Lir is drowning again, but it is different this time, much deeper. An unforgivable force. He is plunged into the earth's core, forced to face all of its secrets, without a bout of reprieve for the ache threatening to crush his bones.

He coughs. He tries to catch air where there is none, and a flimsy swirl of black smoke leaves his lips. Lir's eyes widen. He is horrified at what he sees. He cannot tell if he is dreaming again, or if the potion has somehow urged him to jump off the cliffside. But it surely isn't that. Surely, if he had done so, his head would have hit the rocks below, and there would be blood, not the remnants of strange fumes the color of tar, that trace meaningless shapes before him in the vast depths of an ocean unbeknownst to his mind.

The more Lir focuses on the smoke's never ceasing dance, the more they make sense, somehow. They curl around bubbles and skip between shadows which could have been fish but are not, until shapes rise from their ashes to show Lir a scene from the past.

Halloran Kings and Queens make their mark upon a brand-new world with their brilliant scepters. They are brilliant. They hold magic even his people could not unlock. Time passes. Thousands, and thousands of moons. And then, the humans find them.

At first, man is afraid, but soon, they revolts.

They take the Halloran people. They rip them from their families no matter how old, how young, they are all treated the same—like animals, livestock shaped into slaves that laugh, weep, or dance for the entertainment of rich warlords, who have come from all over the continent to witness an incredible discovery made by a couple of farmers.

The images fade, as if someone has blown them away like dust. The black particles spin and envelop Lir's figure. When they leave, it is fire that replaces them and surrounds him. In the flames stand Halloran servants, who have rioted against their captors. Because when they do not obey, they are killed, eaten—sometimes alive, sometimes dead.

Bile rises up Lir's throat, yet, he cannot taste here. Neither can he puke. So the nausea settles in his gut, and makes its home there without ever leaving as images continue to flood his mind.

It is decades before his birth now. Mankind has decided the Halloran are not useful anymore. They are different. Too different. They scare the people, the people's children, and the children of those children that come after.

Humans start dumping poison into the ocean. They set up traps to capture and eat the fish which once belonged to the people under the sea. The Halloran weep. They beg them to reconsider. They do not want war. War means sacrificing lives, and too many have already been lost. They cannot afford this. They cannot afford to lose more. But the humans do not listen. They want them gone. They want us gone, a voice whispers, beside Lir's ear. They want us gone, and you must do something about it. You have been chosen—chosen by sea spirits.

Please.

The flames clear until they finally vanish. Lir is back on the cliffside, his shoulders tense, his legs are unmoving. Eat it, the voice says. Eat his heart. Devour what you cherish the most, become whole, and bring us victory.

There is no place for two clans to coexist in this land.

It must end in blood.

It must end with you.

And then, like the fire, the whisper becomes a ghost again. Nothing. A faint ringing in his ears.

"No." Lir drops to his knees. The sun has risen now, but it is of no importance to him. "No," he begs. No, he thinks.

I can't.

I can't do that.

Anything but that.

The sickness he felt before returns—this time, it is real.

It is too cruel, what you ask of me.