Fae drags herself through the darkness.
Her knees scrape against roots and stones.
Her palms press into cold mud.
The hospital gown is torn, hanging off one shoulder, soaked with blood and sweat.
The rope around her wrists has been cut by something—a branch, a rock, she does not remember.
She does not remember much.
The forest spins around her, the trees lean in like curious witnesses, and the moon hides behind clouds, offering only occasional slivers of light.
Kael, she thinks. My baby. My little boy.
But Kael was dead, the doctor said so, her family said so.
The thought splits her chest open.
Moon Goddess, she prays, dragging herself forward another inch. Please take me. Please let me die so I can be with my son.
A scream tears through her.
Not a scream of grief this time,
