Page 4 of Of Shadows & Ash (Land of Shadows #1)

Chapter Three

FALLON O’LEARY

“And so it is decreed that humans shall mingle with fae, a grim solution to a dire plight”

King Eiravel, Second King of the Wraithwind Court

T he ale is bitter, a taste that mirrors my hollowness. I drink it not for solace, but for the distraction of the swirling amber depths. The empty seat beside me reminds me I had a wife, and now I don’t. Saoirse. Freedom. A cruel jest. Stolen in the brutal charade of childbirth. A story whispered to smooth over the jagged edges of truth. No body. No grave. Her death is a performance in deception I’ve perfected.

And now, the court gossips buzzing with matchmaking schemes, but I’d sooner see them choked on insipid pronouncements than let them choose my next sacrifice. Court alliances are stronger than draíocht , but the oath we swore to leave the Ironlands is a stain that doesn’t fade. It binds us tighter than any magic. We created a gilded cage, but it won’t save us. Least of all me.

I grip the arm of the throne, its cold edges digging into my palm. I’m dying. The Aithreach Decline is a thief that takes slowly and cruelly. There’s no cure. Only whispers of one in a book lost to time. They say it also holds the truths of our history, the forbidden Shadowborn spells. The magic we were warned never to use. I’ve sent our best to find it, but whether they’ll succeed before the end is a gamble I’ve lost faith in.

No one knows about my impending death. Not Tomas, not my children. Only our healer, Ariel. I didn’t keep it from them out of mercy but selfishness. Because once they know, this throne will shift, and I’m not ready to let it go.

Bonding—or even exchanging blood—might slow the rot. It might give me a little more time. But how much? A month? A year? And I’ve never been the sort to lean on hope.

When I’m gone, it’ll be Niall who sits here. Reckless, sharp-tongued, grithling Niall. He doesn’t see it yet, but he’ll inherit all of it—the throne, the court, the rot seeping through its foundations. His tirocinium will be brutal, a trial by fire, and every decision full of risk. He’ll have to choose: hold this court together or watch it splinter under his reign.

He’s not ready. Not for this, not for what’s coming. He needs someone. Someone who can push him, defy him, and still stand at his side when the shadows rise. Because they will rise. And if he’s left to face them alone, it won’t just be this court that falls.

I clench my jaw until it aches, then release it, only to find myself doing it again. Maelíosa doesn’t care much for courtly traditions. She’s got a spirit like the winds that tear through Tír na Scáil , winds drifting with old spells and lurking curses. Maelíosa has about as much interest in obeying orders as a Dearg Sidhe has in keeping its fangs to themselves. Can’t say I blame her. She’s got the same fire that drew me to her mother, and while I admire it, I’d rather it didn’t burn down half the kingdom. I can’t say I blame her.

My stallion lets out a scornful huff. Moping into your cups? Truly, your originality knows no bounds.

The corners of my mouth quirk up. Your empathy astounds me, I shoot back through our bond. It’s a channel for the draíocht that ties us together.

Empathy is for mortals. Action is for leaders. You’ve been wallowing in self-pity long enough. Time to climb out of the pit. His retort lands squarely on my ego, like a kick, but I probably deserve it.

Damn him. He’s right. Sitting here won’t stop it. My beast snaps me back to my duty, throwing a mountain on my shoulders. My bloodline wards flare, the tattoos shifting over my skin, broadcasting my emotions whether I like it or not. Every line and curve is a story, a war won, a pact sealed, a betrayal avenged, for anyone with eyes to see it. Humans get to keep intentions tucked neatly behind blank expressions. Me? I’m about as secretive as a tinte comhartha lighting a hilltop.

Meanwhile, mortals remain blissfully unaware, floating through life like nothing lurks out of sight. When the Veil thins, it’s not just clueless humans stumbling into Tír na Scáil . No, it’s worse. Things from the Otherworld—the kind that even fae don’t whisper about—start eyeing the gaps. Creatures lurking beyond the Obsidian Sea, hoarding old grudges and darker magic than most of us can stomach, waiting for the cracks to open wide enough to slip through. And when they do, they’re not coming for a friendly chat.

Queen Niamh Shadowhart doesn’t rule with kindness or mercy. She rules with ironclad, ruthless honesty. Lawful evil, grey as a storm cloud, and sharp enough to keep the witches, demons, dragons, and all the other creatures lurking in the dark under her thumb. As long as the Veil holds, she’s the force that keeps them in line. Her kind is almost extinct, making her both precious and vulnerable in a world that wants to consume any magic that’s rare. Lucky for her, she wields a power that makes even the boldest predators hesitate.

I’m stuck protecting the clueless mortals from monsters that even other fae fear, except Niamh. Like I didn’t learn the first time. Back when my people were gods to them. They worshipped us. Until they got greedy. The bastards wanted what we had, tried to rip it out of us, take it for themselves. So, they shoved us into camps and cut us open, thinking they’d bleed the draíocht straight from our veins.

It would have worked if not for Badb, Macha, and Nemain. They terrify battlefields simply by showing up. The sisters—The Morrígan—made a choice when things went sideways, and humans started getting curious in that sharp, knife-like way. They poured out every last drop of power, every scrap of strength. All so that the rest of us could slip away, down to where humans wouldn’t reach, through the Veil to Tír na Scáil . Creatures followed the darkest fae, slinking through the shadows beyond the Obsidian Sea to the Otherworld.

Together, we went underground, past the old roots and bones of things long forgotten. The sisters became more legend than flesh. Some say they’re still watching, crows on the branches of trees that don’t grow here anymore, making sure no one follows. Others say they’re gone. We keep them in our memories with rites, calling to them to reinforce the Veil they died to create. It’s tradition. It’s survival. A sacrifice stitched to separate our worlds, and it’s on us to keep that thread from unravelling.

Humans stay where they belong—out of our world—even though we need them. It’s a double-edged sword if ever there was one. All they have now are the stories. Frayed, half-forgotten tales. I swore to keep it that way. To protect them, even though they’d tear me apart as easily as they do each other. And it worked, and kept us safe. Until now.

Fine , I tell my beast. I’ll send Niall and Tomas above to the Ironlands. They’ll get to the bottom of it and make sure no one stumbles into our world.

Footsteps echo off the stone, pulling me upright. Tomas crosses the threshold, the firelight highlights and shadows the burn scars on his face and hands. I’m sending him to the Ironlands, a task I wouldn’t entrust to anyone else. And because he carries my burdens, he’ll carry this one too. He’s the only one who knows Saoirse’s fate, a truth he shares with one other, his ceangal whose sole purpose is to serve and protect it. And my youngest daughter, Darcy? Her future is mine to shape.

Tomas strides toward the throne—a massive etched structure made from dark wood, depicting the history of the Tuatha Dé Danann scorched into its back by fire draíocht . The armrests are shaped like coiled, shifting beasts, half horse, half something far wilder. Every curve of it is carved with blood from wars long past. This seat isn’t about comfort. It’s about control, forged and kept by the ones ruthless enough to sit here.

To anyone else, it might be a monstrosity or a masterpiece, but to me, it’s a reminder. Power is always won, never given.

“The North Tower sends word,” Tomas begins.

My grip tightens around my cup. “The Veil?”

“Aye, it has thinned, but summer is hanging around like a guest who can’t take a hint.” Tomas’s sarcasm is thick enough to taste. He’s only a decade older than my children, but he’s my closest friend, the one I trust to guide my son’s training. His counsel is the only one I’d stake my life on.

“We need to figure out what’s behind it. I’m assigning you and Niall to investigate. But,” I pause, letting my next words sink in, “there’s also something personal I need you to handle.”

Tomas tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh? Sounds ominous, my king.”

“It is.” I scratch my jaw, futilely delaying my next words. “It’s time I find another ceangal .” I ignore Tomas’s rapid blinking. “The court’s future depends on it, but I can’t show favouritism by picking from our own. And bonding with the Crimson Court? Or those two-faced Aerielis, dark-as-hell Obsidian, or backstabbing Uisce? Not a chance. I need you to cross the Veil and find someone suitable. A human, this time. Keep it quiet.”

His disbelief ebbs into a frown. “You want me to find you a vessel? Snag a human and keep Niall in the dark about this little detour?”

“Yes. Your discretion—and your taste—are everything.”

Tomas shifts his weight, giving me a look. “By the old gods’ mercy, you know that’s a mighty big ask, right?” He sighs. “But for you and Tír na Scáil , I’ll brave the Ironlands and all its…quirks.”

I suppress a grin. Dangerous? Incredibly. The Ironlands feel lifeless to fae, leaving us vulnerable and slow to heal. “That’s why you’re more than a warrior, Tomas. You’re my friend. Watch yourself. The Ironlands aren’t the world we left behind.”

He grins back, hard-eyed. “Don’t worry. I’ve faced stranger things. I’ll find you one that breeds.”

Moving forward is all I know. “Good. Find one who’s already broken.”

He sighs. “Right. Broken it is. Makes things…simpler, I suppose. Easy enough to find in the Ironlands.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard. The world is full of broken things,” I add.

Immortality? Protection? Lies. Her agreement? A technicality. Deliciously irrelevant fine print. The potion…the birth…details. A son. That’s all. A spare. A future. Mine . I’ll do what I must. If she survives, her blood will buy me time, a reprieve from the Aithreach Decline . A prison of her own desires awaits, a silken leash of wicked pleasure and absolute surrender. A bargain she won’t refuse. She will beg.

Tomas nods. “Aye.”

Nothing bonds family quite like dictating someone’s future bride or bartering them off for a strategic alliance. Just as I’ve done. He’ll protest, of course, spit venom, and scream about freedom or choice. Let him. He’ll fall in line. He always does. The Veil is thinning, birth rates are plummeting, and the Aithreach Decline is carving its way through our lands like a slow, bitter rot. Niall will learn what I did, that duty doesn’t care about your feelings. The Ironlands will bleed you dry if you hesitate. He doesn’t have to like it. He just has to do it.

Niall steps into the hall with Maelíosa right behind him. She’s all sharp eyes and sharper steel with a mind I’ve kept at the table more than once, even if her role is debated. Clad in a high-neck shirt and maroon leather that set her amber eyes alight, she’s a force to be reckoned with. She’s everything a púca daughter isn’t supposed to be: fierce, blunt, and utterly disobedient. Though she is loyal. Well, to a point. I’ve come to rely on her fire. If things get ugly, she’s my wildcard.

“You wanted to see—” Niall starts.

“You and Tomas are to investigate the Veil thinning,” I say, cutting him off before he can even open his mouth. “And. It’s time. Find a ceangal . Someone…robust. If she can survive you, she’s strong enough to breed.”

His jaw tightens, but I hold steady. This isn’t about tradition. It’s a duty. For us, it’s ride or die—literally—for any woman tough enough to take on the fae.

Draíocht pulses from the markings lacing his arms as the knotwork blazes fiery red.

Let the battle of wills begin.