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Eleven

Rhoswyn

O nce upon a time, I entered this room in a beautiful dress to the sound of applause from a crowd of refined courtiers. The hawthorn throne was decked in flowers, the ceiling dripped with wisteria blooms and fae lights, and expensive floral perfumes flirted lightly with the freshness of the breeze.

It hasn’t taken long for Elatha to sully the room beyond recognition.

The Fomorians have brought in huge tables, arranging the space like one of their feast halls. They line the benches, drinking from horns and chewing on roasted meat as they yell to be heard over the pipes and drums filling the air. But the music falls silent at our arrival, and it takes less than a heartbeat for them to single us out as the cause. A hundred pairs of grey eyes watch Caed and me with wicked delight, and one of them actually spits in our direction.

Caed tugs me forward, using the shackles like a leash, but I freeze when something drips on me, drawing my eyes to the ceiling.

The boughs of the wisteria are blackened and burnt, like all the other plants in the room. But that’s not what turns my stomach and sends my heartbeat catapulting into my throat.

Instead of flowers, there are heads hanging from each vine. The Fomorians have lashed their victims’ skulls to the deadened plant with rope. The messy wounds at their necks still weep blood, turning the iron below sticky beneath my boots.

It’s not just soldiers who have been treated this way. Servants. Priests. Anyone who didn’t make it out in time must’ve been subjected to this. Black veins crawl across their faces from the iron they must have inhaled.

Goddess. I recognise some of them. That’s Ghislane, the banshee who oversaw the housekeeping, and over there, Ascal, Kendel, and Merith, who all served directly under Florian, spin in the breeze, their final expressions warped with pain.

And wings. So many ruined wings flutter in the spaces between the heads. Refracting the light like grisly sun catchers.

This is Elatha’s trophy collection.

I feel Jaro’s shock, and then his grief, a second before he manages to lock it all down behind a tough mask.

He grew up in the palace. He knew most of these fae.

The horror threatens to crush me, but I know if I let it, these fae will never receive justice for what was done to them.

In vain, I reach for Danu. She’s there, and she is pissed , but the iron blocks me from taking that final step towards her.

“Ah, finally. My useless heir returns. If only the summer king would be so prompt.”

There he is. Elatha sits on my throne, hands spread wide like he’s savouring the moment. His flat black eyes are as cold as ever as the anticipation in the room ratchets up a notch.

Above him, with his arms tied out to branches on either side of him like a cross, is a familiar fae. His armour is dented and bloody, and his silver hair has been roughly shorn short until his scalp bleeds in places. All of that, combined with the way my head is spinning, is why it takes me a second to recognise him.

Florian.

My brother isn’t conscious, and blackened lines spread out from his eyes, nose, and mouth. I can’t look away, searching for signs of life right up until Caed puts himself bodily between me and the rest of the room.

We’ve stopped in the doorway, and I feel his relief pour through me. I really, really hope that means that he’s fulfilled his orders. Carrying out my crazy plan with him on our side will be infinitely easier than having to fight him, which is exactly why Bree’s primary objective is to keep Elatha from using Caed’s name again.

The iron doesn’t affect my mates as badly as it does me. I just hope they’ll still be able to use their magic while surrounded by so much of it.

Goddess. What if they can’t? What if Bree can’t protect Caed from Elatha’s orders?

Drystan made sure we planned for me not being able to use my powers. Lore was going to blink me to an unoccupied part of the palace, and we were going to continue from there. But the iron is so thick I can’t see my guides, let alone the knights I’m supposed to be calling back.

“Bring her closer,” Elatha orders. “And someone chuck him in the dungeons. He’s served his purpose.”

“No.” Caed interrupts, hand falling to the sword at his side.

Elatha raises a brow, eyes narrowing.

“You think you can protect her, boy?” He stands, and the movement jangles the heavy metal medallion on a chain around his neck. “You’re forgetting who owns you.”

Keep him talking , I think to myself, as the tension in the room flares brighter. We need to give Prae and Gryffin time to creep across to the throne and distract the Fomorians enough that they don’t notice Florian being freed.

Even once he’s safe, we’re still facing worse odds than we could’ve imagined. It’s looking less and less like we’ll be able to battle our way to victory. Which means we need to out-think the enemy.

Easier said than done.

Placing my shackled hands on Caed’s back, I lightly move him to one side and step forward.

“I will give you one chance,” I bluff, “to get out of my city and return to your mountains. Live peacefully there, with the bounty that Danu has granted you.”

Elatha snorts. “I have no intention of going?—”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” I interrupt. “I was speaking to your warriors.”

Elatha throws his head back and laughs.

The move releases me from the prison of his eerie gaze, and I cast around, begging Danu for a plan, an idea, anything that might help us.

Come on, think.

The area around the throne has been swept free of dust, likely to stop it from getting trapped in the king’s ornate armour. The marble gleams and the moss on the arms of the hawthorn throne still retains a glimmer of its former green.

Green means life. It means that tiny patch of moss might still be receiving energy from Danu. If I can connect to her and funnel it to my mates…

It’s risky. I’ll have to get within touching distance of him if I want to try.

But if it works, we can still keep to the plan.

Elatha strides towards me, his boots crunching in the iron powder, and I swallow, resisting the urge to flinch as he draws closer. When those long, creepy fingers come up to pinch my chin and tilt my head up, I feel my mates’ anger down the bond.

They won’t hang back and allow this for long. My own fear is riling them as surely as his actions are, and it’s a fifty-fifty chance that either Lore or Jaro’s wolf will put a stop to this sooner rather than later.

“Once again, you fail to understand your place, Nicnevin.” Elatha smiles, and it’s a terrifying expression. “Your palace is mine, your knights are dead, and your minor royals have already begun to bend the knee.”

The mention of Eero’s and Hawkith’s betrayal stings, but I force myself to shrug. “Funny, I don’t see them here.”

Behind the Fomorian king, one of Florian’s bonds starts to loosen. If I stare, I can just make out two shadows working hard at the ropes.

Prae and Gryffin made it. The iron is probably interfering with their ability to glamour properly, and if any of the Fomorians notice them, they’re dead.

I have to keep the terrifying monster in front of me talking, and his soldiers distracted.

“They’ll learn the consequences of disobedience,” Elatha dismisses, grabbing the medallion of Balor where it rests around his neck. “I may have promised that no Fomorian would set foot in their courts if they bent the knee, but with this, I’ll unleash something a hundred times worse on their pathetic fairy castles.”

My eyes widen. “The bàsron? That’s insane.”

Elatha laughs again, pinning Caed with a derisive look. “So you’ve been telling her bedtime stories?”

Caed says nothing, his eyes on the place where Elatha still hasn’t released me, and his father’s grin turns vicious.

“Did he tell you that Balor and his warriors were sealed beneath the mountain by their masters and that they fled like cowards?” Elatha scoffs. “Fomorians are better than that. Stronger than that! I’ll prove as much when I march into the Deep Caves myself and undo our Ancestors’ mistakes.”

One of Florian’s arms falls to his side, and he groans low under his breath. Thankfully, the sound is camouflaged by the murmurs of confusion coming from the Fomorians.

Evidently, Elatha didn’t tell them this part of the plan. Some of them look downright nervous at the news.

“First, we’ll conquer the fae, and then we’ll avenge our honour and take on our oldest enemy,” the king continues.

“You’ll get everyone killed,” Caed retorts.

“Caedmon Fomorii, shut your mouth and don’t open it again until I let you.”

My breath catches on a gasp as I realise I have no idea if Caed heard the command or not.

A tiny echo of his triumph resounds down the bond between us, and I relax incrementally. Bree’s magic must have worked, at least well enough to afford us this small win.

Florian’s body sags lower, before it’s replaced by a hazy glamour.

They have him.

“You aren’t going to live long enough to use that key,” I promise Elatha, wrenching my face free from his grasp.

Humour flees from his expression, leaving only a deadened stare. “You’re alone, in chains, and surrounded by iron. No matter what protection you think those stupid marks afford you, you’ll soon find they don’t mean shit to Fomorian soldiers who haven’t seen a female in a long fucking time.”

It takes all my strength to smile back at him. “But I’m not alone.”

Those black eyes grow impossibly flat, and he points one accusatory finger at me. “You think my useless heir is going to save?—”

Soft lips brush my cheek, then Lore slices off his finger.