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Whispers about the king’s madness had been sweeping through àird Lasair for years. Fantastical rumors about severe punishments and black moods that had him sending even his most trusted advisers to the dungeons.

Some even went so far as to say King Haedren’s fractured mind was no longer capable of holding court and he was often seen wandering the hallways of Caisteal Lasair in nothing but his nightshirt, muttering to himself.

Aemyra highly doubted the last one, given that he had been spotted flying with Kolreath only two moons past.

“Surely it won’t be long now.”

“Queen Katherine will be beside herself when he goes.”

“No female heir for a hundred years.”

“All those boys…”

Aemyra heard each and every whisper and tucked them into the special pocket in her memory where she stored such things. Perhaps the moment she had been waiting ten years for would soon come to pass.

After successfully stuffing her stomach with three buttery bannocks, she was now perched in her favorite corner of the forge, as it was an excellent place to overhear gossip. Thanks to the city guards, farmers, and merchants all needing things repaired or made for them, Aemyra was well informed of the comings and goings of everyone who called àird Lasair home.

As she sat on the stool with her favorite pliers in hand, she kept her eyes on the suit of chain mail draped over her knee. Her ears were on the guards clustered by the door as they sheltered from the rain, enjoying the heat from the forge.

The mail was badly damaged, some idiot knight had gotten too close to a spear while hunting. Either that or his friend had thrust the spear in his direction by accident, given his resemblance to a pig.

Based on the size of the suit of mail, Aemyra decided that the latter scenario was more probable.

Her stained fingers gripped and bent the metal with practiced magical ease, and she leaned back to casually observe the crowded forge. It was no match for the spacious rooms they had left behind in Penryth ten years ago, but their family had done well in the city.

When the former smith had conveniently died without an apprentice the same week they had arrived, Pàdraig had dutifully begun working the bellows. His talent for metalwork had spoken for itself and business had quickly grown.

Adarian was bent over the anvil, blue eyes illuminating with every strike of the hammer on the strip of metal in front of him. The sparks flying from the point of contact could just as easily have been from his own magic. Aemyra knew that sometimes they were.

As he was forever sweating through stained shirts, Adarian always preferred to work bare-chested and his skin glistened in the light from the fires. The buckets of water on the floor behind him sizzling as Pàdraig’s apprentices shaped horseshoes.

“Oi!” Pàdraig bellowed. “Get over here, you wee rascal.”

Aemyra glanced up at the sound of her adoptive father’s voice and watched as a group of scruffy-haired children ran too close to the bellows, shinty sticks in hand.

Her little brother, Lachlann, skulked reluctantly over to his formidable father, dark eyes hidden under a scrunched frown.

The family of five from Penryth had initially raised eyebrows upon their arrival in àird Lasair. Teenage twins as pale as the moon accompanying a couple with rich umber skin cradling their newborn son. When the town had found out they were all fire Dùileach, they attributed the abundant blessings to the family’s roots in Penryth. After all, the Sunset Isle was well known as a breeding ground for all manner of magical creatures and was home to a large Dùileach population—it was rare for Penrythians to move away.

Despite their differences, the family had been warmly welcomed in the city. Even with their adoptive daughter’s penchant for scowling.

A trait Lachlann seemed to have inherited.

“Put that stick down and make yourself useful,” Pàdraig said without raising his voice.

“But we’re in the middle of a game!” Lachlann whined, as the other children raced out of the warmth of the forge and into the sheeting rain.

Pàdraig pulled him back and deposited a bucket of nails into his hands in a way that had Aemyra stifling a laugh.

She knew Pàdraig’s tricks. It would take Lachlann the rest of the day to heat and reshape the bent and broken nails with only his magic and pliers.

Dropping her gaze to her work, she heated each individual coil of metal and twisted delicately, magic and tools working in tandem to repair the mail.

Adarian hadn’t looked up from his hammering once.

“It isn’t fair,” pouted Lachlann as he dumped his bucket beside her with a rattle and pulled another stool over.

“What isn’t?” she asked lightly.

Lachlann pulled a bent nail out of the bucket and twisted it between his fingers. “Everyone else gets to play and I have to stay here and work.”

Aemyra plucked the nail out of his grip and wrapped her hand around it, summoning fire into her palm. A split second later, she dropped a perfectly formed nail into Lachlann’s hand and he flinched slightly at the temperature change.

“Think of it as magic practice,” she said. “It will help with the finer aspects of temperature control.”

Lachlann rolled his dark eyes at her and she stifled a laugh. They might not have been related by blood, but he had learned a few things from his big sister.

“Your father wants you to be careful around the forge because accidents can happen,” she explained gently as a couple of guards at the door poked their heads out into the street.

Still focused on his punishment, Lachlann continued his complaining. “But we all control fire. Me, you, Mother and Father, and even Adarian. It’s not dangerous.”

Pulling her gaze away from the door, she fixed the ten-year-old with a serious look.

“We cannot be burned while we are channeling our magic, that is true, but fire is unpredictable, and greedy. It will not always stop just because we tell it to. Wildfire spreads great distances, consuming everything in its path. The fire in our forges has the power to melt even the toughest of metals.”

Lachlann looked up to the glowing mouth of the forge behind Adarian.

“You see that shiny patch of skin on Adarian’s shoulder?” she asked.

Lachlann nodded, enthralled.

“Where do you think he got it?”

Her little brother shrugged. Aemyra nodded toward the forge and his eyes turned large as dinner plates.

“Even fire Dùileach can get burned,” she said, flipping the pliers in her hand.

Aemyra didn’t see any harm in bending the truth if it made Lachlann more careful. It had been Aemyra’s own magic that had caused her twin permanent disfigurement, not the forge.

As a child, she had struggled to control the immense well of power inside of her and it had often exploded with little warning. Adarian had been too slow to shield himself and now sported a burn scar that spread across his back.

Most of Aemyra’s childhood incidents had been blamed on Orlagh’s firebird, Solas. Likely the reason why the little beathach now held her in such contempt. With his flaming tail, and Orlagh’s amplified magic as a Bonded Dùileach, they had avoided suspicion in both Penryth and àird Lasair.

Nevertheless, when Aemyra had heard her twin screaming in pain, she had vowed never to lose control again.

And she hadn’t.

But it was a fight, every single day, to keep it under control.

At the sound of laughter coming from the doorway, Aemyra lifted her head. Her expression hardened as she saw the captain of the guard stride into the sweltering space in full armor.

Sir Rolynd Nairn.

Nairn had a few more lines around his eyes and had grown his blond hair longer than the last time she had seen him, but she recognized the arrogance immediately.

Shifting the mail across her knee, she leaned forward and watched him swagger in, an iron pendant of the True Religion bouncing on his breastplate. His long red cloak was sweeping the ground. It would be only too easy for a stray spark to set it alight.

Aemyra’s fingertips heated at the thought.

Twisting another link in the chain mail without looking at it, she kept her hands busy and one eye on the captain. Pàdraig’s two apprentices were shooting covetous looks toward him.

Nairn smiled readily enough, but as he peered through the forge, he remained aloof. Like he was above them all.

Poncy prick.

One eager young guard clapped Nairn on the shoulder and Aemyra had to duck her head to hide her snigger as Nairn’s nostrils flared in disgust at the familiarity.

“More than a year since the last royal wedding. We could use another Games—Calum barely got his caber off the ground last time.”

“Suppose it might cheer the king?” another suggested.

Resting her head on the back of her hand so as not to get soot on her chin, Aemyra waited for the captain’s response.

“Prince Fiorean will be here any minute. Resume your patrols before he orders you to be lashed for your laziness and insubordinate remarks,” Nairn said.

Aemyra’s chin slipped off her hand at the news and she watched the guards scramble for the exit, several of them getting stuck in a scrum at the door. Pàdraig winced as the wood creaked and he hastily approached the captain.

Prince Fiorean was a dragon rider, Bonded to the cobalt blue male, Aervor. What in Brigid’s name was he doing visiting the forge himself? He had never condescended to do more than trot his horse down the cobblestones on his way out of the city in the ten years Aemyra had resided here.

Fighting the urge to pull her headscarf farther down her forehead, she dropped her gaze and twirled the pliers in a way she hoped demonstrated her skill with a weapon.

A loud hiss and a cloud of steam encompassed the room as Adarian plunged the strip of metal he had been working into water. She watched her brother attempt to wipe his slick, soot-stained skin on the filthy apron he was wearing and she frowned.

Hoisting the mail into the crook of her elbow with some difficulty, she stepped into his path.

“Did you know the prince was coming?” she asked, quietly enough that Lachlann wouldn’t overhear.

Adarian wouldn’t meet her gaze and her mouth dropped open.

“You did know,” she whispered, suddenly furious with him for keeping a secret from her. “Whatever for?”

Before her twin got a chance to reply, Pàdraig called softly across the room, “Aemyra.”

Adarian brushed past her, and the suit of mail almost slipped out of her grip. Dumping it on top of the stool in a huff, she skirted past the anvil to her father’s side.

Refusing to look nervous, she focused on the large brooch fastening Nairn’s cloak to his armor. “Good afternoon, Captain.”

He nodded his head in lieu of a response. Many found him attractive, with his sunshine hair and light eyes, but he irritated Aemyra immensely.

Pàdraig cleared his throat, face taut. “I need you to retrieve the sword you forged for the prince. Sir Nairn tells me one was commissioned a week past?”

Having heard nothing about it, Aemyra wondered why Pàdraig hadn’t known about such an important contract. Happy to throw Adarian into hot water over something that wasn’t her fault, she opened her mouth.

Sir Nairn interrupted. “Forgive me, the sword was not commissioned to be made by this girl. The prince spoke with your ward.”

Bristling at the way the captain spoke the words this girl, Aemyra crossed her arms over her chest. “ I am his ward.”

Before Nairn could lose his patience, an intoxicating voice sounded from the door.

“Apologies for the confusion. I spoke with a young man named Adarian last week.”

The captain moved to the side as Prince Fiorean strode into the forge and out of the rain. A clattering noise behind her told Aemyra that one of the apprentices had just dropped a horseshoe. Likely her jaw as well.

If she hadn’t been furious at her twin for sticking her with the chain mail while he forged a sword for a Daercathian prince, Aemyra might have been at a loss for words as she beheld Fiorean’s face up close.

His hair was unbound, so it spilled across his shoulders, the damp strands framing his face sleekly. The deep auburn shade was a signature trait of the Daercathian royal line.

The black fitted tunic he wore was stark against his pale skin. His face was angular like a mountain cat with a cutting edge on his cheekbones that Aemyra was sure would rival her dagger.

Her attraction to him angered her instantly.

“Shame. If you had been in the market for a new plow, then I would have sent you to my brother. You should have come to me for a sword,” Aemyra said, dropping her gaze to the flagstones.

Sir Nairn bristled, puffing up his chest so the Savior’s pendant clattered against his breastplate. “You will address the prince properly, girl.”

Pàdraig shifted uncomfortably, but Aemyra dipped into an ungainly curtsy.

“Your Highness,” she added.

The prince inclined his head ever so slightly in her direction, and she noticed the color of his eyes for the first time. Green, like most of the Daercathian clan, but a hue of dark emerald that contrasted so perfectly with his hair that Aemyra became even more irritated by his good looks.

She watched Fiorean’s eyes rove over her shirt, the thin fabric necessary when working the forge.

Her skin glistened with sweat and Aemyra was a little disappointed that he wasn’t able to see the hard muscles that lurked beneath her sleeves. She couldn’t even be satisfied when his gaze lingered on her breasts, as she knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t out of any flickering attraction, but to further prove his point that a woman would not be able to fashion a sword as well as a man could.

Even the fucking royals are turning their backs on the Goddess in favor of the True Religion…

How the “Chosen” priests had gotten their claws into the royal branch of the clan when they were so gifted with Goddess magic was a mystery.

As Aemyra thought it, she was relieved to see no Savior’s pendant hanging around the prince’s neck. Wisely keeping her mouth shut, she heard Adarian stride back into the room, his boots heavy on the stone floor.

“Apologies for the delay, Your Highness,” Adarian panted, facing the prince and the captain.

The fire in the forge banked higher as Adarian laid the sword box on the anvil. Her twin had thrown on a clean shirt, which Aemyra thought looked ridiculous against his filthy skin. His face was smeared with soot, shaven hair stained even darker than Lachlann’s.

Prince Fiorean waved away the apology, eyeing the long box. “No matter. You have fashioned it according to my mother’s specifications? The queen is rather anxious to begin preparations for my breithday.”

Aemyra leaned over as Adarian opened the box to reveal a long claymore sword. When she saw the hilt, she had trouble stifling her laugh.

The captain missed it, but the prince’s eyes darted up to hers.

“Is there something amiss?” Fiorean asked, his tone cutting.

Aemyra could feel Adarian silently begging her to mind her manners, but she couldn’t help herself upon the sight of the giant garnet embedded in the crossguard. The gem such a dark red it appeared black in the dim light.

“Like I said, you should have come to me for a sword.”

The flames at her back danced in Fiorean’s eyes as he contemplated her words. Reaching into the box, he pulled the sword free, holding the tip up to the low ceiling before testing the balance.

Just as Aemyra thought, the large gemstone made the sword top-heavy.

She couldn’t hide her satisfied smirk as Fiorean realized the exact same thing.

Adarian shifted his feet uncomfortably.

Tearing his eyes from Aemyra, Fiorean studied the extravagant gold-inlaid hilt, brushing the pad of his thumb over the garnet and the flat steel.

The captain looked on approvingly.

“It will do nicely. The queen will approve of your craftsmanship,” the prince said to Adarian, placing the sword back in the box and passing it to the captain.

Adarian and Pàdraig both bowed, but Aemyra had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing. The sword Adarian had made was indeed beautiful, but it was good for nothing more than personal decoration—how fitting.

The captain turned to leave, but the prince caught her expression.

“Do you not find it to be a weapon fit for my breithday, Miss…?”

Failing to wipe the amusement off her face, she replied, “I think it will make an excellent addition to your attire, Your Highness.”

Fiorean’s features hardened when Aemyra both refused to tell him her given name and insulted him in the same breath. His eyes narrowed in rapid succession at her plain brown headscarf, the fitted breeches, and the dagger she wore sheathed on her belt. They lingered on the layered gold necklaces that were peeking out from the open top button of her shirt.

He smiled when he noticed the gold piercings in her ears to match.

“Well, we all have our little embellishments, now, don’t we?” Fiorean drawled without warmth.

With a final, terse nod toward Adarian and Pàdraig, he swept from the forge and into the bleak weather.

Aemyra lifted one hand up to her necklaces, feeling the warm metal against her skin as the rain swallowed the two men.

“I made that sword exactly the way the queen detailed in her letter. The garnet was non-negotiable, family heirloom apparently,” Adarian practically growled as he ripped the shirt off his back and handed it to Pàdraig. “Could you not have at least pretended to be polite for our sake?”

Aemyra glared at him. “Because they have done so much to earn our respect? Did you see the stupid pendant around—”

Adarian had his filthy hand clapped over her mouth before she could insult the True Religion, his eyes on the door.

“Not here. Not now,” he whispered.

Aemyra considered biting him but thought better of it when she noticed Lachlann watching them closely.

“Go to the house, my little terror,” Pàdraig muttered gently.

The two apprentices pretended to be hammering metal into shape even though Aemyra hadn’t seen them dunk so much as a single shoe into the water since the captain had arrived.

Hauling the chain mail off the stool and throwing it over her shoulder, she left the forge.

The captain may have looked at her like she was beneath him, and the prince might not have seen the value in her skills, but as Aemyra stepped out into the rain and she let the freezing air cool her fiery temper, she reminded herself that the Goddess Brigid had.