The memories were a blazing rage in her mind as her hands ran through the width of the door frame. Her boots crunched against the ash and the splinters from the floorboards. Debris from the walls and the ceiling peppered the floor that reminded Xanthy of a certain type of pastry. Lindenmere, was it?

Without a word, Xanthy tore past the kitchen and emerged in the wide space that was supposed to be the living room leading to the foyer. The pile of discarded objects were still there, albeit toppled over and layered with a fine coat of dust and ash. Xanthy ran her hands on the vanity where she used to peer at herself and her pointy ears. The surface lost its sheen and its edges had melted. Her fingertips came away with a thick film of soot when she ran them through the surface.

Cirasa lingered by the arch separating the kitchen and the living area. Xanthy's eyes widened. Oh. He's wearing white. Oops.

Her fingers unclasped the cloak from the base of her neck. She laid the cloak atop the sooty floor. "We can share this cloak so we can sit. The stools burned down long ago," she gave him an apologetic chuckle.

Cirasa craned his neck at half the ceiling that remained. "You lived here?"

Xanthy squinted against the shaft of sunlight lighting the foyer. The hole June made had long ago integrated into the missing chunk. "It was much better back then," she scooted over and patted the space on her cloak beside her. "Not exactly liveable, but better. Come on, sit."

Cirasa pursed his lips and unfastened his own cloak before gathering it into a ball which he then propped against his legs as he sat opposite Xanthy. "So, back to business," he dusted his fingers. "What did you get from Akaron and who was that Sovereign person? Why did she call you the Virtakios, a thing of legends?"

Xanthy exhaled through her nose. "How much do you know about me?"

"Aside from what Rutoria told me, nothing," Cirasa picked at the folds of his trousers.

As expected from the oracle. Great. Xanthy gathered her legs and crossed them. "Alright," she put a hand over her chest. "I'm Xanthiene Vivenca and I possess the rare brand of magic called the Virtakios."

Cirasa cocked his head to one side. "That's awesome, don't you think?"

Xanthy chuckled without amusement. That's the last word she would use to describe what it was like being the Virtakios. "It wasn't that good," she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Where was that blasted twine Nyxis used to tie her hair? She slapped her knee. "Sometimes, I feel it's a burden."

"I can tell," Cirasa's gentle voice made Xanthy's head snap up. The shard fairy smiled. Was that pity in his eyes? "You wouldn't be looking for the chalice if you didn't want to throw your soul away."

"What, you read my mind?" Xanthy said. It was meant to be a joke but it came out sarcastic and edgy. She ran a hand over her forehead. "But yes, I don't want to have it when I know I'm doing a poor job of protecting it."

"It needs protecting?"

Xanthy nodded. Good thing Cirasa didn't ask her about her failures to protect the Virtakios. "That's where the Sovereign comes in."

Cirasa's eyebrows raised higher and higher as Xanthy spilled everything she knew about Synketros and Cardovia and about the Heiress and the Sovereign.

When she got to the part where the Sovereign instructed the servant to kill herself, Xanthy felt bile rise at the back of her throat. Cirasa's skin had a greenish tinge to it. "Gods, that's evil," he breathed.

Xanthy drew her lips into a thin line. "Synketros wasn't dedicated to protecting the island," she jabbed a finger against the floor. "Cardovia and Synketros, they are the same."

"This is what threatens the island now?" Cirasa shoved his fingers into his head and laid his elbow against his knee. "And thrones and destiny. All that talk?"

"Apparently."

"Gods," Cirasa braced his temples with a hand.

Xanthy dug the sirtya from her pocket and laid it between them. "My mother also gave me this," she needed to take his mind off the things he shouldn't even be concerned about. "She also said that the last piece to the puzzle lies within Pelrise's legacy," she cocked her head to one side. "Do you think we should find his soul?"

Cirasa ran a finger up and down the space between his eyebrows. "Could be," he poked at the sirtya. "Or it could be talking about his contribution to the island's culture. How did your mother even know about that?"

Xanthy laid her hands in the air and shrugged. "I have no idea," she crossed her arms. "What are Pelrise's contribution to the island anyway?"

"That would be his literature," Cirasa stared at the shattered glass windows where she and June first hid against the Civil Guards raining spells. "Overall, Pelrise had written a book of poetry, two novels, and a number of songs for children."

Xanthy folded her hands together. "Like Rafaline."

Cirasa whirled to her with wide eyes. "Like Rafaline," then, a huge grin broke through his lips. "Rafaline!"

"What about it?"

A bright gleam shone in Cirasa's scarlet eyes. "Think about it," he turned to her. "The hunt brought us to the lighthouse. Pelrise's house! Then, we are to look at his legacy. What could be Pelrise's greatest legacy other than the song? What if—" he gasped. Xanthy narrowed her eyes. Was he okay? Did he have difficulty breathing? "What if Rafaline is supposed to be the clue?" Cirasa said. Oh, he's fine.

Xanthy clutched her chin. "It makes sense...but what if it's just a coincidence? What if we're going to chase the wrong thing?"

Cirasa shook his head. "I've always known something was stranger about that folk song," he wagged a finger in Xanthy's face. "Most literary works during that time were descriptive in nature. They talk about everyday life—how they eat, how they love, how they get bonded with their lovers, how they poop—"

"That's gross!" Xanthy recoiled.

"It happens, hey," Cirasa shrugged before waving his hand in the air. "But you get the picture. Pelrise lived in a time of war. Fairies didn't have freedom of expression with the dwarves watching and controlling the island. So, fairies back then would make up songs about their lives, sing it to their children at night—"

"You would sing about pooping to children?" Xanthy's eyes widened.

"That's not the point," Cirasa glared at her.

"But Rafaline," the shard fairy paused for emphasis before continuing. "It wasn't descriptive. It's directive, almost like it's telling its readers what to do. Unusual for its contemporaries. The song itself is full of vague places that I first assumed to just be honeymoon places. But now I know," he slapped the floor and almost smashed the sirtya had Xanthy not swept her foot at it. "That song's a freaking map!"

Xanthy retrieved the sirtya and wiped the thin line of grime that gathered on its surface on her trousers. "So, if Rafaline is what you say it is," she scratched her ear lobes, her fingers tracing the curve tapering to a point. "Where do we go now?"

"Oh, right," Cirasa's smile faded. "We still have to figure that out."

Xanthy turned to the eroded pile of things. Wasn't there a pile of parchment there? Then again, it would have been the first that would combust with any spell. Not to mention mercok loved chewing on the fibers. She glanced at Cirasa then at the ash scattered around them. "What are the places mentioned in the song?"

Soon enough, both of them were muttering the song to themselves. Xanthy shoved a finger into the soot and started writing on the floorboard with how she remembered the Ylanen koset looked like. The tune of Rafaline played in her head with Cirasa filling in the gaps of the verses she didn't even know existed. Gods, Xanthy would kill to have a dushim with them right now.

After they ran through the whole song and with the full sense of it finally reaching Xanthy, they have a list of places laid out in front of them. Sailor's web, weaver's meadow, house of dawn, hill of sorrow and mystery, shepherd's valley, devil's mouth, witch's fall, knight's armory, king's cross, skull's grave.

Queen's stockings, that's a lot of places. "Where on the island do you think they are?" she asked.

Cirasa hummed. "Maybe they're historical landmarks, like a city is known for or something."

"Sailor's web?" Xanthy pursed her lips and knitted her eyebrows. "It could be talking about a port city or something. But why web? Do sailors have looms?"

"No, that's not it," Cirasa said."If we use that logic, it won't make sense with skull's grave, because there are mass graves everywhere. And a thousand skulls to look for."

Xanthy stuck her bottom lip out. "Maybe it's just Pelrise's grave?"

"Maybe," he sounded unconvinced. He inclined his head at Xanthy. "But we still don't know where it is. The song's supposed to tell us exactly where."

Silence coated them for a few minutes with each of them lost to their own thoughts. "How about language?" Xanthy propped an elbow against her thigh and waved her hand before settling her chin atop it. Cirasa blinked. She rolled her shoulders. "I mean, think about it. In what language is Rafaline originally written?"

"The ancient language..." Cirasa's eyes flicked here and there, tracing the planks in the ceiling. He clicked his tongue.

Xanthy nodded. "It's probably translated to what it is today. That means—"

"They're the ancient names of the city themselves?" Cirasa glanced at the sooty list Xanthy wrote and blew a breath. He rubbed his hands together. "Okay, let's test that theory out. Sailor's web..." he frowned " 'Sailor' is samor in Ancient Keijula."

"Wait, you know how to speak the ancient language?" Xanthy drew closer and tucked her legs tighter underneath her.

"Just from studying ancient texts," Cirasa shook his head and moved his hands like he was smoothing something in the air. "I know it. I can't speak it. There's a big difference."

Okay, fine. Xanthy could live with that. "So 'web' in Ancient is?"

"Araba."

"That's odd," Xanthy said. "Is there a city named Samor-araba somewhere?"

Cirasa frowned. "No, there's no city like that."

Xanthy deflated. "But we're forgetting that language evolves," Cirasa tapped his chin. "Hundreds of years ago, the name for this island was Uma Siore. It has now become Umazure."

"You're saying that these names are altered?"

"It's plausible," Cirasa nodded. "So, samor-araba. Samora. Moraba. Raba. Rabante?"

Xanthy knitted her eyebrows. "Where did the 'ante' come from, then?"

"Of course," Cirasa smacked his forehead. "Stick to the word itself. Samoraraba? Raraba? Mora?" he gasped and snapped his fingers. "Mora!"

"What's with Mora?"

"It's a city! In Narfalk!" Cirasa's excitement could have powered all the Disfavoreds' dagrine for a day.

Xanthy chuckled. "See? We're getting somewhere."

Cirasa looked back at their list. "Let's see. Hmm...weaver's meadow. 'Weaver' is divi—"

"Diven," Xanthy blurted.

"Seems right," Cirasa pushed his hair out of his face. " 'Meadow' is yenfa. So together they're diviyenfa. Divien. Diven. Yeah."

Xanthy wrote the city beside the weaver's meadow in her list as Cirasa muttered, " 'House' is ok and 'dawn' is sayi, so together they're oksayi," he clapped his hands. "Oh, that's obvious. Ok-sa. Peltra."

Another city went down in the list. " 'Shepherd' is rakal, 'valley' is calea," Cirasa was on a roll now. "Rakalcalea. Alcalea. Um...Calca! Lanbridhr."

Xanthy nodded and wrote it down. Cirasa went on. " 'Witch' is rafim—"

Xanthy snorted as she raised an eyebrow in Cirasa's direction. "So I could just call people rafim to insult them and they wouldn't even know it."

Cirasa frowned. "Rafim is something worse in Keijula."

Xanthy tried it and recoiled. "Okay, I'm not saying that again," she licked her lips in an attempt to wash it off her mouth. "Damn, that's nasty."

Cirasa chuckled. "So, rafim and...what is that fall?" he drove a few particles of dust that threatened to join their list etched on the floor. "Does it mean the witch fell, or a waterfall?"

"What do both words sound like?"

" 'Fall' is neimen and 'waterfall' is sario."

"So it's either rafimneimen or rafimsario," Xanthy nodded.

Cirasa shook his hair and ran his hands down it. A few bits of debris fell. "Rafimsario. Rafimsario. Fimsa...Fimrio!"

"That's a massive leap," Xanthy retracted her hand from including it on the list.

"I think it's the most probably one," Cirasa squared his shoulders. "Rafimen means even worse in Keijula."

Xanthy winced when she heard the word. "Oop," she waved a hand in the air as if it's a smell wafting around. "Let's forget that, shall we?"

Cirasa chuckled. "So, skull's grave...Gulsteda?"

"Gulstead," Xanthy and Cirasa said at the same time. That one was pretty obvious. The word joined their list.

Cirasa peered down at it with narrowed eyes. "Devil's mouth, raba antera," his face darkened. "Rabante."

Xanthy chewed on her lip. There's no use asking him about a topic he clearly didn't want to talk about. Instead, she scrawled Rabante into their list.

"I'm not sure about the other two—hill of sorrow and mystery and knight's armory sounds kinda funny and weird," Cirasa pointed two fingers to the spot on the floor.

"Which is?"

"Well, if you wanna hear about it," Cirasa shrugged. "The first one is malimuremaari and the second one's litanitaravo."

Xanthy snorted. That sounds like a mouthful. She couldn't even say escuira leistiva without tripping. "That could work, right?"

Cirasa returned her amusement with a light chuckle. "No matter how you try it, there's just no way it would end up as a name of a city here."

Xanthy inclined her head. "Outside the island?"

"Pelrise had never stepped foot out of Umazure, remember?" Cirasa tapped his temples.

"Right," she circled a sooty finger in the air. "So, we exclude these two?"

"I think so," Cirasa smoothed the cloak underneath him. "Maybe Pelrise added those there to not arouse suspicion."

Hmm. Makes sense. Xanthy would do it too if she was being watched at all times. She raked her gaze through the black letters scrawled across the floor in her vulkraine-scratch handwriting. These were the places they must go through, the places she needed to survive so she could get the chalice and offer her sacrifice.

Mora. Diven. Ok-sa. Calca. Rabante. Fimrio. Gulstead.

Narfalk. Penleth. Peltra. Lanbridhr. Helinfirth. Avalora. Carleon.

It's a freaking island-tour.

Xanthy nodded to Cirasa as she stood up. She picked up the sirtya and dusted her trousers. "Mora?"

Cirasa smiled and offered his hand. "Mora."

"Think about it then," Xanthy clasped his hand on hers and shook her head. "I haven't been."

Cirasa closed his eyes. Xanthy followed suit, drowning her world in darkness. The air stirred around them and Xanthy felt her surroundings shift. Gods, let her hope that the gust that blew from using the sirtya was enough to scatter the words they wrote into the oblivion of their memory.

Xanthy opened her eyes with a renewed hope. The hunt first and after that, the end.