Page 3 of Of Shadows & Ash (Land of Shadows #1)

Chapter Two

NIALL O’LEARY

“A single sacrifice can save a world if you have the will to make it.”

Aisling Talamhain, Revered Seer

I stretch, rolling my shoulders until I feel that satisfying pop. My hair tumbles forward in dark waves shot through with enough silver to displease my father. Every strand of silver represents the draíocht in my blood. I’ll braid it before my sparring with Tomas later, but only so it doesn’t get in my way, not to placate a king. If the old man had his way, I’d keep it braided and demure, as if that could hide who I am.

Sunlight streams through the arched window, warming my face and the metal at my lip—an even bigger affront to the court. Let them talk of rebellion burning in my veins and how I’ll taint the throne with my reckless heart. They’re not entirely wrong.

Beside me, a woman—I don’t know her name, nor do I care to learn it—shifts on the silk sheets, the fabric whispering against our skin. Her nails trace the ink along my chest and down my stomach, lingering above the place where my marks dip beneath my navel—an intimate trail I usually keep hidden.

The Gloaming marks—delicate, curling lines etched into my skin—were once vibrant, pulsing with the power of promises kept. Now, half of them have dulled to grey, stark reminders of debts unpaid or vows shattered. They’re bargains that refuse to die, each one an anchor, dragging me closer to a line I can’t afford to cross.

In public, I keep them hidden beneath dark sleeves and a devious smile. No one needs to know how precarious my grip on power really is or how much of my control is already slipping through my fingers. Power is perception, and perception is survival.

As for my occasional dalliances? Let’s just say I’ve perfected the art of discretion. A draíocht -bound contract ensures those lovely lips stay sealed and memories foggy. Talk about the marks, and you’ll find the words caught in your throat, every whisper dissolving like ash in the wind. They leave with no answers and enough satisfaction to stop them from digging deeper.

It’s not cruel. It’s survival. And in my world, those two things often look the same.

Her touch moves higher, tracing the wards etched into my forearm—bloodline sigils woven into the intricate patterns that cover my skin. They glow faintly whenever my emotions slip, their light creeping along the dark ink that spans my arms, chest, and back. A map of my life, my court—all laid bare in ink and magic. Magic passed through generations that binds me to a court whose throne I’ve never taken. Each court holds its own unique power, and while that magic flows through my veins, I keep myself out of its politics. The markings stir under her fingers, energy prickling under her touch. My father’s advisors want those wards on full display, proof that I’m the rightful heir. But if they flared with every treacherous thought I have, the court would string me up before the coronation. Best I keep my intentions well-guarded.

She looks at me with a hunger I know all too well. It’s not me she craves, but the allure of the crown. She wants to discover my deepest secrets, to glimpse the void I carry within, as if understanding it might fill something empty in her. No one ever does, and no one ever comes away unscathed.

Her fingertips draw soft, insistent shapes like she believes she can map out my darkness with her touch. I almost pity her, but sympathy is dangerous. I’ve learned to lock away any genuine feeling before it can light a fuse I’m not prepared to detonate.

“Stay for breakfast?” I ask, though we both know I don’t mean it. It’s safer this way—keeping hearts and secrets locked behind walls of hollow courtesy. Gods know I already dance too close to the edge—between the father who demands perfection, the Gloaming that demands payment, and a prophecy that could devour us all if I let my guard down.

She hesitates, reading the distance in my eyes, then slips from the bed. Her wrap clings to her, half-draped in shimmering fabric that does more to highlight her bare skin than conceal it. She casts me a coy smile, adjusting the loose material so it barely covers her curves. “Don’t tempt me, Niall.”

The corner of my mouth quirks. Temptation is my specialty. I let my draíocht ripple through the room. Ivy snakes along the walls, responding to my magic in pulsing waves. A vine coils around her wrist, tethering her to the bedpost. The wrap slides off her shoulders and falls to the floor, pooling at her feet like liquid moonlight. She arches an eyebrow, a knowing smirk curving her lips.

We both want the same thing right now—a distraction from the betrayal and bloodshed outside my doors. I pull her close, lips grazing her neck, the cool touch of my lip ring drawing a shiver from her.

But my magic misfires.

I’m yanked from her warmth into a place that reeks of rust and saltwater. Shadows flicker at the edges of my vision, and my pulse stutters. A grimy passenger boat replaces my bed, and the woman before me isn’t the one sharing my sheets. She stands at the railing with her back turned, a battered leather bag hanging from her shoulder. She looks fragile under the overcast sunlight, but there’s tension in her stance, like she’s aware someone is lurking. Watching.

She turns her head. There’s a small mark just at the base of her neck. I know those shapes. Ogham—old draíocht , dangerous magic—etched into her flesh. The sight of it sends something crawling up my ribs, something I do not like. A contract. A promise that never dies.

Fear claws its way up my throat, tangled with something possessive, as the shadows coil around her, hungry and ready to devour. I sense the darkness under my skin—my inner stallion, though there’s nothing graceful about the spiritual entity. It’s raw, predatory, more beastly than my fae form—snarls at the sight of those living shadows, itching to tear them apart.

The vision fades as quickly as it came, leaving my heart hammering. My bedchamber rushes back in, the smell of damp earth and fey-scented skin colliding with the memory of salt and concrete.

“Couldn’t keep it in check, my Prince?” my companion says, smug.

Her eyes glitter. She thinks she’s the reason I slipped—why I lost control of my magic. She’s not. The fae ceangal , that soul-sinking bond no other connection can touch, thrums with a power both beautiful and terrible. There’s nothing in the Ironlands that even comes close to it. It puts down roots and fills your veins like a bad habit you can’t quit. Romantic, maybe, if a soul-binding link with no regard for personal boundaries is your thing. I can’t get involved in that. Sacrifice, destruction, a future drenched in blood and shadows—Aisling’s vision is clear. If I bond, I’ll doom two worlds.

“Hardly,” I say, releasing her wrist from the vine with a flick of my hand.

She laughs softly, a low, musical sound and grabs her dress from the floor. “If you insist. Though, I think we both know better.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder with the confidence of someone who’s never heard the word “no,” but skids to a halt, clutching her gown to her chest as Maelíosa appears in the doorway, twirling her dustwrought dagger with the sort of disinterested boredom most people reserve for alphabetizing scrolls. Sigils shimmer along its blade marking our vow to protect mortals of the Ironlands and keep the fae safe from the horrors prowling the void between the Otherworld.

“Leaving so soon?” my twin asks, spinning the dagger in a casual show of threat.

I wince.

My guest goes sheet-white, clutching her gown to her chest, like it might protect her from a banshee or Maelíosa, who is easily a thousand times scarier. My sister’s stare is as sharp as the dagger she’s twirling, with the calm focus you see in someone wondering exactly how close they can throw it without technically spilling blood. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost. If you’re going to mess around with royalty, you’d better be prepared for the occasional stabby sibling.

The poor lass bolts. Once she’s gone, Maelíosa slides the dagger away, levelling me with a glare that could peel paint. Thank the old gods our younger sister Darcy isn’t quite so murderously inclined.

“Killing time with distractions, I see.”

I shrug, forcing a lazy grin. “It’s called living. You should try it.”

She doesn’t take the bait. “The visions are getting worse, aren’t they?”

Ignoring the pointed question that’ll make me admit more than I’m ready for, I continue as if she hadn’t changed the subject. “Reality is overrated. I stick with denial. It’s the only thing keeping me sane these days.” I flash her a grin, but my chest tightens.

She’s not having it. “You’re not the only one dealing with fallout. Fallon’s patience is wearing thin. He’s demanding a formal audience. Something about your apparent disregard for duty .”

I scoff. “Duty. Right. And you’re the picture of compliance, sneaking off with Kieran to The Shade to let glimmers trick you into games that end with someone missing a finger or worse.”

Maelíosa’s jaw clenches. “It’s not about my choices, it’s about yours. Fall in line or pay the price. Fallon isn’t summoning you for a chat. You know that.”

Facing Fallon—AKA our father—is a lesson in patience. His wrath isn’t like bickering over spilt dubh fíon , but we’ve all been on the receiving end of it. The beast in me stirs, thrashing in the confines of my mind. The dark stallion hates the idea of being caged, forced to follow a script. We both do.

Fate is only a cage if you let it be, it growls.

A cold, razor-thin smile stretches across my face. “As if he hasn’t already written the lines for us all. Play the obedient heir, bond the right match, and keep the court from collapsing under its own secrets.

She exhales, struggling to keep her composure. “Love and loyalty rarely make room for freedom in his eyes. You can’t keep avoiding him or hiding from the future because you’re afraid of what it might hold.”

My sister has seen me slip up before, these waking dreams ripping through reality, but she doesn’t know . Cold sweat beads on my skin at the memory of the Seer’s warning, the portent I call my curse. A bond with destruction incarnate is my future. We will bear twins. One will bridge the realms. But the other? They will carry her gloom. Light and darkness. Our union will release the creatures the Obsidian Court has fought to contain, breaking the one agreement that binds all the courts together. Perhaps the only thing we—the Wraithwind Court—has ever agreed on with that lot.

It’s a death sentence, for her , for me…for everyone. If I dodge the ceangal , maybe we can all avoid annihilation. If that means I’m stuck alone forever? Fine. I’ll manage. But when her image slides into my visions, that warning feels like chains around my throat, and I can’t tell if I want to break free or give in.

The Seer keeps the prophecy from our father for a reason—because it implicates me. She’s loyal to me, not the crown. She knows Fallon would sacrifice me to save the realm without a second thought and spawn another heir. His advisors twist the truth to suit power games. If she’s hiding something this dangerous, it’s because she believes they’ll do more harm than good.

Aisling forewarns I can’t escape fate, and my gut tells me the raven-dark haired beauty will be my end. Chaos waiting at the edge of the Veil, ready to devour everything.

And I’m at the centre of it, a ticking bomb.

Maelíosa studies me. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” I snap. I can still smell brine and blood, and hear the thump of that woman’s heartbeat. Why do I feel such a raw need to protect her? She’s a stranger. Yet the pull is as plain as a pikestaff.

She softens a fraction. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

I bark out a laugh. “That’s not what you said last time Fallon had me cornered. Remember your ‘Say no’ speech? Bold plan.”

She shoots me an incredulous look. “Well, excuse me for trying something other than rolling over and letting him win.”

I let out a slow breath. “Why are you really here?”

She brushes a loose strand of dark, silver-streaked hair back. “Aisling is worried. And Fallon is not the type to ignore an omen, especially if it means a war no one’s ready to fight. You’re needed. Even if you’re determined to play the devil-may-care prince.”

My heart twists, a sudden longing for a simpler life. I’ve never truly been free. No matter how many lovers I take or how many nights I lose myself in illusions. The prophecy is always there. I can’t shake the visions. Always the same dark-haired woman, her face obscured, a pack slung over her shoulder. Sometimes, she’s clutching a book that feels vital. I drown the divination out with distractions. But every day, it digs in deeper, the curse, the visions… her .

My stallion snorts, his equine wit impossible to ignore. It’s your fate. You have the power to shape it. Not some fortune teller. We are the iron.

I set my feet on the floor, flinching as the cold shoots through my bones. Nothing like freezing stone to start the day. I reach for the fur draped over the chair, pulling it around my shoulders. A thought surfaces. Custom would dictate that a servant, not my sister, be sent to wake me. “Since when did you become the royal wake-up call?”

Her gaze holds a seriousness that sobers me. “The Veil is thinning earlier than it should. Something is clawing at it from the other side. You know what that means. Magic doesn’t stir without a price.

A chill settles in my chest, colder than the frost that follows my draíocht . I tell myself it’s the usual doom Fallon is always spouting, but the gnawing ache in my gut doesn’t believe it. The Veil does not thin this early, not before the world dips into the season of frost and firelight. And I feel it, a restless tug from the other side that pulls at the edges of our world. If the prophecy holds, the boundary between life and death is already too thin.

“Samhain hasn’t even whispered its approach,” I murmur.

“Aye, it isn’t the only thing that’s premature,” Maelíosa says, her eyes flicking downward. “You should put some pants on. The chill in the air has affected a wee bit more than the Veil. Maybe trim that beard while you’re at it. You’re starting to look like you’ve been hiding out in the woods for weeks.”

I rub a hand over my jaw, the short hairs are coarse beneath my fingers. “Jealous? It’s called rugged charm, sister,” I retort, already missing the warmth of my bed. With a huff, I pull on my leathers. -And let Father know I’ll make an appearance.-

She acknowledges my mindspeak with a nod. “Don’t keep us waiting.”

I lift my chin. I’m a prince trained in duty, magic, and tradition, enough of it to crush a lesser fae. Once, we were respected, maybe even feared. That world is long gone, crumbling under scepticism and twisted tales that make us monsters. Humans forgot us, and we made damn sure they would. They always feared the Other Crowd. Too hard, too pale.

Bloodward sigils mark most of our skin, etched deep with the magic that flows through our bloodlines. The power is inked into every line and curve. We bear the sigils with pride, courtly proof of who we are and where we come from. Our magic isn’t something we can always control, not when strong emotions claw to the surface, blazing through our composure and lighting up our sigils. It makes us easy to read, easy to use, and even easier to exploit.

Humanity gave up on finding common ground long before we slipped away. Better that than kill us for it. On that, at least, Maelíosa and I are in complete agreement.

My gaze flicks to the door she left swinging shut. As for the match Fallon lined up for her, he’s not worthy of her fire, not by a long shot. And me? The ceangal might be written in blood and a bond only death can break, but I’m not ready to roll over and let fate win. Prophecies bind, Aisling says. But so does choice, doesn’t it?

I can resist the curvy lass from the boat and every other vision. She means nothing. I let that thought settle, like armour buckling into place. The Veil is thinning, and with it comes frost, shadow, and all the creatures that think we’re fair game. If the prophecy is right, the last of the Tuatha Dé Danann are in for one hell of a trial.

Mortals paint us as beasts or blessings, rarely understanding the truth. We are as bound by duty and sacrifice as they are, if not more. But the memory of that grimy boat and the woman bound by shadows won’t leave me. The darkness in me howls for release and it’s only a matter of time before it finds a reason to break free. I’m not certain which side of me—prince or beast—will be left standing when it breaks.

* * *

MAELíOSA O’LEARY

I leave Niall behind, the hallway stretching on forever with gilded sconces flaring to life as I pass. My boots echo against the marble, the sound sharp and hollow, like the pit forming in my stomach. Father’s summons hangs over me like a guillotine, and the raven he received from the Crimson Court—their messenger—might as well be the hand pulling the rope.

I know why it came.

Madden.

His name hits me like a brand. Hot. Unforgiving. It scorches through my veins, leaving nothing but heat and rage in its wake. My fists clench, nails biting into my palms, sharp enough to draw blood. It’s the only thing keeping me grounded. Barely.

This has to be about the betrothal. It always comes back to that damned bargain. The timing couldn’t be worse with the Veil thinning, tensions rising, and my temper already stretched to its breaking point.

He’s always been shit at finding the right time or the right words. But this? This isn’t clumsy. It’s calculated. Deliberate. He knows exactly what he’s doing every time. And gods, it always leaves me raw.

The memory of his hands on me, his gaze burning like he’s seconds away from ruining me, claws its way to the surface. My breath hitches, heat flaring in my chest, twisting into something volatile. Fury. Lust. A poison that makes my core tighten and blood hum.

Fuck Madden. And fuck the hold he still has on me.

I will never be his. Not his pawn. Not his queen. He doesn’t own me, no matter how much he thinks he does.

I clench and unclench my fists. Fucking bastard. It’s impossible to think of him without remembering who he used to be. The boy with the easy grin that sneaked onto the Shrouded Moors with Finn, Niall, and me, hunting mischief. Back then, I believed we’d all remain thick as thieves.

But things change. Dresses I didn’t want, roles I didn’t choose. He started treating me like an enemy—or worse, like prey.

I don’t want to think about him. But memories have their own rules.

The Crimson Court ball rises in my mind. I clench my teeth. That damned gown. My father forced it on me, and I should’ve known what it meant. Black raven feathers across the bodice shimmered in violet and emerald, catching the light with every turn. Beading framed the scandalously low neckline, whispering look at me. A sea of layered tulle and silk flared as I spun stupidly, its hem brushing marble like a secret I hadn’t been told yet.

It made me look fierce and unapologetic. Like I belonged. But it was all a fucking lie.

I smirk, bitter at the memory. Even then, I strapped my duskwrought dagger to my thigh—my rebellion against Father’s over-the-top frills and propriety. The ball wasn’t just a dance. It was a stage for alliances. I was the centrepiece.

I drank too much dubh fíon and laughed too loud. And Madden? He watched me that night, his glare sharp enough to pierce through my false laughter. But it wasn’t just anger in his eyes—there was something darker, hooded, like he wanted to devour me—or destroy me.

Tomas held Kieran back from confronting Madden right then and there because one scowl from him could’ve ended in spilt blood. Or worse.

At one point, Madden marched over to his cousin Vicious, who whispered something to King Cú Chulainn Darkraven, and in that moment, I saw a shift in Madden. Like he’d made a choice.

When he asked me to dance, I should’ve said no. For one reckless moment, I let the boy I trusted blind me to the man he’d become. We moved like shadows, his touch lingering too long, his voice too smooth.

“I thought you hated dancing,” I murmured, trying to keep my heart steady.

“Maybe I’ve been waiting for the right partner.”

Our fathers intervened, summoning us both to the library. I felt Madden’s hand drop from my waist so abruptly it made me shiver. We followed them out.

Neither father spoke. Mine poured a shimmering black liquid into two glasses and handed them to us without explanation.

“What is this?” I slurred, giggling a little from too much wine.

“This is necessary,” Father snapped.

Madden’s fingers flexed, but he didn’t speak. He only looked at me, a tortured conflict in his dark eyes.

He took the glass, his movements slow, methodical. Then he leaned in to whisper so only I could hear: “You’ll thank me for this one day, Ruthless.”

Ruthless. His nickname for me because I used to beat the boys in sparring without mercy.

I shrugged. I was barely sixteen, rebellious, and too damn naive. “Bottoms up.”

We clicked glasses and downed the bitter liquid. I barely had time to cough at the taste before Madden stepped behind me, his palm sliding against my bare shoulder blade. My breath caught.

“You’re trembling,” he says softly. He sounds almost…regretful.

And damn him, I am. I hated it. But his touch was hypnotic, freezing me in place. He brushed my hair aside, exposing the nape of my neck. That first press of his lips on my skin was both a shock and a spark. Lightning and thunder, all in one. Pain flared—sharp, searing—then faded into something hot and consuming.

Shadows swirled around me, weaving themselves into the shape of a raven at the front of my throat. Its talons sank deep into my flesh, claiming me.

But it wasn’t just me. My gaze shifted to Madden as he staggered back, his hand clutching his chest. His shirt was shredded, and I saw it—a matching mark, dark and vivid, carved over his heart. The same raven, its wings stretching as though to tether us together. His eyes locked on mine, wild and conflicted, before something colder slid into place behind them.

That’s when I understood. This was our fathers’ twisted agreement, a betrothal approved by the king, sealed by dark magic. And I was the sacrificial bride.

My hand lifts to the Gloam mark on my neck, its raven claws sunk deep into my jugular. I hate the damn thing. Hate him.

But refusing him had consequences. The Crimson Court decreed he would take a new partner for political gain. Our Gloam marks twisted when he broke our bond to do it. I was sick, near death, while his new partner fell pregnant—and I felt every spark of life in my own mark flare painfully bright. Then I felt them both die, mother and the wee one. The magic that should have united us turned fetid instead, bound to death and decay.

Rumours say it nearly killed Madden, too. Everyone else believes he made a sacrifice to strengthen the Gloam mark and reassert control over me. All I know is that his power now feels darker than ever, and he’s been wielding our bond like a weapon, forcing me to feel him, to come to him. It doesn’t matter whether he orchestrated those deaths or not. I’ll never believe in him again.

The memory digs into me now, burning hotter as the Gloam mark thrums against my skin, pulsing in time with the one Madden carries.

Bastard. He’s doing this—using the mark to reach me, pulling at my mind, dragging me into his orbit.

It starts low, a hum in my veins, spreading heat that makes my steps falter. By the time I reach my chamber door, my breath catches. My pulse pounds, and the mark sears against my skin like a brand.

Motherfucking, cocksucking son-of-a-bitch.

I fumble with the latch, shoving the door open. The moment it slams shut behind me, shadows seep through the cracks, curling around my wrists and ankles. The touch is cold, possessive, and it yanks me down before I can fight back.

“Madden,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

His voice slides into my mind like silk. - Submit, Ruthless. You’re only making this harder.-

“Go to hell,” I snap, fighting the heat of his magic that licks my skin like a lover’s touch.

-You already know that’s where I’ll take you. Willingly or not.- His mocking laughter sends prickles along my skin.

“Say it,” he purrs, his phantom form looming over me. In the gilded mirror across the room, his reflection flickers—grey eyes gleaming with predatory amusement. “Say you’ll come to me.”

“Never,” I rasp, forcing the word through clenched teeth, even as my body clenches with need.

He chuckles again, the sound dark as sin. “Then I’ll make you beg.”

The shadows tighten. They stroke and tease, sending shockwaves through my muscles. Pleasure skirts the line of pain, and I can’t decide if I want to scream or give in. My breathing comes in ragged bursts as I try to hold on to my defiance, but he isn’t letting up. He’s ramping it higher, every nerve in my body sizzling like a live wire.

A whimper escapes me—betrayal from my own lips. His magic rides that sound, intensifying the sweet ache until I’m trembling, right at the razor’s edge.

“Fine,” I choke out, pride burning like acid in my throat. “Stop. I’m begging.”

Triumph floods the tether between us. The shadows slither away, leaving me panting on the cold floor. My skin is damp with sweat. My heartbeat hammers like it’s trying to break free of my chest.

His presence lingers—a victorious echo that brushes the edges of my mind. -You’ll come to me, Ruthless. And when you do, you’ll regret fighting so hard.-

I barely manage to drag myself upright, palms pressed against the floor for balance. My vision swims. I swallow down the lingering heat that coils low in my belly. Father is waiting. Niall, too. And I can’t show up looking like I just had a magical tussle with my would-be fiancé.

I exhale, forcing my heartbeat to slow, then push to my feet. My clothes are rumpled, my hair a mess, but I straighten my spine and let the anger crystallise in my eyes.

He might think he’s won a little victory. Let him think that. I’ve got bigger weapons in my arsenal than he realises.

Brushing dust from my leathers, I arch an eyebrow at my reflection in the mirror. “Keep watching, Madden,” I mutter, steadying my breathing. “Because next time, I’ll make you beg.”

And that’s what I intend to do when I see him again.