejection.

Cautiously, he reached out and took it.

The moment his fingers curled around the small wooden figure, the old woman vanished.

A cold breeze whispered through the alley.

The boy looked down at the toy in his palm.

The leprechaun’s tiny carved eyes seemed to glint.

And so it began.

The first seed of doubt.
The first taste of being an outsider.
The first step toward the illusion that would one day destroy him.

For he did not yet know

The leprechaun was never just a toy, it was a peace offering.

Omeilly walked the winding path home, his small hands tucked into his pockets, the toy leprechaun resting in his grip. The marketplace was still bustling behind him, but the road ahead was quiet.

The cool breeze rustled the trees, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant chimney smoke.

He glanced down at the little wooden figure, his thumb tracing the grooves of its tiny carved coat. Its expression remained still unchanging. But something about the way the firelight from the village flickered against its surface made it seem… alive.

He smiled.

"Hello, my name is Omeilly. Do you have a name, little one?"

Silence.

The toy remained as lifeless as it had been when the old woman placed it in his hands.

Omeilly chuckled to himself. Of course it wouldn’t answer. It’s just a toy.

But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, a voice broke through the silence.

"Young prince!"

Omeilly turned.

A farmer jogged toward him, a thick woven blanket folded neatly in his arms. The man stopped a few feet away, smiling warmly as he held it out.

"You forgot this for your mother. We wish her good health."

Omeilly blinked, caught off guard.

"Oh, thank you."

The man simply nodded and walked away, disappearing back into the village.

Omeilly gripped the blanket tightly, his little legs picking up speed as he continued home.

The scent of potato soup met him before he even opened the door.

Pushing it open, he stepped inside to find his mother standing over the small pot, stirring slowly, her eyes warm but tired.

"Omeilly," she called the moment he stepped in. "Where have you been?"

Her voice was not harsh, but it held the quiet strength of a mother who had seen far too much of the world.

Omeilly grinned, setting the blanket on a nearby chair. "Mother, I just had the most amazing,yet unsettling day."

His mother turned, balancing two wooden bowls in her hands. She set them down on the small table, where the fire crackled warmly beside them.

"Come," she said, nodding toward the seat across from her. "Tell me all about it while we eat. I’m sure you are starving, are you not?"

Omeilly nodded eagerly and climbed into his chair. The heat from the fire seeped into his bones, the glow of the flames making the little home feel safe and untouched by the world outside.

As he ate, he spoke excitedly, recounting every detail of his trip to town, how the villagers greeted him, how they gave him treats, how they called him little prince.

His mother smiled, listening quietly as she sipped her soup.

But when Omeilly reached the part about the fortune teller, her smile faltered.

She set her bowl down.

"Omeilly," she said, cutting him off gently. "Before you finish this story, you must answer my question truthfully."

The boy paused, frowning as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Alright."

His mother’s gaze was steady, unreadable.

"When the woman called your name," she asked slowly, "how did you feel?"

Omeilly scrunched up his nose, thinking hard.

"I felt… a chill," he admitted. "Like when you call me to come inside when I’m playing in the woods."

His mother tilted her head slightly. "A chill?"

"Yes. But not a bad one."

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully.

"It was as if I knew her."

His mother’s fingers twitched slightly against the table, but she remained silent.

"Except… I didn’t know her," Omeilly continued. "I had never seen her before. But when she gave me this,"

He lifted the tiny wooden leprechaun, placing it carefully on the table between them.

"I grazed her hand, and it made me feel… safe."

His mother inhaled slowly.

Her gaze lingered on the toy, studying it carefully before finally, she smiled again.

"She gave you a leprechaun?"

"Yes," Omeilly nodded. "She said he has magic, and if I am fair and kind to him, he will be fair and kind to me."

His mother tapped her fingers gently against the wooden table.

"Do you think magic is real, Omeilly?"

The boy’s eyes flickered with something curious.

"Yes," he said, without hesitation.

His mother leaned forward slightly, her expression unreadable once more.

"And what would you do," she asked softly, "if you had real magic?"

The room fell silent.

The fire crackled, the wooden figure sat between them, and the question lingered in the air like a whisper from something unseen.

Omeilly twirled the tiny leprechaun between his fingers, the firelight casting small shadows along the table. His mother’s question lingered in the air.

"And what would you do if you had real magic?"

He thought for a moment, then smiled.

"Well," he started, "the lady gave me this because I was kind, like you."

His mother’s expression softened.

"She said if I am fair, then he will be fair to me. So maybe if I had magic… I’d be like you too. I’d use it to help."

His mother let out a quiet breath part relief, part something else.

"That is a good answer, Omeilly."

She reached across the table and smoothed his curls. The boy leaned into her touch, feeling warm, feeling safe.

He did not yet know.

He did not yet understand what kindness could cost.

One day, he would.

And it would break him.

Years passed, taking with them little pieces of health and age with each setting sun. Omeilly grew, and with time, he learned to cherish the small toy the fortune teller had given him. As she promised, the leprechaun brought forth many gifts, kindness from strangers, food when they had none, and warmth in the coldest of winters.

But time does not wait, and age is the curse of humanity.

Though his mother was born a leprechaun, she had given up the gifts of her birthright including the one gift her kind feared losing most. Immortality.

And so, one evening, as the fire crackled low in the hearth, she called him to her side.

Her skin was pale, her breath thinner than before, but her eyes were as sharp as ever. She reached for his hands, holding them between her own.

"Omeilly, there is something I must tell you before I pass to the next world."

The boy stiffened, his heart pounding hard against his ribs.

"You were born from the blood of royalty. You are the rightful king of the leprechauns."

Omeilly frowned, his mind trying to stitch her words together.

"If that is true, Mother, why do we live in this cottage?"

A small, tired smile tugged at her lips, but before she could answer, a deep cough rattled through her chest. Omeilly steadied her, gripping her hand tighter as she caught her breath.

"Let me tell you a story," she whispered.

Her voice was thinner than it had been in his childhood, but the weight of it had not lessened.

"Once upon a time, there was a princess"

"You?" Omeilly interrupted.

His mother chuckled softly.

"Yes, my love. Me."

"She was born with the most powerful magic of all her people. But magic is not just power, it is responsibility, bound by the laws of our kind.

One day, as the princess walked through the woods of her land, she encountered a creature. A human.

But he was not like the ones from the old tales. He was not kind, nor fair. He took from the people he called his own. He deprived them of food and water, he violated their women, and he ruled with a hunger that could never be filled.

The princess saw his cruelty, and she saw the suffering of his people. She knew it was forbidden, but she could not ignore their need.

So, in the dead of night, she used her magic to sneak into the camp of the sick and the starving, bringing them food, tending to their wounds, whispering blessings over their restless dreams.

And among those she saved, there was a man.

A man who saw her not as a creature, not as an enemy but as something to be cherished.

It was inevitable that they fell in love.

But love does not change the laws of our kind. Love does not erase what is forbidden.

On the night of the Flower Moon, the princess broke the greatest law of all, she used her magic to take human form. Just for one night.

For one night, she wished to feel love as humans do.

And on that night, Omeilly, you were conceived.

But our love was not meant to last.

We were discovered.

Your father was taken as a prisoner, dragged from his home and bound in chains. I escaped by returning to my true form, but I could not let him suffer alone.

The next day, I was summoned. Called upon by the voice I loved more than all else.

I should have known.

When I arrived, he was not standing before me, he was hanging from the rack.

Do you know what that is, Omeilly?

It is a device of torture, designed to break a man’s body apart, to stretch him until his bones shatter, until his joints twist out of place, until his screams become whispers and his whispers become nothing.

Your father was dying.

But still, he called for me.

He did not ask to be saved. He knew it was too late.

He only asked me to end his suffering.

And because I loved him, I did.

But when I returned to my people, I was not the same.

The moment I raised my hands to cast magic again, I felt something new, something cold, something dark.

Anger.

In the smallest things.

Fury.

In the quietest moments.

I no longer wielded magic with peace, I wielded it with vengeance.

I vowed to return one day, to make them pay for what they had done.

But my sister, your aunt, begged me not to. She warned me that to live as a human is to suffer, to feel pain in ways our kind was never meant to.

I did not listen.

I gave up my powers willingly, thinking I could escape the darkness that had begun to consume me.

And so, I left my people.

And in the months that followed…

You were born."

Omeilly’s hands tightened into fists.

His mother’s story twisted in his chest, pressing against something deep inside him, something he did not yet have the words to name.

"You gave it up?" he whispered.

His mother sighed. "Yes, my love."

"But they hurt you." His voice was stronger now, a spark of something sharp beneath it. "They killed my father. And they let you suffer. And you… you just left?"

His mother cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing his skin gently.

"Omeilly," she said, "love and revenge cannot live in the same heart. I chose love. And I chose you."

She smiled weakly, as if the words could heal something in him.

But deep inside the boy, something had already shifted.

He thought of the villagers. Their kindness. Their blind, unquestioning generosity.

The way they spoke to him as if they had always known him.

The way they never let him go without.

And the fortune teller’s words whispered back to him.

"Do not be fooled. This leprechaun is clever, cunning, and a little tricky. But he is fair."

For the first time in his life, Omeilly wondered what it meant to be fair.

And whether fairness had ever truly existed at all.

Omeilly sat at his mother’s bedside, watching the life slip from her in slow, measured breaths. The fire in the hearth had burned low, the room dim except for the faint glow of embers.

Her skin was paler than before. Her fingers, once so strong, now trembled as she reached for his hand.

"Omeilly."

Her voice was weaker now, but steady.

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Yes, Mother?"

Her lips curled into a soft, tired smile.

"I cannot decide for you whether or not you will go down the road of revenge."

Omeilly’s fingers twitched in her grasp. He clenched his jaw, but said nothing.

"But if you do," she continued, her voice softer now, "you must understand, you are made for greatness. The power you hold is not to be taken for granted."

She coughed, her grip faltering for a moment before she regained it.

"Look to your aunt for any need you may have."

Omeilly stiffened. His aunt. The queen.

"If you find yourself in a situation," she murmured, her voice fading, "say these words: 'By leaf and root, by branch and bough, Heed my call and find me now.'

Omeilly memorized them instantly.

Her fingers squeezed his weakly.

"Remember, Glaonn an fhuil. The blood calls."

A chill crawled down his spine.

His mother’s eyes fluttered, closed for a moment before she inhaled again, her breaths now more labored.

"Do not hold your aunt accountable for the choices I made," she whispered.

Omeilly felt his fingernails dig into his palms.

"It was law at the time. And I gave up being queen of the leprechauns"

She exhaled slowly, and for a moment, he thought that was the end.

But then, her fingers curled one last time around his.

"and I would do it a hundred times over, if it meant I got to keep you. The greatest treasure I ever laid eyes on."

Silence.

Omeilly sat perfectly still.

He felt the words.

But they did not comfort him.

His mother had chosen love over power.

She had chosen sacrifice over revenge.

And now, she was gone.

And he was still here.

Alone.

The heat of the fire did nothing to warm the cold that had settled deep in his bones.

He did not cry.

He simply waited.

Waited for the moment when he no longer had to keep this anger bottled up.

Waited for the moment when the fire inside him would finally be let loose.

The night air was still. The fire had long since burned to embers, but Omeilly did not move.

Then he heard soft pitter-patters at the door.

The sound barely reached his ears, yet it pulled him from his silence.

He rose, his limbs heavy, his breath steady. His fingers curled around the handle as he pulled the door open.

Outside, fifty soldiers stood in formation, their armor trimmed with gold and green,the colors of the leprechaun kingdom. The flickering torches in their hands cast strange shadows on their small frames, but one figure stood taller than the rest.

The queen.

She was not like the others. Unlike most of her kind, she had taken on the height of a human, her presence commanding but not cruel. Her gown was a deep red woven with threads of green, a color that signified both power and loss.

She bowed her head.

"I know you loved her more than anything," she said, her voice soft but unwavering. "But her body belongs to our land. Please allow me to bury this form of her in our home, so that she may return to her true nature."

Omeilly stepped forward, his hands clenched at his sides.

"You act as if you loved her," he spat. "But you didn’t. You outcasted her. You shunned me. And now, you stand here pretending to care?"

The queen did not flinch.

Instead, a single tear slipped down her cheek.

"She was not just my sister," she whispered. "She was my twin."

Omeilly's breath caught in his throat.

"We were born under the same moon. We wore the same face. Half of my heart is hers, while the other still beats inside me."

Her voice did not waver, but the weight of it settled in the air between them.

"You did not call for me," she continued, her gaze meeting his. "I appeared because I was always here. I, too, had many lonely nights. I, too, suffered her loss. She had you, while I had no one. And yet, I had to find a way to rule a country in her stead."

She inhaled slowly.

"Do not confuse my obedience to our people as a lack of love."

Omeilly dropped his gaze, swallowing the bitterness in his throat.

"Take her." His voice was sharp, but beneath it, something fragile cracked. "She should have never found herself in this world. She didn’t belong here."

The queen stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on his head.

"You must come as well."

Omeilly stiffened.

"Why?"

He had expected her to take his mother’s body, their memory, their legacy. But not him.

"My mother said I was too big for your world," he muttered, confusion warring with anger.

The queen tilted her head, her gaze knowing.

"That was a misconception we did not understand."

She let her hand drop, but her voice remained steady.

"I have watched you, Omeilly. I have seen the way you talk to the toy leprechaun, how you have been true to our ways without even knowing them. You were true to your heritage because, Glaonn an fhuil."

Omeilly’s breath hitched. His fists clenched.

"The blood calls."

The queen smiled softly.

"Yes, it does. And we were wrong, you belong with us."

Omeilly held her gaze, searching for deception.

"But my father was never avenged." His voice shook, but he steadied it. "What will happen to his legacy?"

The queen knelt before him, leveling her eyes with his.

"Look at me, Omeilly, and hear my words not as an attack, but as truth."

She inhaled deeply before speaking.

"Your father was not innocent. He was ruled by the evil of this world. But in the end, he found love in a being who brought light to his darkness. You blame your mother for giving up her power for love, but this was also what he did.

He gave away his seat of power so that he would die in love.

Darkness and light share a space in time. There is not one without the other.

The greatest way to bring justice to your father's name is to break the cycle of revenge."

She reached forward, gently brushing a strand of hair from his face.

"Let me tell you a prophecy, one written in clover and stone:"

"Your blood is my blood, but it is also his,
Bound by roots where fate exists.
A true king does not take, but sows;
Spread your mother’s love where clovers grow."

The words settled over him, heavy yet delicate.

He wanted to reject them.

He wanted to cling to his anger.

But somewhere, deep beneath the weight of grief, a seed of doubt took root.

His mother’s love.

His father’s choice.

The blood that called to him.

He did not answer.

He could not.

Not yet.

The queen’s fingers grazed his temple, and a warmth spread through him, not in a comforting way, but pulling.

"Allow me to show you what each path would be," she murmured. "A small glimpse at a possibility. Keep in mind, magic does not lie. It is the intentions beneath that allow the flow of intrigue. I intend for you to make the best choice that you see fit for yourself. I owe your mother that much."

Omeilly lifted his head, his lips pressed in a firm line.

"Show me."

The world around him shifted.

He stood in a room he did not recognize. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, of power, of something rotting.His fingers curled around something small. The toy.

His grip was tight, too tight.

"I hate this stupid thing!" his voice echoed, filled with something raw and dark.

He threw it into the fire.

The flames swallowed it whole, but he didn’t watch it burn. His chest heaved, his pulse a thunderous roar in his ears.

"They took everything from me" his breath came in sharp bursts. "My birthright, my mother, my peace. I will destroy anyone who gets in my way."

His voice grew sharper.

"I will be great on my own."

He had grown not in inches but in power. A shadow stretching across the world, swallowing kingdoms,buildings fell in his wake. Crowds knelt, not in reverence, but in fear.

Everything he touched in anger flourished for a time, cities rising, treasures gathered, power gained.

But then, without warning, everything withered.

The roots of his conquests crumbled.

His followers turned to prisoners.

The gifts he once cherished became chains.

He saw his own hands, but they were older, heavier, empty.

A sudden shift, he was alone.

The once-golden walls around him were now cracked, stained with time.

He lifted a mirror in his trembling grasp.

And the face staring back at him was not his own.

Not the boy who once dreamed.

Not the child his mother had loved.

Something smaller now.

Something forgotten.

The reflection’s lips parted, whispering not to him, but about him.

"The boy in the mirror does not know his own name."

Omeilly stared.

And for the first time since his mother’s death, he felt afraid.

The queen’s fingers grazed his temple once more, her touch steady, patient.

"Let me show you what could happen if you follow the path of love."

She waited.

Omeilly hesitated, but only for a moment.

"I’m ready."

The world shifted again.

He stood kneeling in a quiet forest, there was a scent of damp earth and wildflowers in the air.

His hands were older, weathered by time but steady. Beneath his fingertips, the cool stone of a grave pressed against his skin.

The name Liona, Beloved Mother, Sister and Queen was carved into it, the edges softened by years of gentle touches.

Beside it, another memorial stood tall, inscribed with a name he had never spoken before but had always known in his blood.

Sgt. Cian O’Meilly.

His father.

Though he had never been laid to rest in their land, his memory had finally found a place to call home.

Omeilly took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

"Today, I got to help a family in the human world, Mom." His voice was soft but sure.

"They were really poor and needed a bit of luck. The father of the family was a good man with a strong heart, and now he has a good job. He can finally provide for his family; they’ll have food, water, and a place to grow."

He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head.

"The laughter of the children reminds me of the small leprechauns that play in the fields of the castle."

He lifted his gaze, a sense of peace settling into his bones.

"I have balanced both worlds, and I have made a way to help where we can, without jeopardizing our people."

The wind shifted, carrying a whisper not from a voice, but from the land itself.

"The greatest power is not in what we take, but in what we choose to give.

In the hands of the selfish, magic is a weapon.

But in the hands of the just, it is a bridge,one that carries light into the dark, and hope into the forgotten."

Omeilly opened his eyes, the vision fading, the queen’s face coming back into view.

The choice was his.

Omeilly still felt fear in his heart, but there was something else now.

Purpose.

The weight of his mother’s passing, the visions of what could be, and the truth of his father’s fate all sat heavy in his chest. But for the first time since his world had fallen apart, he did not feel lost.

He reached down and grasped the queen’s hand, his grip firm.

"Take us home, Aunt Sibeal."

The queen’s breath hitched just slightly before she stood tall, pride filling her heart as she nodded in approval. With a flick of her wrist, she signaled to the soldiers.

Silently, they lifted Liona’s body and placed it within the glass coffin they had brought. The polished surface reflected the firelight, casting a delicate glow over the clearing.

Before the lid was closed, Sibeal stepped forward.

She knelt beside her sister one last time, brushing a gentle hand over her forehead. Her lips pressed to her cool skin, and her voice was barely a whisper.

"You were right about him."

As the words left her lips, something shifted.

The deep lines on Liona’s face softened,her features smoothing as if time had unraveled its cruel touch. The weight she had carried lifted, and for the first time in decades, she looked at peace.

The coffin sealed, and Sibeal took a step back, folding her hands in quiet reverence.

A hush fell over the forest.

Then, the wind whispered.

It curled through the trees, rustling the leaves in a song only the land could sing.

Sibeal inhaled deeply and murmured the words that had bound them all from the beginning.

"Glaonn an fhuil."

Omeilly echoed her, his voice steady yet strong.

"The blood calls."

And as they turned toward home, the earth itself seemed to answer.