Page 28

CHAPTER XXVII

AISLING

The night was dying.

Soon, morning would arrive on a blazing gelding of war, prepared to cast its light across the Other in conquest.

Seven horned owls flew circles above Aisling, Lir, and Geld as they walked. They moved at a snail’s pace; Geld was unable to carry a rider whilst he recovered from his crippling injuries. So, Lir wrapped the stag’s reigns around his wrist and led the beast, Aisling by his side.

It had been one full day since they’d scarcely survived the grin. Aisling’s muscles ached and her head throbbed—her breath a quiver between her teeth. Racat lay on his side within her, eyes half-closed and eager for rest. But Aisling couldn’t rest. Not yet. Her clann was coming and if the grin was a forewarning of the destruction the fire hand planned to wreak, Aisling needed the Goblet immediately.

“Let’s rest for the hour,” the fae king said. He removed one of his gloves and pressed his palm to the bark of a tree. This was how he spoke to the forest when the willows and yews weren’t whispering aloud. Aisling wondered about their dialogue, but a part of her—a still mortal part—was too afraid to ask. It was an eerie, unsettling sort of magic Lir shared with the woodland. Something ancient and wild and wholly inhuman. He, himself, a spirit of the bloom.

“ No ,” Anduril said through Aisling’s lips, gleaming hotly. “ We continue on .”

Lir sucked his teeth, shaking his head and muttering something unintelligible beneath his breath.

Aisling wasn’t certain how long they pushed through the Other’s wilderness, carving a path with the guidance of the trees to protect them as they pressed through. The trail was longer this way, the fae king had explained. To avoid the most monstrous secrets of the gods’ realm, they sometimes went around instead of through, left instead of right, and up instead of down. Aisling’s strength was dwindling, and their supplies were depleting quickly.

Aisling’s vision blurred. Nausea swelled inside her like an infection till black fingertips crawled at the edge of her vision, threatening to toss her into darkness.

Just a little further , Anduril said. Don’t be so weak. Don’t show the fae king how mortal you still are. How incompetent you are without me .

Aisling forced one boot in front of the other.

Farther, farther , Anduril said.

Aisling lost feeling in her fingertips and toes. Her body was suddenly twice as heavy to carry.

“ Ellwyn ,” Lir said. Aisling tried to look at him, but the weight of her head was immeasurable. The realm tilted on its axis and Aisling’s knees gave in. She flew toward the ground, the sky spinning above her in wild, nebulous loops as she grasped for something. Anything.

It was futile. The realm, seemingly made of sugar, dissolved at the edges until nothing was left but the nothing in which it was born.

* * *

Aisling woke to the steady thump of the fae king’s chest against her cheek. Lir carried Aisling in both arms, holding her tightly against himself as they traveled. Thankfully, Niamh’s rains had spread into the misty breath of the mountains. Their mossy peaks rose jagged around them like the spikes atop a crown’s palisade.

Geld followed closely behind, head slumped and his hooves dragging against the rain-polished stones.

Aisling tensed against the fae king’s grasp. The hairs on her body stood to attention, her skin crawling with the sensation of him pressed against her. Anduril growled at her hips, still weak from the grin but protesting, nonetheless.

“Flasing,” Lir said, the sting of the name echoing between the narrow corridors of the mountains. “At the western edge of the Other, there sleeps the eldest sons of the Forge.”

“The mountains themselves,” Aisling conjectured. Lir looked down at Aisling, but the sorceress swiftly shifted her gaze away. Her draiocht was flaring, brightening, pulsing despite the grin’s infection that’d left her spirit bloody and bruised. Anduril’s temper rising the longer they remained so close.

“I can walk,” Aisling said, pulling against the fae king’s grip. Gently, Lir released her, setting her softly on the ground. Regardless, Aisling’s knees wobbled—nothing but Anduril’s strength to keep her propped up on quivering ankles.

“If you’d prefer Geld to carry you—” Lir began.

“I’m alright,” Aisling protested, doing her best to stand straight. Her efforts weren’t convincing, for the fae king’s expression bent with concerned— annoyance , Anduril corrected.

You’ll slow him down and he knows it , Anduril grumbled in her mind.

I’ve made it thus far , Aisling argued with Anduril—herself? She wasn’t certain anymore.

You’re no match for the Other. Without me, you’d be dead , Anduril insisted, burning more hotly.

Aisling shook her head, tangling her fingers in her hair to seize the ache in her temples.

“You need rest,” Lir said.

“No,” Aisling insisted. The sorceress took a step forward, swaying side to side before balancing herself once more. “But perhaps,” she surrendered, “some form of nourishment. Do any of Cara’s supplies include Leshy’s tears?”

Lir’s eyes flicked to Geld before lowering to the ground. There was scarcely anything left, much less an elixir as potent as Leshy’s tears.

“We’ll rest for the evening here, and by morning, if you’re not well, we return to Castle Yillen,” Lir said.

“That’s not possible,” Aisling bit through bared teeth. “My father is coming, and the mortals are bleeding through the veil.”

“Then he will come and the veil will bleed.”

“At what cost?!” Aisling said, her voice rising. Immediately, the exertion shot through her ribs, forcing Aisling to double over. Lir flinched, his body jolting slightly before catching itself.

“If you aren’t well when morning arrives,” Lir said, his voice low, vibrating through the stones beneath their boots and into the surrounding mountains, “then we return to Castle Yillen. As high king of the Sidhe, I command it.”

Aisling felt her anger crawling up her body and crouching inside her chest like a hissing ghoul. Wisdom urged her to bite it down. To leash it by the snapping shut of her fangs. Anduril, however, goaded her anger further.

He wants the Goblet for himself , Anduril said. He couldn’t fathom allowing you, his blood sworn enemy, to wield so much power. Can you imagine ?

Aisling’s skin heated.

“You are my knight and I your queen,” Aisling said, standing as tall as she was capable. Still, she was forced to tilt her head entirely back to meet his eyes. “I command you.”

Lir’s eyes flashed a violent shade of green. His lids lowered while a muscle flashed across the sharp edge of his jaw. He stepped closer, their bodies but a breath’s width apart. Above, thunder groaned, summoning webs of lightning. Flasing’s draiocht , waking to the rhythm of Aisling and Lir’s combined power. Sparks of energy flaring from their fingertips, between their teeth and their tear ducts.

The fae king opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a wild horn blew. Hollow, it whistled through Flasing’s passages and into Aisling and Lir like a ghost eager to possess. Aisling and Lir fell apart, their attention stolen by the growing wind and the echo of the horn.

“We need to keep moving,” Lir said, a sense of urgency in his voice.

“What is it?” Aisling asked.

“Anything. Nothing,” Lir said. “But I’d prefer not to find out.” The fae king turned on his heel, starting toward Geld waiting patiently to the side.

“Wait,” Aisling said. “What if it’s Eogi?”

Lir paused, hesitating as he wrapped Geld’s reigns around his wrist.

“I don’t think—” but before the fae king could finish the sentiment, Flasing shifted, rolling over like a den of bears waking midwinter.

The rock beneath them turned over, stones flying like embers from a fire. Geld reared, huffing and groaning with fear, but it was hardly audible over the roar of Flasing and its shifting granite. Lir drew his axes, cutting Geld’s reigns from his wrist. He smacked the mount’s rear, encouraging it onward. The stag bolted down the corridors, winding through the mayhem for his life.

Before Aisling could blink, the fae king cut the distance between them and shoved her against one of the cliff walls. The scream in Aisling’s throat was cut short by the smack of several giant rocks on the face of Lir’s axes, crossed above both their heads.

Lir’s breath traveled hotly down the curve of Aisling’s neck where both he and his axes bore the weight of the rock above them.

“Wrap your arms around me,” Lir said, his voice strained from the weight of Flasing’s debris.

“What?” Aisling asked, cheeks flushing despite herself.

“Wrap your arms around me,” Lir repeated, his voice more coarse than before.

It’s a trick , Anduril snipped. Don’t trust him. Don’t touch him. Don’t ?—

“Ash—” Lir hissed between his bared fangs, veins cording in his neck and forehead.

Aisling swallowed, slipping her arms around the fae king’s narrow waist and pulling herself against him.

Wicked quick, the fae king released his axes above him, arms falling around Aisling. He smashed their bodies together, swinging them out from under the avalanche that’d nearly buried them alive. Both Aisling and Lir flew to the side, falling against broken stone. Dust powdering the corridors and mingling with Niamh’s storm mists.

Aisling blinked, grimacing with the pain of the fall. She lay on her back, the fae king atop the sorceress, a leg and arm on either side of her—shielding her body with his own.

The forest green of his eyes studied the violet of hers. A recognition of the trust she’d laid in his nightmarish hands—the legends she’d grown to fear, fizzing like poison wines between them. The dark lord of the greenwood a shadow, a myth, a horror that had sunk its teeth into her spirit and locked its jaw.

Lir’s lips parted; his breath still heavy from the adrenaline even as the dust settled.

“Another faerie king,” a voice boomed from above. Both Aisling and Lir bolted upright, searching for the source. “And could it be?” the voice continued. “The sorceress—the queen of Annwyn?”

Around them, Flasing had shifted. The mountain had moved, taking itself apart piece by piece and reassembling into a lantern-lit village around them—grey oaks growing horizontally from the sides of the cliffs, upside down and right side up, braiding their branches to hold the various stairwells and golden-lit rooms dripping with garlands of ripe highland fruit.

It was a tavern, built along the edges, through the corridors, and along the belly of Flasing. Alive with ghostly laughter, music, and the chinking of chalices.

And at the center, a giant body of rock grew from the mountain. Its bones sprouted first, then its muscles, and finally, its flesh. It was seemingly male, large and round like feast kings. It melted back into the mountain, the rock crunching as it receded and regrew elsewhere—this time, closer to Aisling and Lir.

“Welcome, welcome,” the creature said, its voice half laughter. “Please step forward.”

“We only wish to pass through,” Lir said, his voice as cool and arrogant as usual. Soft and lithe in comparison to the gravel of the rock fiend. “Nothing more.”

“Nonsense!” the creature said. “I can smell the blood of the summits in you, child, Lir, king of Annwyn and the son of Ina.”

The fae king bowed his head curtly.

“I know your name, Dorkoth,” Lir said. “My mother spoke various tales of the ill-begotten child of Flasing, born of both the mountain spirit and the wraith of pleasure .”

“So, legend has it,” Dorkoth replied, the edge of his lips curling, flesh greening with moss and lichen as Niamh’s rains made slick his black rock body. “And so, too, does legend speak of my law of requirement: whosoever approaches my tavern, must stay for the evening.”

“We’ve other business,” Lir said, his axes still gripped in either hand. Dorkoth’s dark eyes darted to the edge of their blades—throat bobbing in response.

“Very well then,” Dorkoth said. “But in foregoing my hospitality, you also forego a warm meal, room, and bathing chamber for the evening. All of which, your bride appears to be in desperate need of.”

Bride . Anduril bristled, pinching Aisling when she shifted.

Lir’s eyes flicked to Aisling before returning to Dorkoth. A reflex he seemingly hadn’t meant to expose. Dorkoth smiled knowingly, expression brightening as the clouds gathered more thickly above, threatening a storm.

“One evening,” Aisling said. “One evening to recover from the grin and then we continue on.”

Lir cursed beneath his breath, rolling his neck from side to side. At the mention of the grin, however, Dorkoth’s smile vanished.

“One evening,” Lir agreed, glancing at Aisling over his shoulder as Dorkoth clapped his hands. Their fate for the night, sealed.

“Dinner will be held once the storm moon reaches its highest peak,” Dorkoth said, the stones of his body rippling and scraping against one another as he melted back into the side of the mountain. “I pray you’ll join us.”

Wedged between two of the tallest peaks, was the central house of the tavern. The rest of its rooms were scattered along the walls of Flasing like hanging bats.

Aisling and Lir approached the central house and entered. Lir ducked his head beneath the threshold, the weight of him setting the floorboards of the tavern into a chorus of creaks and whines.

The room was warm; a stark contrast to the cool, highland breezes that graced the outside world. A distant plucking of strings calmed the energy of the tavern, accompanied by the smell of freshly baked bread and sweet meads. But where Aisling expected a patron, a keeper, or even Dorkoth to greet them behind the counter of the tavern, none were present.

Aisling and Lir were seemingly alone.

“What now?” Aisling asked, eyes studying the room. There were ledgers, papers, and scrolls, all scrawled and scribbled over with blue ink. Real flame—not fae flower bulbs––danced in their lantern cages made of red, emerald, and sapphire glass. But it was the treasury of keys floating against the ceiling that caught Lir’s and Aisling’s attention.

There were hundreds, if not thousands, of keys hovering above their heads like petrified butterflies, caught mid-flight. Indeed, most of the keys bore insect-like wings of all color, shape, and form. Even their stems, bows, and bits were forged uniquely, sparkling in the lantern light.

“This is a mountain spirit dwelling,” Lir said, eyes wandering across the keys. He raised one arm, tugging on the string of the nearest key. A square piece of parchment was tied to the key’s string, labeled with a runic letter. “Meaning, it’s alive.”

“The tavern?” Aisling asked.

Lir nodded his head. “Aye. Most dwellings owned by spirits develop one of their own after centuries of breathing their spirit’s draiocht .”

“Is it one and the same with Dorkoth’s spirit?” Aisling asked.

“No,” Lir said. “It’s an entity of its own and, the older the dwelling, the more powerful its spirit.”

The fae king cleared his throat, facing the center counter of the tavern.

“We request quarters for the evening,” Lir said matter-of-factly. Silence followed for several breaths till Aisling shifted uncomfortably behind the fae king, waiting. At last, the treasury of keys above their heads clinked like chimes and a single key descended from the ceiling and dropped onto the counter. A runic parchment tied to its shank. One key for one room.

Lir waited a moment longer, attention drifting to the horde of keys above them.

“Quarters,” Lir repeated. “Two rooms,” he clarified, swallowing quickly after he’d said it. Aisling’s stomach turned when she realized. The sorceress hadn’t thought of their room arrangements until now.

We cannot share rooms with a stranger , Anduril chided inside her mind. He will cut our throats in the night. He will trick us. He will ruin us. He will take what is ours .

He’s sworn to protect and to serve , Aisling argued.

Trust will make a fool of us , Anduril insisted, vibrating against her bones. Aisling closed her eyes, concentrating on her thoughts––ripping at the threads Racat and Anduril braided together inside her.

And yet, the tavern offered no more keys. Only the first, still gleaming on the counter, twitching as if requesting their attention.

“Are there no other rooms available?” Lir pushed. And in response, the key leaped forward and onto the floorboards.

Lir grumbled something beneath his breath—a runic sentiment that bore the stinging lilt of a dark spell.

“Let’s find our room then,” Lir said, turning on his heel and starting for the door. A vine sprouted from between the floorboards, collecting the key and slithering up Lir’s boots. It dropped the key in Lir’s waiting palm as he ducked back beneath the threshold. The door shut behind him, nothing but the grumble of the oncoming storm to mirror Lir’s mood.

The temperature rose the moment Aisling stepped into Dorkoth’s tavern room. Several lanterns, lit with soft flame, draped shadows across the humble bed—fabrics harvested from common cotton clovers that grew along the path Aisling and Lir had recently tread. Hand sewn, the needlework was clumsy and unseemly. The work of mountain spirits and their rigid, stony fingers, Aisling realized as she brushed the surface with her fingertips.

Lir stood at the threshold for several beats. Long enough to draw Aisling’s attention. The sorceress, however, refused to meet his eyes. Each time their gazes connected, it was an intimate affair. As if the fae king’s undivided attention conjured strange magic, possessing Aisling’s body. For whilst her mind battled between her own thoughts and Anduril’s, her body heated uniquely when in his presence. Her stomach knotted or took flight, her body shuddered or froze still, her tongue dried or her lips grew wet. But it was her draiocht , Racat, who shivered. Who slithered against the fae king’s magic, rubbing its scales against his hide. Twin devils, Aisling felt, sinking their fangs into one another and gulping from their vein of power.

Lir took a step into the room. The old floorboards groaned beneath him, bending even as his lithe body moved—a shadow in Aisling’s periphery, approaching like death’s maven.

“Rest while you can,” he said, voice cleaned of emotion like a blade once bloodied. “I’ll fetch our dinner.”

“We aren’t joining Dorkoth?” Aisling said, spinning on her heel to face him at last.

For the briefest of moments, Lir hesitated, eyes catching on Aisling’s and trapping his words.

“If I can convince you otherwise,” Lir replied matter-of-factly, his expression, once more, void of emotion, “then no.”

Aisling frowned. She was starved, her body jittery with exhaustion and hunger alike. But she wanted her meal at a table instead of stones, lit by gold wax light instead of violet flame, with cutlery rather than her fingers, with dishes rather than bones, and wine goblets in the place of her cupped hands. All in the hopes of regaining her strength more quickly.

“You’re free to stay,” Aisling said, “but I’ll be joining Dorkoth regardless.”

Lir did a slight double take.

“By oath: where you go, I follow,” Lir said, standing straighter. A great shadow was cast from his towering stature and fell across the room. A reminder he was the guardian she’d knighted by blade. The accolade complete as Anduril released a blistering cry.

Aisling swallowed her protests.

He doesn’t trust us , Anduril hissed, tickling the inside of Aisling’s mind. He wants an eye on us always.

Aisling’s brow pinched, Anduril’s intensity squeezing inside her mind.

Lir’s eyes darted across her face before falling to Anduril at her hips. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He said nothing of it; instead, cleared his throat and turned on his heel.

“You should change,” he said. “And bathe. You reek. I’ll meet you at the tavern center at the strike of the third bell.”

He’s up to no good , Anduril spurted.

Aisling’s brow arched. “Where are you going?” she asked, annoyance pinching her words.

“To guard the door,” he said, throwing the door open and shutting it firmly behind him.

Aisling stared at the splintered wood for several moments after the fae king left. Her draiocht calmed, lulled back to sleep whilst outside his presence. A relief the sorceress was grateful for.

Aisling turned and faced the rest of the room. The boards of the tavern groaned against the cool breath of Flasing, lashing the sides of Dorkoth’s tavern as the storm thickened. She wandered through the chamber, at last, pulling apart patchwork drapes that shielded the rusted tub in the corner of their rooms. Rust alchemized the once coppery hue of the large basin to lichen green, shimmering beneath the lantern light regardless. Already, the spirit of Dorkoth’s tavern had filled the tub with hot water and soap, suds spilling over the lip.

Aisling eyed the bubbling waters, her expression narrowing. She felt Niamh’s watchful gaze and she feared the Lady’s influence through water. So, tired and weary as her body was, she pulled the curtains back and forewent the bath Dorkoth’s tavern had prepared for her.

Instead, Aisling undressed—all but Anduril slipping off her limbs—and summoned her draiocht . She burned every morsel of dirt, of filth, of sweat, of oil, of disease, of the stench of Geld’s pelt, and the fresh cologne of the fae king, careful not to singe all that was unsoiled or unsullied.

Fire cleansed her, breath by breath.

Once the work was complete, Aisling rummaged through the broken cupboards, dressers, and wardrobes. They were filled with tattered gowns, moth-eaten dresses, and chipped jewels. All and everything from an age that was forgotten and discarded. Aisling exhaled, surrendering to garments she already donned despite the heavy, biting edges of her armor that weighed heavily on her joints and muscles.

The spirit of Dorkoth’s tavern, however, was eager to help. The second wardrobe wobbled on its stout, wooden legs and a dress fell from a hidden shelf at the back.

Aisling knelt to collect the garment, lifting it to better appraise it in the lantern light.

It was plain, as pale as cream and sewn with thick, porcelain threads. The fabric, however, was soft as lamb’s wool, cinching at the wrists but flaring till the knuckles. The hem spilled around her bare feet, designed for a Seelie creature much taller than herself—this despite Aisling’s great height for a mortal-born.

Aisling considered her reflection for a long while. The mirror, like the rest of Dorkoth’s tavern, was old and weathered, clouding and foxing with chips and scratches across its surface. Still, Anduril gleamed brightly, admiring its own reflection with genuine interest.

* * *

LIR

Lir leaned his head against the corridor walls of Dorkoth’s tavern, just outside his and Aisling’s room. And even though the grin couldn’t spread nor grow from Lir’s life heart, the infection had taken its toll on the Sidhe king, sucking on his energy like a blood bat.

“You need rest, Your Grace,” a feminine voice whispered from the other end of the corridor.

“Perhaps some rest, some wine, and a wash,” another, similar voice, agreed.

Lir’s eyes opened slowly. Not a soul stood at the end of the corridor. Only two artfully sculpted statues, frozen just before kissing. Lir unhooked one of his axes from his back and tossed it. The blade spun, cutting across the hall before sticking to the wall with a thwack. Immediately, the two statues burst apart, squealing with alarm and shuddering to life.

Stone nymphs and daughters of Flasing.

“Forgive us, Your Grace.” The first statue fell to her knees, followed by the second. “We didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“Has Dorkoth sent his eyes to spy?” Lir asked the first nymph, approaching as his axe dislodged itself from the wood and shot back into the Sidhe king’s waiting palm. “And his ears?” Lir’s attention flicked to the second nymph.

“Of course not, Your Grace,” they said in unison.

“We’ve come to ensure your accommodations are satisfactory. And that you’ve been serviced, Your Grace.”

Lir studied the nymphs, searching for Dorkoth’s mischief. Written across the planes of their gray expressions, however, was an earnest desire to serve the tavern and the spirit that possessed it.

The Sidhe king considered Aisling’s door, weighing the choice in his mind. She was safe in her rooms and, not to mention, desperate to be rid of him thanks to Anduril.

“Very well,” the Sidhe king said, eyeing them both from head to toe. “I’ll need a change of clothes and somewhere to bathe.”

“Absolutely, Your Grace,” they said in unison. Immediately, both nymphs unfurled from their bows. They nervously skittered down a hall to the right, clutching the skirts of their wolf-gray gowns, and gesturing for the Sidhe king to follow.

* * *

AISLING

Aisling watched the shadow disappear from the crease below her chamber door before she turned the knob. Lir was no longer outside, guarding her door. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen. Only floating, flickering candles drifted near the creaking beams and gilded the corridor. Colorful wax dribbling from their stems and onto the floorboards beneath.

Keep your eyes open , Anduril said, glowing softly. Who knows which guests Dorkoth keeps .

Aisling considered the doors as she traveled through the narrow passages, the candles following her wake like curious ghosts. Some rooms were silent. Others rattled with commotion and muffled speech. A labyrinth of strange, age-worn doors that varied in size and color—each and all chipped and splintered. But it was the smell of roasted meats, stewed apples, sweet dough, and dark wines that guided Aisling through the tavern, down the broken stairwell, and toward the front entrance of their tavern lodgings.

Aisling turned the knob, but the threshold was firmly stuck. She shoved the door with her shoulder and the entrance gave way, plunging Aisling into a celebration. The tavern center was not roofed but rather stood at the center of a feverish courtyard.

Seven alp pines grew at the edges of the spectacle, bending at odd angles and perfuming the tavern center with their emerald needles and sticky sap. They carried thousands of lanterns on their arms, their fingers, their heads, dressing the center with warm light. Garlands of highland figs stretched from one end of the courtyard to the other and Flasing’s surrounding mountains cupped the music played by bears and wolves alike. And in the middle of it all was a lengthy dining table—a colossal pine, seemingly chopped in half by the axe of a giant—spilling over with a dazzling Sidhe feast. Characters of all shapes and sizes filled the seats and chatted idly by the pines. Unseelie, Seelie, forge-born, all basking in the heat of Flasing’s fever storm. Some danced while others sang, cheeks rosy with too much wine. And at the head of the table, surrounded by two nymphs, was Lir. Already, he stared at her—eyes dark as he watched her, half-lidded, from behind the lip of a goblet.

Aisling approached, Anduril buzzing at her hips. The nymphs poured more wine for the fae king, smiling and twirling their white curls. They served his plate, piling it high with all manner of foods, whispering secrets in his ears till he shifted, and they scattered like doves.

Close your mouth, sorceress , Anduril said. Are you really all that surprised ?

Aisling shut her lips, clearing her throat. Both she and Lir averted their eyes in the same moment, turning to the side instead.

A King’s bed is never cold, Anduril continued. His might is best inspired by the attention of his attractions—bonded or otherwise .

Aisling blinked, her eyes suddenly wet. She felt nothing for Lir. He was a stranger and an enemy. He was arrogant, too quiet, too cruel, and a rogue. She disliked him beyond understanding—a distaste that neared loathing. A hatred unprecedented, unusual, and muffled by the thudding of her heart. By the pain in her chest and the sickness in her stomach where she stood now.

I smell the ghost of mortality in your veins, sorceress. Your mind still churns with mortal thoughts. You hate him. You hate him. Did you really believe the nightmare king of the forest would require only one? Anduril cackled, its laugh as caustic as chimes hammered together.

Aisling gritted her teeth, doing her best to swallow this strange ache. It was futile, the pressure flaring in her chest and crawling up her throat. She stood awkwardly before the tavern center, afraid to glance at the fae king and find him leaning into the nymph’s touch.

“Enchantress,” a voice sounded. Aisling jolted in surprise, turning to find someone watching her. “Or violet-eyed wolf girl? Which do you prefer to be remembered by?”

He stood below the fountain carved into one of Flasing’s many sharp ridges, bleeding ice melt. A Sidhe of great height and broad shoulders, his luminous eyes flashed gold when a lantern floated lazily by. His face, gilded in the soft glow, was breathtaking—described best in legends of heroes, of kings, of knights, and princes. He padded forward, eating a fig as he approached. The light of the celebration fell upon him fully and Aisling marveled at the cut and style of his leathers, his armor, and of his teeth—fangs sharper than any Sidhe she’d met yet.

“Where are my manners?” he asked, standing a pace from her. He bowed slowly and rose elegantly. “I am Helm of the Howling Winds,” he introduced himself.

Son of Siofra, Helm was born of one of the original twelve Sidhe sovereigns. Meaning, Helm was a Sidhe king himself, reigning from the mortal plane over his court.

Aisling eyed him closely. Anduril said nothing, quietly watching from its perch.

“Aisling,” the sorceress introduced herself, offering not another word.

Helm smiled, his dark complexion sparkling as two more lanterns floated by.

“They call you faerie in the stories,” Helm said.

“A faerie?” Aisling asked.

“An elusive word, slipping between the letters of the Lore like a wisp—growing more potent, more real, betraying its ghostly body.” Helm looked Aisling up and down, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. “You’re more beautiful than the stories describe,” he said, eyes darting across her face.

Aisling denied herself the luxury of blushing, swallowing whatever flattery his comment held.

“So, the tales remark me less than?” Aisling asked.

“You misinterpret me, enchantress,” he said. “There are scarcely words that could capture your essence. Which is why I’d be honored if you’d join me for a dance?” Helm’s eyes glittered with promise.

Aisling crossed her arms, acknowledging his outstretched hand with a brief flick of her eyes.

“Try then,” Aisling challenged.

“I’m sorry?—”

“Attempt to describe my beauty, and if your efforts please me,” Aisling offered, “then I’ll allow you a dance.” She arched a brow. She hadn’t meant the challenge seriously but only as a mockery. Even so, if he agreed to her terms, she’d at least be amused. For his empty flattery had done all but describe the beauty he claimed to understand uniquely. In fact, Aisling realized, he’d already lost the challenge.

Helm laughed nervously beneath his breath, eyes darting across Aisling’s face.

“Your beauty surpasses description, enchantress,” Helm said at last. He smiled to himself, chin tipping upward with transparent self-satisfaction.

“And yet,” Aisling countered, “I request one.”

Helm hesitated. “I?—”

“Be your beauty a blade, let it carve me—violent, cruel, and without mercy,” someone piped, approaching their conversation from the side. Aisling didn’t need to turn to see who came forward. She and Anduril would both recognize his voice in the darkest shadow, brightest light, and all the glimmers between.

Aisling and Helm whipped their attention to Lir, his posture cool and arrogant even as he held Helm’s glare.

See? Anduril said. He watches, he does not trust us. He mocks us with his arrogance .

“I had a suspicion we might cross paths.” Helm addressed Lir, his smile quickly fading.

“You’re meant to be guarding your court in the mortal plane.” Lir crossed his arms.

But where Aisling anticipated a sharp rebuttal, Helm’s expression dimmed with something like shame.

“Tahsman was taken,” Helm said. “The mortals surrounded us, their iron hot and their fires hungry. The flames moved quickly—too quickly––spreading over Tahsman until we were forced to seek refuge in the Other.”

Lir’s jaw flexed.

“Taken,” he repeated, absorbing the information.

“We had no other choice,” Helm continued.

“And the others?” Lir asked, straightening. “Have the other courts been taken as well?”

Helm shook his head. “Communication has been cut from all courts on the mortal plane. But I assume Tahsman was not the first to fall to the fire hand nor will it be the last. I’m only grateful we escaped in time to spare as many as possible.”

Lir cursed beneath his breath.

“Where are the rest of your people?” Lir continued.

“Scattered across the Other and finding shelter where possible. I’ve been traveling across this plane for the past several days, seeking safe havens for Tahsman and the others that will inevitably follow,” Helm said.

Lir’s expression flickered with…fear, Aisling realized. It was foreign on his face, catching Aisling off guard.

“And Annwyn?” Lir asked, soft eyes gilded by the lantern light.

Helm exhaled. “No word. But if none from your court have yet to appear here in the Other, there’s still hope.”

Lir’s throat bobbed, his complexion paling.

Aisling fought the urge to comfort him. She was horrified by the sudden reflex to reach out and squeeze his hand, to run her fingers through his hair, to cup his face between her palms and reassure him. The impulses were strong and unwelcomed, burning her flesh where Anduril bristled with heat.

“Come,” Aisling said instead. “Let us drink wine.”

Both Helm and Lir offered Aisling their arm in the same moment. Aisling hesitated, gulping in the awkward silence.

Take the Howling Winds king’s arm , Anduril insisted. He is strong and capable but not more so than you. That is a better match for us .

Aisling chewed on her bottom lip before looping her arm through Lir’s. Her body moved for her, quickly punished by Anduril’s squeezing.

Helm bowed his head in silent concession, meeting Lir’s eyes briefly.

Lir, on the other hand, straightened, his head held a little higher than before.

They approached the large dining table where Dorkoth took his seat at the center.

“Come, come!” he shouted to his guests. “Come and dine with me.”

The festival evolved into a feast, food flying from the table in glittering colors and rich smells. Plates clinking against one another and chalices spilling.

Lir pulled a chair for Aisling, watching Helm carefully as he took his seat beside the sorceress.

Immediately, several plates pushed toward Aisling of their own accord—every poached apple, every lamb leg, every cherry gelatin enchanted and eager to be eaten by Dorkoth’s guests. Lir took several plates himself as he sat on her other side, his tattooed fingers brushing against hers as he moved.

Aisling shivered, swallowing the pain Anduril punished her nerves with.

Several strange beasts took their seats around the table as well: a guest with three tails, one with pink curls and moth-like wings draping over their shoulders like a powdered cape, three with toads singing songs from their shoulders, and many more.

“Don’t stare,” Lir whispered beside her, his eyes never leaving his plate.

“I’ve never seen creatures like these,” Aisling said.

“You wouldn’t have,” the fae king replied. “They’re bound to the Other and only the wiliest of them creep into the mortal plane. Spiritual entities whose deception is beyond our comprehension.”

Aisling snuck a glance at the creature with pink hair. Politely, she cut through her dinner, opening her pretty mouth to reveal several rows of teeth.

Aisling jolted back in surprise, knocking her chalice against Lir’s with her elbow. Wicked quick, Lir reached his hand beneath the table and grabbed Aisling’s thigh. He squeezed gently but firmly—a reminder to keep her composure. Heat creeped up Aisling’s body, humming softly in her lower abdomen. She’d forgotten—no, she’d never been touched by the fae king. Had she? Aisling cleared her throat, shifting slightly as Lir released his hold. But it was fruitless, the whole table flicked their eyes to the sorceress.

Both Aisling and Lir stilled like foxes between the trees. Helm’s eyes darted between them, a question in his glare.

“I almost forgot,” Dorkoth boomed across the table. “But here in Flasing’s cradle, the high lord of the greenwood and his sorceress drink our wine, together, here, with us.”

His sorceress . Anduril flared hot, forcing Aisling to her feet.

Aisling and Lir exchanged glances. Lir exhaled softly.

“The legends speak my name in tongues: for every fire, another version of me is born,” Aisling said. The eyes of Dorkoth’s tavern bore into Aisling, studying her every breath. Aisling swallowed. But it was Dorkoth who leaned forward, placing both his stony hands onto the edge of the table as he spoke.

“Do you seek a correction of your title?” the tavernkeeper asked, half-baffled. Heat creeped beneath Aisling’s cheeks. She knew this pledge was unnecessary, but Anduril hardly cared. Its ambition, its drive, its thirst crawled up Aisling’s spine and spoke from her lips.

“ I am faerie ,” Aisling said.

Helm did a double take, lips parting as he studied Aisling anew.

“And I her knight,” Lir said, bringing his goblet of wine to his fangs.

Dorkoth and the rest of the tavern guests exchanged glances and darting eyes, whispers rustling through the feast like leaves in the wind.

“A faerie and her knight,” Dorkoth said, brows pinching as he weighed the words in his mind. “And what business do a faerie and her knight have in Flasing’s cradle?”

“Private business,” Lir bit, watching Dorkoth beneath half-lidded eyes.

“In this tavern,” Dorkoth said, lowering his voice in the slightest, “we speak freely.”

Lir bristled, so Aisling spoke quickly.

“We’re in search of Eogi,” Aisling said. Every head in the tavern swiveled to Aisling. Lir ground his teeth but said nothing, focusing on his plate instead.

“Eogi,” Dorkoth repeated. “The keeper of beginnings.”

“You won’t reach him,” Helm piped. The tavern switched their attentions.

“Reach?” Lir asked.

“He rests just north of here,” Dorkoth said. “Up the spindly steps and through Breka’s mirror. Beyond, a cave darkens, chilled like metal without flame. That’s where the keeper sleeps. The cool basin of the Forge dusted after years without use.”

“However,” Helm said, “Eogi is not alone. A guard stands before the mirror with a moon-bright blade prepared to prevent whoever disrupts his rest.”

“How do we pass?” Aisling asked.

Helm shrugged. “You don’t.”

“Unless,” Dorkoth suggested, “you kill it.”

Aisling and Lir exchanged quick glances.

“So, no one has passed before?” Aisling asked, aware of every guest’s eyes studying their conversation. They whispered amongst one another, nodding their heads and hissing replies.

“Few have tried,” Helm said. “But no, no one has ever passed before.”

Silence filled their mouths, but the foxes and the badgers continued plucking their fiddles and lutes while the lanterns floated across the feasting table.

“What did you expect?” Dorkoth asked. “The caliber of a soul must be high to speak with a forge-old being—nearly a deity itself. And so, few if any, will succeed. Your quest is a death coin, already paid and collected by intent.”

“You don’t believe me capable?” Aisling asked.

“No,” Dorkoth replied. “But perhaps your knight might stand a chance,” Dorkoth said, eyes darting toward Lir before returning to Aisling.

“It isn’t his challenge to take,” Aisling said. “It’s mine.”

Dorkoth laughed and Helm swallowed.

“I speak with your best intentions in mind, faerie,” Dorkoth said, his voice lowering as he pinned Aisling in place with his stony eyes. “To venture forward on this path, is to die.”

The table erupted into soft chatter, clinking glasses and plates as they moved to better hear one another.

Aisling leaned back in her chair, a glass of wine in one hand.

“There is no other path,” Aisling said.

“They seek the Goblet,” Helm said. “Or so the rumors say. A weapon to vanquish the mortals and prevent Sidhe destruction.”

Dorkoth tilted back his head, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he considered. The rest of the tavern’s guests awkwardly ate their dinners, ears perked and eyes flashing, waiting for the tavern keeper’s response.

“What do you know of the mortals’ advances?” Lir spoke first, the depth of his voice rumbling across the feasting table till it sent shivers down every guest’s spine. The nymphs shuddered despite themselves, eyes dilating as they fully fixed their eyes on the fae king. Aisling bristled like a wolf with its hackles standing straight up.

Dorkoth cleared his throat.

“Flasing has long felt their approach. Their mortal touch is infecting that which makes the Other everlasting, spreading their fleshling diseases, their rot, and their death into our world of spirits and magic,” Dorkoth said. “They are coming.”

“You’ve experienced it yourself?” Lir continued.

“As have you,” Dorkoth said.

The grin. A rotting of the natural world that didn’t encumber the Otherworld…until now.

“As their mortal influence nears, the Forge heats and bubbles, blistering the veil that once separated us from them,” Dorkoth explained. “More and more will we experience evidence of their mortality infecting that which was once eternal.”

“Unless they’re stopped,” Aisling said. “Unless I obtain the Goblet and prevent my father—the mortals––from destroying the Sidhe, the Other, the?—”

“From destroying you?” Dorkoth asked. The table froze, swallowing hard as they shifted their attention to Aisling. “You’re what they search for are you not?” Dorkoth pushed. “You’re the curse breaker, the mortal reaper, the daughter of he who threatens us?”

“What do you ask?” Lir said.

Dorkoth rocked his head from side to side.

The tavern keeper said at last, “I only wonder what they want with you.”

“It matters not,” Lir replied quickly.

“But it would end the war, would it not?” Dorkoth pressed.

“What are you suggesting?” Lir challenged again, his expression becoming more inhuman.

Silence fell and splattered across the table. Eyes darted back and forth.

“I suggest nothing. Only if you do choose to proceed, you feast and celebrate tonight. No warrior enters a battle without proper celebration—be it death or victory that follows,” the tavern keeper said.

Dorkoth clapped his hands, and the lanterns bled a scarlet glow. The music grew louder and quicker, and the food laid across the banquet table multiplied. His guests shrieked with delight, lunging across the table for buttered sweet rolls, hot cookies, charred meats, steaming vegetables, poached apples, and overstuffed pies. Goblets, mugs, and chalices bubbled over with punches, meads, and wines, whilst the trees swayed back and forth excitedly. Flasing hummed joyously, chuckling to itself as it observed the growing temperature of the celebration.

“Enjoy the evening, faerie,” Dorkoth said, his voice just loud enough above the frenzy. “For it may be your last.”

Plum juice dribbled down Aisling’s chin. She’d eaten several plates from Dorkoth’s feasts and tipped back several goblets of wine. All and each, enjoyed as she did her best to avoid the nymphs begging the fae king to dance with them. Lir ignored their wandering hands as he wove through the tavern center, speaking with several guests, but every now and again, he’d catch Aisling watching him. His dark green eyes depthless and haunting—both frightening and tempting all at once.

Aisling wasn’t certain why she cared or why Anduril’s protests were reddening the flesh on her hips. Only that her chest grew tight and her palms sweaty, heart racing several beats quicker each time he caught her looking.

“Your eyes are dimming,” Helm said from her right side. Aisling didn’t bother turning. She remained still, attention focused on the table before her. “You should retire for the evening.”

“I’m fine,” Aisling insisted. She stood up abruptly, almost knocking over her chair. Helm caught it quickly, reaching out a hand to steady Aisling by the elbow.

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“Wine has that effect,” Aisling bit, swaying slightly as she turned to look at him. “Which is why I drank it.”

“You should be resting,” Helm said.

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”

“Which might be as soon as tomorrow if you aren’t careful,” Helm warned.

Aisling shook her head. “You see this belt?” Helm considered Anduril, his eyes reflecting the gold of its metal. “With this belt, I’m invincible.”

Helm shook his head, not understanding.

“It’s a shield?”

“No, a weapon. So long as Anduril hangs from my body, I am possessed with the talents of legendary heroes, knights, warriors.”

Helm arched a brow, eyes still locked onto the belt.

“None can best you?”

“No,” Aisling said before biting her lip. “Except…” Her eyes wandered, finding Lir across the celebration while the nymphs began kissing his neck. He spoke to Dorkoth beneath the lantern light, neither shrugging the nymphs off nor rejecting their advances as he’d done before. Instead, he did nothing. Allowing their tongues to slide against his throat as he ignored their preening.

Aisling bit her tongue.

“Except Lir,” Helm surmised.

“Aye, except the fae king.”

“And if the belt is removed?” Helm asked.

Aisling wobbled on her feet, tearing her eyes from Lir and the nymphs and returning her attention to Helm.

“Then I become, once more, a sorceress alone,” Aisling confessed.

Helm nodded his head in understanding.

“Why don’t I accompany you to your rooms for the night?” the Sidhe king offered.

“I’d prefer to stay,” Aisling said, crossing her arms clumsily.

“And stare at Lir from afar?” Helm asked. “Or I could help you to your chambers and ensure you’re prepared to find Eogi in the morning.”

Aisling, surprising herself, hesitated.

“I—”

“You what?” Helm pushed. “He is your knight, is he not? You needn’t wait on him.”

Aisling glanced at Lir once more. His back was turned to her now and he hadn’t met her eyes in some time. The nymphs were flushed on either side of him, rubbing the tips of their noses against his cheeks and begging for a morsel of his attention.

Aisling tore her own attention away, chest tight with a sharp pain.

Anduril, on the other hand, sparkled gleefully.

“Very well,” Aisling conceded.

Helm offered the sorceress his arm and, after another brief hesitation, Aisling accepted it.

Gently, the Sidhe king led Aisling away from the tavern center and toward one of the various crooked staircases pressed to the side of Flasing. The colors, the lights, the music, and the smells spun together and mixed inside Aisling’s mind, making dizzy and incoherent her thoughts. Anduril held tightly, rifling its fingers through her head till her temples ached.

They pushed open the battered door and ascended the first stairwell. The sounds of the celebration below grew muffled by the old tavern walls. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet as they walked, increasing the distance between themselves and the tavern center.

At last, they reached Aisling’s chamber door.

“Thank you,” Aisling said, not meeting Helm’s eyes. She pressed her back to the door, staring down at her bare feet. She could scarcely think coherently, and the world was rocking back and forth like a cradle.

“You’re welcome,” he said, planting his boots before her. He leaned forward, placing a hand against the wall by Aisling’s head.

Aisling swallowed.

“Good night,” she said, grabbing the doorknob beside her and turning it. Helm abruptly reached his hand out and grabbed hers before she could open the door.

“What are you doing?” Aisling asked, the world spinning more quickly.

“Nothing,” Helm said, even as he leaned his head closer, his lips breathing against her forehead.

“You should go,” Aisling said, her words slurred and slow. Nevertheless, Helm reached below her chin and tipped her head up. Lazily, he studied her face, his thick, dark lashes half obscuring the sheen of his eyes. Yet, it wasn’t his eyes that unsettled Aisling most of all. It was his left hand, wandering toward her waist. He grazed her bodice, his fingers sliding down the curve of her abdomen until he was stopped short by Anduril’s hot chain.

“So this is the belt you speak of?” he asked, his fingers grazing Anduril’s edge.

“Aye,” Aisling said, her throat tight and her body stiff despite the wine that loosened her will. “Don’t touch it,” she managed. “Or me.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll light a fire in your belly that slowly consumes you from the inside out,” Aisling threatened between bared teeth.

“Perhaps I’ll call your bluff,” Helm said just before yanking Anduril’s clasp so hard, it jerked Aisling upright. Without hesitation, Aisling’s body lit with violet flame. It hardly mattered. Helm flew backward, slamming into the side of Dorkoth’s tavern with a horrible crunch.

Aisling shook her head, desperately trying to make sense of the past several breaths. Helm groaned, slouched on the ground and rubbing his head.

“She said not to touch,” Lir’s voice materialized before them both—he, a shadow peeling forth from the darkest corners of the corridor. The fae king reached down and grabbed Helm by the throat, lifting him till his feet dangled above the ground.

“Enough, Lir,” Helm wheezed, gasping for breath.

“It’s enough when I say it is,” Lir replied. “Now answer a few questions for me.” Lir squeezed Helm’s throat more tightly, his knuckles turning white.

“I didn’t mean any harm,” Helm choked out, his hands clawing at Lir’s forearms, but it was fruitless—Lir was stronger by far, easily holding him in place.

“Yet,” Lir said between clenched teeth, “you tried to remove Aisling’s belt. Why?”

Helm squirmed, his complexion reddening, then purpling.

“Anduril is a cursed object,” Helm said. “It begins like a seed in the mind, but if it isn’t stopped, its roots will slither between the grooves of her mind until she cannot separate the belt from herself. Power comes at a cost.”

Lir’s eyes narrowed, but he held still.

“You know its name?” Aisling said, speaking for the first time since Lir arrived.

“Aye,” Helm managed. “My mother witnessed the madness that belt inspires firsthand. Nothing good will come of it. Surely not the salvation of the Sidhe.”

“And yet,” Aisling said, “that’s why I wear it. To defeat all and everything that stands before me and victory.”

“What about him?” Helm asked, his eyes shooting to Lir.

“He’s my knight and sworn to serve me,” Aisling said, but Helm’s eyes fell to Anduril buzzing softly at her hips.

“Now I say it’s enough,” Lir said. The fae king dropped Helm suddenly and turned to move closer to Aisling’s side. Helm floundered on the floor for a moment, recovering himself and backing down the corridor.

“Leave now,” Lir continued. “And don’t let me catch sight of you again.”

Helm ground his jaw but said nothing, spinning on his heel the moment he’d reached the end of the hall and took off.

Aisling sucked in a breath, her draiocht fizzling into wisps of smoke as her heart rate calmed and her mind cleared.

“Are you alright?” Lir asked.

“I’m fine,” Aisling said, straightening her gown and her hair. Lir nodded his head, glancing over his shoulder at the hall Helm had run down.

“You should rest,” he said. “When the sun rises, we’ll continue to Eogi.” Lir bowed his head, already preparing to retreat to wherever he planned to rest for the night. He hardly met her eyes. His expression void of emotion as he started down the corridor, his back to her as he took his leave.

“Lir,” Aisling said, his name falling from her lips before she could stop it. “Wait.”

Anduril flared but Aisling shoved away the pain, focusing her blurry eyes on the fae king and sinking into their depths.

Lir slowed to a stop but didn’t turn. Not right away. He inclined his head toward her, his shoulders hiking with tension.

“Stay with me,” Aisling said.

You cannot trust him ! Anduril hissed loudly, stinging Aisling’s ears. She bit through the pain regardless.

“Stay with me here in my rooms,” she continued when Lir remained silent. “It’s safer that way,” she clarified.

Lir shifted, moving to face her fully. Half cast in shadows, he fixed his eyes on hers. Immediately, her heart took flight and her draiocht growled hungrily. But it was Anduril’s ringing that vibrated through the fabric of the Other with a shudder through her spine. He padded toward her, defeating the distance that once lay between them.

“As you command,” Lir said, bowing his head once more. He, the vision of a noble, humble knight born to serve. And yet, Lir was a king—the high king of all the Sidhe across the mortal plane. He, a legend, a myth, a cruel fairytale nightmare painted in the savage hues of barbaric reds and greens.

Lir reached behind Aisling and grabbed the doorknob gently. The gesture brought their chests flush against one another. He locked eyes with her, tearing himself away the moment the door clicked open and warm light spilled into the corridor.

They both slipped into the room. Lir watched Aisling carefully as she approached the bed, her steps clumsy and ungraceful after too much wine.

“You shouldn’t have drunk so much,” Lir said, standing still at the center of the chamber with his arms crossed. “Especially not now.”

“I’m to celebrate before battle, am I not?” Aisling said, doing her best not to slur her words.

“There are better ways,” Lir said.

“Like being bedded?” Aisling asked, heat creeping behind her cheeks the moment she had. Lir did a double take, ensuring he’d heard her correctly. His expression flashed with confusion, stoically collecting itself once more.

“That’s one way, yes,” Lir admitted.

“Is that what you do?” Aisling asked, Anduril screeching with frustration.

Lir’s eyes widened, his arms falling to his sides.

“I have before,” the fae king confessed. In this light, Aisling couldn’t see his complexion well. But when he stepped to the side, shifting his weight, she saw the crimson tips of his ears.

A strange jealousy burned hot in Aisling’s stomach, crawling up her abdomen and into her mouth till it sat between her teeth bitterly.

“Tell me,” Aisling said. “Tell me what it’s like.”

Lir stilled, his muscles visibly tightening beneath his leathers and armor. His head tilted to the side like a wolf appraising its hunt, but he made not a sound as he considered her. Aisling sat back onto the edge of the fraying mattress and forced herself to keep his gaze.

No, no, no, no! Anduril screamed. You are a weak, pathetic, whore and nothing more but a plaything to him. This is a mistake. A mistake. A mistake. A mistake!

The wine suffocated Anduril’s protests and Aisling’s inhibitions, clouding her mind further. Her draiocht spun madly inside, propelling her heart as it hammered inside her chest. The room grew several degrees hotter, and the lantern light bled violet.

“I can show you,” Lir said. His voice thick and rough. The fae king moved closer—a tall shadow creeping nearer. A ghost she’d conjured and invited closer. “For the purpose of preparing you for tomorrow of course. Nothing more.”

Aisling stiffened, the draiocht flaring and biting till its gums bled inside her.

He stood before her. Aisling tilted back her head and stared up at him from where she sat. Nimbly, he grabbed her jaw and got down on his knees so they were face to face.

Their lips were but a breath apart—the smell of him, of alder ciders, of pine needles, of summer breezes, consumed her.

Stop, Anduril pleaded. Please, stop.

Aisling shut out the belt’s words, wrenching her eyes shut and focusing on her draiocht instead. The way it moved against Lir’s. The way his magic wanted hers. This was undeniable.

“Please,” Aisling said, barely against his lips. Just out of reach.

Lir’s breath stuttered before he stilled entirely.

“As you command,” he said.

The fae king placed both hands on Aisling’s thighs. His palms burning into the fabric of her gown and scalding her flesh. Aisling shivered, her draiocht blooming fully awake.

Lir watched her closely. He studied her expression, eyes tracing her lips as his hands slid up and gathered her gown between his fingers. Aisling sucked in a breath, her body flinching with surprise. And in the same breath, Lir touched his lips with hers.

Aisling , Anduril hissed.

Racat lit, scale by scale, with a violet glow. Her draiocht shuddered awake and alive, eager to be released and numbing Anduril’s fury.

Lir deepened the kiss, leaning closer. The taste of him brought fire to the edge of Aisling’s will. She sank into him as he moved his tongue inside her mouth. Aisling was flushed with heat—her breath quick as prey as she rested her hands on his arms. Immediately, Lir tensed, his kiss slowing. Aisling continued, sliding her hands up his arms, onto his shoulders, and loosely around his neck. Lir leaned further into Aisling, pushing gently until she fell onto the bed of quilts.

Aisling , Anduril screamed with all its might. And yet, its voice was cleaving from Aisling’s mind as she and Lir kissed, his knee pressing between her legs.

Lir moved his hand around her throat, moving slowly down her body and grazing her breasts. He stopped at her waist, pulling her against him—almost lifting her from the bed.

His hand moved further, pausing at Aisling’s hips.

No , Anduril screamed, and it echoed into oblivion. Lir’s fingers tugged on the belt even as it trembled with wrath. Aisling froze, her body suddenly turning to stone. Lir pulled again, this time harder. For him to enter her comfortably, Anduril needed to be removed. And what’s more, Aisling wanted it gone in that moment. Wanted him instead. Even if it meant nothing. Even if he despised her, she wanted to feel him, to have him, to be with him for a moment. Especially if this evening was her last.

“Wait,” Aisling broke her mouth free of his and grabbed his wrist. Lir met her eyes, something sharp in the shadows of his expression.

“I will not remove it,” Aisling said instead. She spoke like a spell, sealing the truth of her convictions into the fabric of the universe.

Lir opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, his attention was stolen. The fae king turned his head to the side. His body stilled completely.

“What is it?” Aisling asked, her heart racing for an entirely different reason now.

“When I say,” Lir whispered into her ear, “leap through that window. The trees will help you down.”

Aisling found the window Lir spoke of; steepled, its pane was pushed open and the patchwork curtains drifted on a phantom breeze.

“What’s happening?” Aisling asked again. Her draiocht still pulsing hungrily and Anduril bright with heat between them.

“Dorkoth,” Lir said.

As if prompted, a crackling noise grew near the corners of the room. Aisling bolted upright so Lir instinctively held her tightly against himself.

Stone bubbled from the wood, mossy and dirt-caked. It grew like a disease, multiplying, reforming, and reshaping until figures began to take form. And at the center, materialized Dorkoth.

“Apologies, faerie,” Dorkoth said, his voice filled with gravel and still solidifying itself. “I don’t usually become so hostile with my guests, but you see you’re the answer to all this. Kill you and the mortals’ pursuit ends.”

Aisling and Lir came apart. They wore the same face of betrayal and anger, both their draiocht s snapping ravenously inside.

“Don’t be reckless, Dorkoth,” Aisling said. “This is a battle you won’t win.”

Dorkoth opened his arms and looked around at his stone spirits. There were seven or so, some tall and others short. All broad and heavy, made of rock and mountain’s edge.

“I like my odds,” the tavern keeper said.

“The cost will be your life, Dorkoth,” Lir continued. “Reconsider.”

“My apologies, mo Damh Bán . But the fate of the Sidhe is more important than any single faerie.” Dorkoth’s smile cut across his face in a thin jagged line. He snapped his fingers and, at once, his spirits descended.

“Now,” Lir said.

Aisling dove over the bed and toward the window—quick as a ghost caught moments before sunrise. Four of Dorkoth’s spirits lunged for Aisling, their fingertips almost closing in on the last inches of her hair, her gown, or her wrists as she threw herself at the window. But in the same movement, the fae king unsheathed one of his twin axes and threw. The blade flew in a perfect circle cutting down one, two, three, four of Dorkoth’s spirits in one fell swoop.

“Get them!” Dorkoth shouted, but most of his spirits were now headless, stone strewn across the floor of the tavern.

Burn , Aisling spoke to Racat and the tavern lanterns raged with violet flame eager to explode. Her draiocht was salivating, chomping at the bit to be released in its full glory.

“By the Forge,” Dorkoth’s eyes widened with horror, watching as Aisling’s magic pressed a blade to his tavern’s throat. Its spirit screamed, burning alive.

The three remaining spirits grabbed Aisling as she was halfway out the window, knees bruised on the metal edge of the sill. The sorceress lit with fire and unsheathed Sarwen from her back. Two of the spirits flew away, but the third held his grip, digging his rough fingers into her skin.

Anduril frothed at the mouth, gleaming brightly as it reclaimed Aisling’s body for its own and swung her arms.

Sarwen cut through the air with unique precision. The sorceress made a ribboned mess of the remaining spirits—her ears numb to their pain-ridden screams as they begged for mercy just before meeting the sharp edge of Sarwen.

“Follow us,” Lir said. “And we’ll not spare you a second time.” He held one of his axes to Dorkoth’s bobbing neck, holding him from behind. He shoved Dorkoth off and away, narrowing his eyes as Flasing’s child stumbled.

“You’ll bring death to the Sidhe!” Dorkoth screamed as Aisling and Lir slipped out the window and into the night. “Your father will find you, faerie, and the whole of the Forge will pay!”

Flasing’s cradle hummed like a harp string plucked, echoing between the caverns of creation. It smelled of raw minerals, of stardust, and of the beginning of time. The stars above glittering proudly at the sharp peaks Aisling and Lir wove through, their feet quick and nimble despite growing exhaustion.

After several hours, Dorkoth’s tavern was a distant ember still shaking with the remnants of a celebration. Nevertheless, Dorkoth didn’t follow—most likely licking his wounds and preventing Aisling’s flames from devouring his home fully.

“Let’s rest for a while,” Lir said, pausing at an intersection between mountains.

“After,” Aisling said. “Eogi is close. I can feel it.”

“You always say that,” he said. “But eventually, your body won’t be able to fight.”

“With Anduril I cannot lose,” Aisling said. The belt beamed with pride, flashing extra bright whilst in Lir’s presence.

“Aisling.” Lir grabbed Aisling’s wrist and held it gently but firmly. The sorceress hesitated, the memory of their kiss lingering on her lips even now. Her draiocht prickled with excitement the moment their eyes reconnected.

Aisling opened her mouth to speak.

“I—” She was stopped short.

A shadow drifted by in the corner of her eye. Aisling reacted immediately, drawing Sarwen from her back. Lir followed but slowly, seemingly unalarmed by the movement.

“What was that?” Aisling asked, squinting her eyes to better see in the dark.

Before Lir could reply, another shadow passed on Aisling’s other side. The sorceress swiveled on her heel, searching for the source of movement.

At last, several more shadows appeared and revealed themselves to both Aisling and Lir.

They were silver fish seemingly swimming through the dense breath of Flasing. They swam without water, cutting through the currents of midnight air and mountain breezes as though they traveled beneath the waves, scales reflecting the ghostly glow of the crescent moon.

“Glimmer fish,” Lir called them. “Born of the bubbles long evaporated from the Forge’s cauldron.”

Four fish became twenty and twenty became countless as Aisling and Lir stood, mouths open, and watched them swim. They swam together, at the same pace, and in the same direction, diving deeper into the cavernous depths of Flasing’s cradle.

“Let us follow,” Aisling said, starting in the same direction. Lir hesitated but briefly, eventually swallowing his protests and following a pace behind the sorceress as she continued.

The temperature dropped several degrees until even Aisling’s magic couldn’t warm her flesh entirely. She paled, the tip of her nose pink after the cold’s bitter kiss. Teeth chattering.

The deeper and further they ventured, the more fish swam by, growing larger, longer, and more friendly. Various slipped by Aisling’s cheeks, her skirts, through Lir’s arms, and by his boots, their fins stroking them both playfully as they passed. Eventually, thousands bottlenecked at the mouth of a cave veiled by a shimmering, spilling waterfall.

Breka’s mirror.

A spindly, floating path led up and into the cave, suspended in the air by magic alone.

Aisling’s ears popped with the pressure of dense draiocht all around. Her body tingled and Racat moved restlessly inside her. Aisling knew Lir felt similarly, his fingers stroking the hafts of his twin blades in rhythmic motions. The smell of forge-cracked flame, overwhelming to the senses.

Aisling and Lir climbed up the suspended path, careful not to look over its edge at the fall below. From where they walked, the ground was no longer visible but only a sea of fog, whipped like freshly made cream. But once they arrived at the top and stood before Breka’s mirror, the plummet was the last thing on Aisling’s mind.

Lir stepped in front of Aisling, a shoulder between her and the opening to the cave. He drew both his axes now, peering past the falling waters where the fish traveled densely.

“Is it as simple as entering?” Aisling asked Lir, staring past her knight and into the dark mouth of the cave beyond.

“Only one way to find out.” Lir stepped forward, boot by boot nearing the edge of Breka’s mirror. Close enough that the spray of the falls soaked his trousers and the fish pushed past him to enter first. Lir moved further, the tip of his nose stopping just short of the waters.

“Lir,” Aisling warned, but it was too late.

The fae king flew backward, nimbly catching himself and landing in a crouch like a feline. Aisling and Lir stared at the waters, watching as something stepped forth.

It was invisible at first. The only indication it existed was its strength as it pushed Lir back, and the way the water parted so it could pass. The moonlight, however, revealed its secrets, unveiling the creature before their eyes.

A shining knight clad in forge-cast armor stood before them both. He carried a greatsword that almost matched his great height and build, reflecting the light of the moon spectating from above.

“Do you seek Eogi?” the knight asked. His voice was inhuman. Each word was stiff and unfamiliar, as though it were nothing more than a mimicry of Aisling’s common tongue.

“Aye,” Aisling replied, stepping forward. Lir’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his grip hardening on the hafts of his blades.

“It is I who seeks Eogi,” Aisling said.

The knight considered Aisling with the patience of immortality. He studied her gown, her tangled hair, and the gleam of Sarwen between her cold hands.

“On what authority do you wish to pass?” the knight asked.

“I seek the Goblet,” Aisling answered honestly.

“The Goblet of Lore,” the knight clarified, his eyes and expression hidden behind an ornate, detailed helmet.

“To rewrite prophecy and spare the Sidhe from mortal victory,” Aisling continued. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to battle the knight at all. After all, they were on the same side—all forge-born and made of the same magic the Other sipped from.

“The ink is already bleeding,” the knight said. “With every wound they inflict on the gateway, the veil thins, and the mortals bring disease, destruction, war, and famine to the spirit world, infecting eternity and the making of the universe. This is the end.”

Silence spread between them. Aisling swallowed, the knight’s words bouncing off the walls of Flasing’s cradle.

“Inflict pain on the gateway?” Aisling asked.

“Leshy.” The knight spoke matter-of-factly. “It flees their hunt, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. But not for long. The fire hand is nearing and fate cannot be stopped.”

Leshy.

The last moon of the storm season.

Aisling shook her head, suddenly understanding. Leshy was a gateway to the Other. A needle her father would violently thread if he could. Would destroy, root by root, if it meant obtaining everything he’d ever desired: triumph, power, Aisling…This is what they’d been ravaging the mortal plane searching for. What they’d been hunting. Leshy, their prey. Sidhe kingdoms conquered again and again as he neared his ends.

“Fate cannot be stopped,” Aisling agreed. “But it can change course.”

“Your arrogance will be your undoing,” the knight replied.

“Better my undoing than the world’s,” Aisling said. She spoke it without thinking, catching Lir’s attention as well. She wanted power between her teeth, yes, but perhaps she was starting to believe there was more.

“The choice is yours,” the knight said. He moved like moonlight reflecting off the shallow waves of a lake, readying himself to fight whoever wished to approach. Anduril lit excitedly, thirsty for Sarwen to drink their foe’s blood. He crouched, his blade poised in both hands.

Aisling exchanged glances with Lir. The fae king said nothing with his tongue but more with his eyes—bright green and flickering with fear. Not for himself. But for her.

You are his tool and nothing more. A weapon, a solution, but never could he care for your heart , Anduril reminded Aisling. Still, his expression weakened her knees and made Sarwen suddenly heavy in her palms.

At last, Lir nodded, a muscle flashing across his jaw.

Aisling swallowed, steeling herself.

“I choose to pass,” Aisling said and raised Sarwen before her.

Blade against blade, the first clash rang through Flasing’s corridors. Sarwen glinted as its metal rubbed against the knight’s. Both fell apart, Aisling’s chest rising and falling with new adrenaline, Anduril shining as if dipped in the molten brew of the Forge itself.

“I am bound to this gateway by both Breka and Arawn,” the knight said. “I will not show mercy.” The knight sped forward, a blur of moonlight as he cut the distance with wicked speed. He jabbed at Aisling with his greatsword, light spidering from the tip of his blade when he moved.

“Neither shall I,” Aisling said, lifting Sarwen and blocking the assault narrowly. The blow shoved Aisling to the side regardless, almost knocking her off her feet.

Anduril burned, its magic pulsing through Aisling’s veins and spinning Sarwen between her fingers. She moved toward the knight, forcing her opponent to block the flurry as she approached.

The knight lifted his blade and shoved forward with his shoulder, pushing Aisling. The sorceress braced herself. She skidded backward, dropping a hand to the stone pathway to balance herself.

“He out-strengthens you, Aisling,” Lir said, his expression tight and his muscles corded. He watched the duel from the edge of the pathway, helpless to save his faerie from the fate she’d chosen. “But strength isn’t necessary to win.”

Aisling had always known she’d lacked strength—the mettle of a warrior was not in her blood. That was why she wore Anduril. Why she’d accepted Fionn’s gift and worn it like armor, like a disguise that allowed her to pretend for a short while she was the fierce fighter her clann, the Sidhe, herself didn’t believe she was.

Aisling lifted Sarwen, Anduril her strength as she threw the blade, and watched it dart toward the knight. It pierced the guardian in the shoulder, tasting his otherworldly blood for the first time.

The knight scarcely flinched, unaffected by the pain of his newfound wound. A ghoul with no heart and no true flesh to experience suffering—physical or otherwise.

Slowly, the knight pulled Sarwen from his shoulder and cast it to the side. Aisling watched with horror as her blade clattered to the ground, far from her reach.

“Your draiocht , Aisling,” Lir said, his voice rough and thick.

Aisling nodded her head absently, closing her eyes to call upon Racat.

The dragún woke easily, sliding up her throat and burning inside her teeth. Aisling concentrated on the swelling magic, soaking up its energy like waves building and curling before they were allowed to break. Aisling balled such might in her mind, blooming the spheres of fire in her palms. She threw the violet fire, speeding toward the knight like purple comets with tails on fire.

The knight lifted his greatsword, blocking each throw with ease. Her fires ricocheted off and fizzled into the midnight air leaving nothing but wisps of smoke in their wake.

“Gods,” Lir cursed beneath his breath, watching with red-rimmed eyes.

Aisling summoned more magic, allowing the fire to consume Flasing’s cradle. The heat built and the flames grew, crackling and popping until both she and the knight were surrounded.

“Your magic is powerful,” the knight said. “But it is not enough.”

Aisling flinched. His words stabbed her where his blade had yet to harm her. She felt the sudden urge to fall to her knees. To give in and surrender to the weakness she’d been born to carry. But Anduril, Racat, and the ambition Ina had planted in her bones, compelled her otherwise.

Aisling released her draiocht , bottled and bubbling still since Lir had kissed her a few hours prior. Ripples of fire bled from her pores, oozing down her gown and racing toward the knight.

The knight carved a circle around his feet with his blade, shielding himself from her magic.

Aisling growled in frustration, eyes flicking to Sarwen still tossed to the side.

The sorceress raced for her blade.

Now it was the knight’s turn to throw his greatsword. He tossed it expertly, finding Aisling’s hand and staking it through as she reached for Sarwen.

Aisling screamed, the agony unbearable. It struck her like lightning, sharp and webbing up her arm and into her shoulder. Blood sprayed warm and sticky atop Flasing’s cradle as she pulled the knight’s greatsword from the wound with a quivering arm.

“ Ellwyn ,” Lir shouted, his fangs bared. He paced the edge of the pathway, nostrils flared with the smell of her blood.

Ellwyn .

The fae king’s voice moved through Aisling and her draiocht like an enchantment. An alchemy of souls the Forge toyed with at the beginning of time, come to wake again when she looked at him, touched him, felt him. Anduril’s screaming and thrashing locked in her jaw like a beast with prey between its teeth.

Aisling rose to her feet, the knight’s greatsword yanked from her grasp by his magic. The blade shot back into his grip, immediately spun and twisted artfully between his fingers. The knight approached steadily and confidently, seemingly unfazed by the duel thus far whilst Aisling wobbled on shaking knees.

Anduril grew angry, its temper slaked only once Aisling collected Sarwen from the ground and poised it before her once more.

“Even with Anduril, I am no match for it,” Aisling said, speaking her thoughts aloud. Her eyes pricked with heat and, against her own volition, she looked to the fae king. She wasn’t certain why her body was magnetically pulled to his—why her mind struggled to rid him from her thoughts. But, in this moment, she hardly cared.

“Are those your words or Anduril’s?” Lir challenged.

Aisling thought for a moment. Was there a difference? Was it all Aisling or was it all Anduril? The sorceress shut her eyes, temples aching with the whiplash of her thoughts.

“Do you feel your magic thrashing inside?” Lir asked. “Do you feel it pushing at your lungs, begging to be breathed and blown like wildfire?”

Aisling held her breath, counting the knight’s steps as he grew closer.

“Do you feel your own strength begging to be released and not another’s?” Lir asked, his voice coming more quickly as the knight approached.

“Do you wish me to believe I could be capable?” Aisling asked, her words weak and laced with defeat despite Anduril’s and Racat’s energy—their fury and eagerness to be indulged.

“No,” Lir said. “I wish to show you, you already are.”

“We are all beasts, slaves to desire. Mortals, Aos Sí, and all else driven by that which will sate our appetite. You must overpower that which sought to overpower you. Become the predator and not the prey,” Lir spoke like a prophecy.

“You wish to corrupt me,” Aisling said.

“No. I wish to show you, you already are.”

The memory hit Aisling more painfully than the knight’s blade through her hand. It slammed into her consciousness like an unwelcomed guest, pulling the door off its hinges and squeezing inside. Anduril resisted its image, but it was futile. The memory bloomed and stayed, planted in her mind anew.

Aisling found Lir’s gaze and held it. She wasn’t certain how long they stood watching one another, a silent conversation passing between them as the knight took his final steps and prepared to cleave Aisling’s head from her body.

“ Ellwyn ,” Lir said.

Aisling turned to face the knight, lifted Sarwen before her and summoned her draiocht .

A tendril of flame wrapped around Sarwen like a serpent, biting at the tip with a dragún ’s mouth.

Aisling pulled back her arms and struck forward just as the knight bolted forth.

Sarwen sank into the knight’s heart before the creature could deflect, staked through to the other side with Aisling’s enchanted sword.

The knight groaned, touching where Sarwen entered his body with a fleshy, spongy crunch.

“Well done, faerie,” the knight conceded bent over and falling to his knees before her. “You may pass.”

The knight collapsed onto the ground, heaving one last rattled breath.

Aisling watched, expressionless, as the clouds above shielded the moon’s eyes. Darkness fell over Flasing’s cradle, and once the light had left, so, too, did the knight disappear. Nothing but Sarwen, lit with flames, before Breka’s mirror remained.

* * *

LIR

Before the Sidhe king could think straight, his boots were already flying forward and racing for her. He ripped his tunic’s hem, immediately wrapping her hand with the fabric and watching with horror as it continued to soak through the linen.

“It will heal with time,” Aisling managed, but Lir didn’t care. He wanted it healed now.

“Let’s keep moving,” she said.

Lir tensed, but he nodded in reply. She’d defeated Eogi’s gatekeeper and now, they were so close. Close to Eogi and the Goblet needed to fix everything. They couldn’t turn back now.

Lir scooped Aisling into his arms. She protested at first, her belt pinching him whenever it touched his clothes or flesh. Eventually, however, she relaxed, her head falling against his chest as he walked forward and toward Breka’s mirror.

The waterfall parted like curtains woven from crystal silks. They passed through, following the schools of fish still swimming further into the mountain and its cave.

Inside, the air grew even colder than before. Aisling’s teeth chattered, so Lir pulled her closer, holding her as tightly as he could whilst still ensuring she was comfortable. The longer they traveled, the darker the cave grew. Nothing but the shining, reflective scales of the surrounding fish to light the path.

Deeper they journeyed, sinking to the pit of a cold cauldron’s belly. From here, Lir could hear running river water coursing through the mountains, but most of all, he could smell Eogi’s draiocht : alive, bubbling, and sparkling like champagne, eager to be felt beneath the flesh.

“What happens once we obtain the Goblet?” Aisling asked, her voice nearly a whisper. “What then?”

Lir thought for a moment.

“We wait for the first storm moon—its necessary requirement—and then protect the gateway,” Lir said. “If Leshy is the doorway they’ve chosen, we prevent them from taking it. The Goblet will allow us to shield it from mortal aggression. If we make it in time.”

“And if we don’t?” Aisling asked.

Lir inhaled. “Then we destroy the gate ourselves.” It was a difficult truth to swallow. With the future of the Sidhe race and the Forge at stake, Lir was willing to do whatever it took to prevent a mortal victory.

“And if we cannot destroy it in time?” Aisling continued.

“Then we destroy the mortals altogether,” Lir said.

Aisling considered for a moment.

“Every last one?” she asked.

“Every last one,” Lir agreed. They exchanged glances, communicating without speaking another word.

At last, the pathway reached an end at the pit of Flasing’s cradle. The cave’s corridor widened into a large room where the schools of fish swam in circles, tracing the walls and ceiling. And at the center was an abyss: a chasm that tunneled further into the earth, filled to the brim with smoke as black as wild cherries.

Moisture dripped from the ceiling, echoing through the corridors of the cave with a haunting rhythm.

Gently, Lir set Aisling on her feet. She wobbled at first, quickly finding her balance and steadying herself. Immediately, he missed the feeling of her body against his own. Felt the absence of her like a piece of him removed.

She stepped forward, peering down and into the abyss below.

“Name thyself,” a voice boomed from the dark.

The hair across Aisling’s body stood on end. A scream bloomed in her throat, but she kept it locked behind her clenched teeth.

They couldn’t see the beast in detail. Still cloaked by darkness, all that was visible was its gaping mouth as it opened wide—the smoke churning in a circle inside its open maw. Only its shape and form rolled below them in the great chasm the rocks and the darkness protected.

The hinges of its jaw screeched from lack of use, and inside sat the pool of smoke stirring endlessly and black as the nothing that came before the birth of everything.

“Name thyself,” a voice asked again.

Lir’s draiocht responded immediately, thrashing inside like a hound leashed by a brittle chain. He sensed Aisling’s draiocht as well, rising from her throat and into the magic-dense air.

Aisling shuddered, but she stood tall and straightened her back as she replied.

“Aisling,” she said. “And you are Eogi, keeper of beginnings.”

Eogi laughed.

“It has been some time since I’ve heard my name spoken aloud,” the keeper said. “None have ever passed my gate.” Eogi laughed again, choking on the pool swirling in his throat. A deep voice, as though the rocks themselves forced breath after breath through their age-old lungs.

“Eogi,” Aisling said again, this time softer, the silk of her voice given new life. “Request it and I’ll speak it in multiples.”

Eogi chuckled once more, the whole of Flasing’s cradle trembling with the keeper’s vibration.

“You please me,” he said.

“I am a friend,” Aisling assured him.

“You’d have me believe it,” the keeper said. “Yet, the nature of your arrival is prompted by the death of my knight and guardian. Your hands are bloodied, and you smell of something unfamiliar.” Eogi inhaled deeply, blowing and pulling Aisling’s hair in the direction of the abyss. “You are strange, Aisling.”

The sorceress stood still, watching the keeper think. Lir watched her. He admired her courage for not a moment passed when he forgot the mortal princess she once was. Pride swelling in his chest as he watched her face the guardian knight and now the keeper of beginnings. A desperate need to protect her, overcoming him as he stood a few paces behind.

“You haven’t only come to speak my name,” Eogi said. “So, why have you come?”

The black waters churned, frothing with pearl tipped waves. Aisling stepped closer to the edge, eyes widening as she stared into the vast chasm of Eogi. Aisling sank to her knees and placed both her hands on the edge of the abyss and leaned further forward. Lir’s stomach flipped; the sorceress was too close to the edge for his liking.

“We seek the Goblet of Lore,” Aisling said.

Eogi erupted into chuckles, shaking the cave once more. He licked his lips, his open mouth spewing more black smoke than before.

“A chalice of creation, of the Forge, and of the gods; the only artifact in this realm or the next capable of creating from the pits of nothing,” Eogi said.

“Aye,” Aisling agreed. “The one and the same.”

Eogi groaned as he thought, whispering to himself in conversation.

“After a millennium, I, too, wish for new beginnings,” Eogi said. “And so, the Goblet is yours if you can answer me this one riddle.”

Aisling nodded her head, violet eyes flashing a brighter shade of purple.

Eogi cleared his throat, humming softly to himself before speaking.

“What stretches before you, large and mighty, but can only be seen by a few?” the keeper asked.

Lir tasted the silence, rehearsing the words in his mind. The answer came to him swiftly as he’d contemplated its name time and time again in the recesses of his thoughts.

Aisling narrowed her eyes, watching as Eogi waited. Lir could hear her heart pounding, the rush of blood through her veins, and the stirring of her draiocht . He heard it as his fingertips would feel her bare skin beneath his touch.

Aisling unfurled from her kneeling position and stood tall before Eogi’s chasm.

“The future,” she said, her voice clear and unclouded.

Eogi erupted with laughter. Flasing’s cradle shook madly and the fish dissolved into chaos. They swam in every direction, a storm of light and scales swirling around them in angry spirals.

The dark grew darker and the echoes deep. The draiocht thickening like a primordial soup heated to a boiling point.

“Correct,” Eogi said.

But the keeper of beginnings did not hand over the Goblet. Instead, he widened his mouth, his fangs lengthening and dripping with venom.

“I’m glad you visited me, Aisling,” Eogi said, flinging his behemoth body from the chasm in a great shadow of teeth and devouring both Aisling and Lir whole.