Page 3

CHAPTER II

AISLING

“Stop, Aisling!” Gilrel wailed, landing lithely beside Aisling. Burning tears slipped from Aisling’s eyes as she met Gilrel’s horrified expression.

“I can’t.” Aisling closed her eyes, and she cried more embers that floated up and into the fire that engulfed them. Galad, Lir, Peitho, and Filverel were among the hundreds that battled both Aisling’s fire and the mortals for their lives.

“You can,” a voice said, but it wasn’t Gilrel’s. It was a male’s, as soft and lilting as snow falling. “Just say the word.”

Aisling and Gilrel both whipped their heads in the voice’s direction.

Fionn.

He appeared without forewarning. He stood silver and sparkling. Boots jagged with ice and the angry, angled perfection of frost. A snapping wolf at his side.

Aisling sprung to her feet awkwardly, staggering backward and away from the son of Winter: Lir’s brother and he who’d both imprisoned Aisling and dulled her draiocht . Attempted to unbind her and Lir so that Fionn and Aisling might come into union and rule over both Seelie and Unseelie in Lir’s stead.

“Another step forward and I’ll have your head, sovereign or not,” Gilrel said, pointing her blade at Fionn. Frigg, his silver wolf, snapped his jaws at the pine marten. Gilrel gripped her hilt more tightly, glaring down at the hound with her beady eyes.

“Be my guest,” Fionn said, cool as the permafrost. “And together, we’ll burn in Aisling’s draiocht .”

Gilrel hesitated, the devastation around them proof enough of Fionn’s words.

“What do you want, Fionn?” Aisling growled through the draiocht seeping from her pores. The vibration of her magic unbearable.

“To help you.”

“To what end?”

“To no end,” Fionn said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “If the Seelie and Unseelie burn because of yours and Lir’s recklessness, then you burn what is rightfully mine. Including yourself.”

“Watch your tongue!” Gilrel hissed, leaping into the air.

Fionn ignored Gilrel. “You’re running out of time, mo Lúra . What will it be? My help or the mortals’ victory over Annwyn on the evening of your precious Imbolc ?”

Aisling glanced over her shoulder at Lir, at Galad, at Peitho, and Filverel. They were losing. The mortals’ ambush alone was enough to jeopardize their lives, but coupled with Aisling and Lir’s blazing, uncontrollable flames…they were struggling.

Do not trust him . Racat chuckled as he continued his havoc. Speak no more with the son of Winter lest those words be your last .

Aisling swallowed, the trust between her and Fionn, thinner and more elusive than the wispy spirits haunting the corridors of Castle Annwyn.

“Very well.” She nodded, her voice unrecognizable and laced with Racat’s growl.

Fionn smiled, handsome and wide, and snapped his fingers.

Without hesitation, his wolf, Frigg, bounded into the mayhem, a trail of ice dragging through Huriel’s cradle from the tip of the hound’s tail. Like crystals and quartz and spiderwebs beaded with rain, winter spread through the glen, freezing over the piles of dead and those on the precipice of being rocked to eternal sleep in the warm hull of the Other’s death galleon.

Those mortals still standing gaped in terror at the unadulterated magic dueling Aisling’s own. Two opposing forces battling for supremacy between fire and ice. And so the humans fled, picking up their heavy iron boots and slipping into the surrounding trees as the ghouls, the fauns, the Cú Scáth chased them, still eager for a taste of their mortal flesh.

Everything became ice. The antithesis of spring and Imbolc . Of Lir. It was beautiful in its nature, albeit painful.

No, stop this. Please. Please , Racat begged. The dragún ’s guttural voice gasping for breath as Fionn and Frigg, together, stamped out the flames. Fionn’s careful, ancient practice of the draiocht was enough to counter Aisling’s reckless, youthful efforts. Lir’s power dwindling as he defeated hordes of mortals, all the while bleeding out and surrounded by his vulnerability: flame.

So the son of Winter draped Imbolc in silence as the crackling and raging of flames, the beating of blades upon shields, the agony-filled hollering, the plucking of bowstrings, and the final slushy cuts of death chilled to a stop. Until those left standing huffed translucent clouds of frost, themselves silhouettes of sloppy, violent red in a landscape of twinkling ivory.

Castle Annwyn’s gates flew apart.

Lir tore through the courtyard like a comet on Flaithri. Aisling lay in his arms, both lit aflame like violet wicks atop a bleeding stag. Many of his knights followed shortly behind him, sinking themselves into the weepy panic of the courtyard. Every castle hare, toad, bird, and forge-born rushed about in a frenzy, shouting, crying, and escorting the injured and wounded to the infirmary. They cut knights from their twisted stirrups, their armor, and their boots. They carried buckets of water and baskets of gauze. But nothing could mask the distant screams, the smoke-stained sky, or the grief of the forest.

Peitho and Filverel rushed to Flaithri’s side. Immediately, they reached for Aisling, wet with both hers and Lir’s blood.

Lir cursed, pulling Aisling closer to his chest.

“Don’t touch her,” he growled, his eyes flooded by the black of his pupils. His expression was inhuman and touched by fury. Fangs glistering despite the blood, mud, and soot smeared across his face.

“She needs to be sent to the infirmary,” Peitho argued, standing despite a gruesome wound bubbling at her shoulder.

“As do you,” Filverel added, looking the Sidhe king up and down.

“Bar the gates, line the northern gorge with swordsmen and the western canopies with archers.” Lir ignored them both, barking orders at every and any knight well enough to heed his commands.

“Lir.” Galad approached, eager for his lord’s attention—an iron reed still lodged and sizzling in his bicep.

Lir turned Flaithri away who was dancing in place on blackened hooves.

“Sift through everything that lies beneath Huriel’s shadow,” Lir continued. “Collect the injured and bury the dead. Bring every resident outside of Castle Annwyn’s gates inside. Room, and feed them. Lock the gates and let none enter or leave until daybreak.”

“Lir.” Filverel tried again for the Sidhe king’s attention, but once more it was futile.

“Gather the owls.” Lir started toward Castle Annwyn’s main threshold as he spoke, his knights tripping behind him and Aisling. “They’ll be sent to the other sovereigns immediately.”

“Lir, Aisling needs proper care.” Peitho’s voice broke through the chaos.

“She needs a healer’s attention,” Galad agreed.

“I’ll heal her myself,” Lir bit, pressing Aisling to his chest.

“You’re injured yourself, sire,” Filverel said, moving to help Aisling off Flaithri once more.

Without hesitation, Lir reacted, his anger and draiocht flaring. Yet, his magic manifested differently. Together, he and Aisling lit with dazzling fire. Flame that threw Flaithri back in a panic and sent the surrounding forge-born scurrying for the edges of the courtyard. Even the Sidhe took several steps back, their king swathed in flames they believed, not long ago, belonged only to the mortals. He and his witch queen, tangled by fury, by magic, and by power.

All the courtyard turned to witness the spectacle. Their eyes bulged red and wet, lips parting with terror.

“ Easca , Lir,” Filverel scolded, holding his arms before his face to shield his eyes from their violet light.

“I will not relent,” Lir said. “None shall touch her save for I.” His voice echoed as if all the forest spoke from his lips simultaneously.

“Look at yourself,” Filverel pushed. “Look at the ruin you both reap! If you do not relent, you will destroy all that you’ve sought to protect.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air.

Lir swallowed hard. Aisling sat quiet in his embrace, but her eyes glowed with the strength of his magic pulsing through her as well.

“Look what they’ve done,” Lir said, his voice thundering through the courtyard. “They’ve come with scull draiocht between their teeth. They’ve ripped my forests with their iron. I will not hesitate to react.”

Filverel swallowed.

“And so, you’ve seen their newfound strength,” Filverel said. “You’ve now witnessed what they’re capable of as well as the influence of yours and Aisling’s magic combined. Neither will ensure the survival of the Sidhe. They will condemn it.”

Lir’s expression hardened and their flames grew larger, but he did not speak a word. He clenched his jaw tightly.

“What do you suggest?” Lir asked, his voice void of warmth. Enough to make Aisling shudder with fear herself.

Filverel shook his head, wiping blood and sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. They all exchanged glances, but not a word was uttered. Not an answer given. Only the ghost of war howled and Annwyn cried.

* * *

“Bring him in,” Aisling commanded, her ivory, satin sleeves dragging across the marble floor as she raised her arm in gesture. Wincing, Aisling had forgotten her still-tender arrow wound. For although she healed more quickly now, with Sidhe blood racing in her veins, Gilrel had insisted she gulp down pints of Leshy’s tears to quicken her recovery. Especially after having expended so much draiocht at Imbolc .

“He isn’t welcome here regardless of his aid at Imbolc ,” Filverel cautioned from the bottom step of the dais in the throne room.

“Filverel is right,” Rian said, one of Lir’s closest and most trusted Sidhe knights standing before both Aisling and Lir in the throne room. “Any favor Fionn grants is always followed by a debt.”

“Then it’s a debt we must pay,” Aisling said, half surprising herself. For Aisling wasn’t ignorant to the truth of Imbolc ’s tragedy; perhaps the Sidhe would’ve survived and slayed the mortals despite their ambush had she not intervened with such irresponsible magic—magic magnified by their consummation. Draiocht that she didn’t know how to wield just yet. And had it not been for Fionn, one of hers and Lir’s most despised adversaries, perhaps they’d all be nothing more than ash beneath Huriel.

Lir’s jaw tightened, but he said not a word. In his great, antlered throne, Lir was larger than life. Terrifying and beautiful, king of the greenwood. And today, the morning after Imbolc , Aisling felt the same black guilt making sticky his every breath as it did her own.

“Both Fionn and Frigg have agreed to allow Lir to shackle their magic whilst inside Castle Annwyn,” Tyr said, another one of Lir’s knights. “Without their draiocht , there is no danger in hearing what Fionn has to say.”

“Words are no blunt blade.” Galad set down his pint and crossed his arms. “At times, they are more cutting, more insidious, more dangerous than any sword, leaving behind wounds even Leshy’s tears cannot heal.”

Lir’s closest knights—Yevhen, Aedh, Tyr, Hagre, Einri, Rian, Cathan, and Galad—sat along the length of a thin, live edge table, their expressions carrying the weight of Imbolc ’s tragedy. Peitho and Gilrel were in attendance too, braiding glowing flower bulbs around the branches of the surrounding trees that framed the interior of the throne room. Every bulb commemorated a forge-born death, either Seelie or Unseelie, and shone white: the Sidhe color for death and mourning.

“Fionn will stop at nothing to dethrone Lir,” Peitho piped. “Any ‘favors’ or acts of compliance should be seen as nothing more than a mask for his trickery and deception.”

“Are we so afraid of the son of Winter that we deign not to let him speak?” Hagre asked.

“In times like these,” Filverel said, “after we were taken off guard by a mortal advance and nearly bested, it’s best to practice the utmost caution. Our enemies are multiplying: Danu and the Lady have been silent, meaning the moment they decide to launch an assault of their own, we must be prepared. Not drunk on mortal blood and wine as we so carelessly chose to celebrate Imbolc during wartime. Nemed and the mortals at large will see this ‘almost victory’ as a beacon of hope for further destruction. We’ve gifted them confidence at the cost of our arrogance. And what’s more, they’ve come with new power.”

“Yet, we cannot subject Annwyn to constant paranoia,” Galad said. “We cannot forget to live the lives we fight for, to act boldly in the name of the Forge, and not behave simply out of fear.”

“Out of caution ,” Filverel corrected.

Aedh shook his head. “Caution is the bane of the brave. We are Sidhe—warriors of the Forge and the gods.”

“You speak with the same arrogance Filverel warns against,” Rian said.

Hagre scoffed, stabbing the table with his knife. “And you speak not as a knight but as a coward.”

“Enough,” Lir said, his voice commanding silence. “Caution. Bravery. Our approach will vary in result, but most important is our harmony as we lead together. Don’t let them divide us.”

The room exchanged glances, the quiet buzzing in each of their pointed ears.

“Let my brother speak,” Lir commanded, and the room thickened with alarm.

Aisling turned to Lir, surprised herself by the fae king’s words despite knowing the depths of Lir’s hatred for Fionn. She herself wished her elder brothers would meet some semblance of justice as well. Even if said justice was a bloody one, dealt by Aisling’s hands. Her clann, her túath, had taken her life, given it away, and attempted to reclaim it once more for their own mortal ends. Now, it was Aisling’s turn to reap all that’d been stolen from her.

Lir and Fionn, on the other hand, bore a different dynamic. One where Fionn, the eldest child of Bres and Ina, felt Lir had taken all that was rightfully his: Annwyn, Racat, and now Aisling.

Two armored forge-born bears nodded their heavy heads in response to their sovereign before exiting the throne room, off to retrieve the Sidhe king of Winter and his bestial hound, Frigg, from Annwyn’s dungeons, deep below the mountain.

The rest of the chamber, including Lir’s knights, Peitho, and Gilrel, continued to stew in silence.

“More wine,” Lir said, tipping back yet another chalice. Aisling had barely touched her own considering this vat of fae wine was more potent than most, the berries having been harvested by brownies in the depths of Annwyn’s eldest brambles.

“Is that wise, mo Damh Bán ?” Filverel asked, arching a brow.

Lir ignored him, raising his glass to be filled once more.

A rabbit scurried over with a pitcher, eagerly pouring more of the sticky syrup into Lir’s goblet while they awaited Fionn and Frigg’s entrance. But they waited not long, for the great doors at the end of the throne room creaked open and the son of Winter entered.

Immediately, a chill possessed everyone present. The crackling of ice spidering from Fionn’s boots with each step made the hairs on the nape of Aisling’s neck stand straight. For despite Lir’s magic-dulling spells, the cold was Fionn’s nature, and one couldn’t strip breath from body quite so simply.

Frigg followed shortly behind him, the fur of his haunches spiked with malice as he struggled against the thorny muzzle.

“Is this the thanks Annwyn bestows upon its heroes?” Fionn spoke first, his wrists bound in the same knot of thorns as Frigg’s muzzle.

The corners of Lir’s lips curled slightly, his eyes flashing a brighter shade of green. “Most self-proclaimed heroes journey to Annwyn on their iron-hoofed steeds to die. And you, Fionn, will be no exception.”

“Always so barbaric, brother. You’re in no position to be turning away offers of peace and good faith truces.”

Lir laughed, leaning back slightly and setting a murder of silver-eyed ravens loose in Aisling’s belly. The surrounding trees swayed with similar excitement. Lir rarely laughed, but when he did, the world felt it: either overgrown and wild with joy, lush, velvety, and dark with amusement, or a ghostly growl laced with bloodlust. Right now, it was all amusement, enjoying the invisible noose he was tightening around Fionn’s throat with every passing breath.

“Go on. Humor me with your eleventh-hour attempts at self-preservation.”

Fionn tipped his head back. “Very well, I’ll start with a more lighthearted approach then: a spar.” Fionn’s eyes darted toward Aisling. Lir followed his line of sight, a muscle flickering across his jaw the moment his eyes also arrived at Aisling, heart pounding in her chest. Resisting the frigid claws Fionn dug into her draiocht even from where he stood. “Would the queen of Annwyn accept a simple duel?”

The attention of the room darted toward Aisling and lingered.

Filverel rolled his eyes. “This is nonsense. Let Aisling burn his tongue for wasting mo Damh Bán’s time.”

Lir set his glass down, but before he could grant Filverel’s request, Aisling spoke first.

“You mean to challenge me to a fight?” she asked, her curiosity taking hold. She steeled herself against the otherworldly freeze he wove, refusing to wilt beneath the weight of his ancient, arcane magic that tasted of wintertide spells.

“Indeed,” he said. “Yet, I’ll need full use of my hands to stand a chance,” Fionn said, gesturing toward his bound wrists. Frigg lifted his muzzle, demonstrating he, too, wished to be freed from his thorny shackles.

“Are you mad?!” Aedh piped, standing from his seat with an abrupt screech of wood sliding against marble. Cathan and Tyr stood too, their tattooed hands wandering toward the hafts of their weapons.

Lir only smiled. He glanced at Aisling: an invitation for her to decide whether Lir should unbind Fionn and allow him full range of his magic. A risk, one that could cost them greatly. Aisling wasn’t ignorant to Fionn’s mischief, his games, or his tricks. However, one glance around the room and it was obvious. Fionn was outnumbered and outmanned despite his icy gifts.

Nevertheless, the image of Fionn’s smile just before he extinguished her fires at Imbolc was a promise in Aisling’s eyes. A gesture of goodwill from the moment his presence in Annwyn was made known. And now a debt Aisling was bound to repay. Not to mention, Aisling hated the thought of refusing a duel, especially if the challenge came from the son of Winter’s lips.

“As you wish,” Aisling said.

Many of the knights and Gilrel audibly growled, looking to Lir and even Filverel for a rebuttal. For someone—anyone to stop what was unraveling.

Yet, Lir leaned fully back in his throne and did as Aisling commanded.

The dark lord of the greenwood need not move to weave magic. Lir was powerful beyond measure and with Aisling beside him, his draiocht was boundless. It was rather the smell of the forest after a heavy rain, the humidity, the pressure of his draiocht popping their ears that presaged the shriveling of the thorny shackles around Fionn’s wrists and Frigg’s muzzle. The sinew of each vine collapsed to the floor and eventually vanished.

Freed, Fionn nodded his head, bowing to Aisling in gratitude. His silver hair, sparkling as the braided strands fell over his shoulders. Fionn was somehow more beautiful and more resplendent with his draiocht returned.

Lir, however, dug his fangs into his bottom lip, poison gorse tangling itself around the stem of his goblet.

“Let us begin,” Aisling said. She stood from her throne, the satin of her gown spilling down the dais as she moved. Slowly, she descended, until she stood across from the son of Winter at the center of the hall.

The room held its breath, the knights dropped their forks and spoons, newly freed hands settling on the hafts of their weapons. Peitho and Gilrel stiffened themselves, dedicating their full attention to both Fionn and Aisling.

Fionn inhaled and snowflakes flurried in the wind of his breath.

“Have you dueled a Sidhe before?” Fionn asked.

“No,” Aisling admitted.

“Well then.” Fionn smiled. “First, you bow to your opponent. Once you do, you’ve accepted the duel and cannot forgo the challenge.” Elegantly, Fionn bent at the hips, lowering his head as all subjects of Annwyn and elsewhere were required to do in Aisling’s presence. The draiocht popped and crackled in the air, waiting for Aisling’s response to seal the duel.

Aisling mirrored the movement, never once releasing Fionn from her sight.

“And now?” Aisling asked.

“Now, we gather our weapons,” Fionn said.

A jolt of excitement shot up Aisling’s spine. She tasted the plum-sweet flavor of her magic on her tongue and the burning potential it fanned inside her, coaxed hotter by Lir’s proximity. And, without vocation, her draiocht flared like twin comets on both of her fists.

“Ah ah ah,” Fionn said, smiling like a fox. “This is a sword duel. Weapon to weapon. Blade to blade. No draiocht .”

Lir audibly shifted behind Aisling.

“You overestimate our patience for your foolery, son of Winter,” Galad spoke immediately.

“The queen of Annwyn has already bowed,” Fionn said.

“Because of your deceit,” Gilrel piped.

“It’s alright,” Aisling said, her voice a contrast to the slick tip of Gilrel’s and Galad’s angry tongues. “Let me duel him by blade.”

Aisling dared not glance over her shoulder at Lir, but she felt his anger. Saw his fury climbing up the edges of the hall in thick, sticky thorns and dense weeds.

Gilrel and Peitho exchanged glances, speaking without saying a word. At last, Gilrel grumbled a string of curses beneath her breath and accepted Sarwen from Peitho’s keeping: Aisling’s blade.

Aisling kneeled to accept the blade from her handmaid. Fionn watched her closely as she familiarized herself with its weight and balance. Aisling wasn’t entirely sure how to ready herself for a duel of swords, but she’d seen enough to know a knight always tested their blade before the first strike.

Sarwen hummed softly between her fingers, equally measuring Aisling.

“You’re in luck,” Fionn said. “Your Faerak friend stole my beloved blade and so, I’ll need a replacement.” Without hesitation, Frigg leaped onto the dining tables and wrapped his fangs around Tyr’s blade resting beside his plate.

“You filthy—” Tyr growled, almost staking Frigg’s tail to the table with his dinner knife. The wolf carried the double-edged longsword to his master, proudly placing it in Fionn’s palms.

“Now we may begin,” Fionn said, spinning Tyr’s sword as if he’d known it all his life. The Sidhe knight stood from his seat at the table, crossing his arms as he pleaded silently with the fae king to intervene. Aisling, however, prayed her caera would not. If she was to prove herself as rightful queen of Annwyn, Lir couldn’t undermine her strength nor her courage.

“First to render the other prone wins,” Fionn explained.

Aisling swallowed.

“Begin,” she commanded the son of Winter.

The corner of Fionn’s lips curled as he shot forth with wicked abandon.

A gasp escaped Aisling just as she stumbled to the side, clumsily avoiding the onslaught. Instinctively, her draiocht rose like a midnight bonfire at the center of Annwyn’s wine-muddled evenings, but she swallowed it down. Racat flailed, whipped back as if yanked by a leash only Aisling held.

From the corner of Aisling’s eye, she saw Lir stand from his throne. His broad shoulders cast a shadow across the floor of the hall, swathing Fionn’s swing as he turned on his heel for another attack.

This time, Aisling wasn’t so quick. She stumbled back.

“Your blade, Aisling!” Gilrel shouted from the side. “Sarwen is as much a shield as a blade!”

Aisling, understanding, lifted Sarwen above her head and braced against the impact of Fionn’s next blow. Fionn swung down and hard, the force of his strike rippling through Aisling’s arms as she gritted her teeth to withstand it.

Lir stepped forward, but Aisling steeled herself, her feet sliding back across the floor as Fionn continued to push. Aisling wrenched her eyes shut, gathering the mettle to withdraw her blade and release herself from Fionn’s hold. She sucked in a breath and pulled Sarwen back, stepping to the left in the same movement. Fionn flew forward, rolling onto the ground before he found his feet. But it was not enough.

Fionn threw Tyr’s blade and the sword spun.

Aisling’s eyes grew wide, but her feet were rooted to the floor. Aisling raised Sarwen once more. This time, the force of Tyr’s blade against her own knocked her off balance and onto her back. Aisling hissed in pain, her fingers searching for her sword in the chaos. Sarwen clattered beside her, vibrating as Aisling’s draiocht bubbled inside, begging to be released.

Fionn defeated the distance between himself and Aisling in no more than a single breath. Before Aisling could fumble for Sarwen beside her, the son of Winter was already atop her, Tyr’s blade collected once more, and its tip poised at the center of her throat.

Aisling had lost.

The duel was complete, and Fionn had easily bested Aisling in no time at all. The great commotion followed by a moment of equal violence: silence.

Before a word could be uttered, black vines coiled around Fionn’s hands and wrists, forcing Tyr’s blade from his grasp.

Aisling looked to Lir, quiet, unpredictable rage storming beneath his stoicism. His anger flaming against her draiocht inexplicably.

“You’ve all seen it for yourselves,” Fionn said, despite his struggle against Lir’s bonds. “Aisling is a knight only by the law of magic, but not by blade.”

“Is that why you’ve come?” Lir asked, his voice frighteningly calm. “This was Aisling’s first duel, and it will be your last. In Aisling’s eternity, she will carve you bone by bone with her blade.”

“Perhaps,” Fionn said, clenching his teeth as Lir’s vines grew slender, needle-sharp thorns. “But not today. You see, brother, I have something you need.”

At this, Lir’s smile broadened, yet his grin was joyless. The hall shuddered as the Sidhe king of the greenwood and his brother locked gazes.

“You have nothing,” Lir said, his voice vibrating darkly through Castle Annwyn.

“There’s rumor the Seelie king and the queen of Annwyn intend to venture into the Other to win the gods’ favor,” Fionn said. “A necessary requirement to reign over both this plane and the next: harness enough power to defeat not only Danu and the Lady, but the mortals as well and turn the tide of destiny. I believe such ambitions can be achieved, should you not first destroy yourselves and, as a result, the world.”

Aisling arched her brow, unfurling from the floor as Gilrel and Peitho both raced to stand on either side of her.

Fionn continued, “Niamh, the Seelie queen of the Isle of Rain, is the fabled keeper of the Goblet; a token of the gods’ favor.”

Legend claimed Niamh lived in the Other; a supernatural plane where the Forge bubbled and the gods slept—both the beginning and the end of everything, the cradle of creation, and the cauldron of magic itself. The Sidhe were ripped from the Other in the beginning of time, forcing them to make a home in the mortal world between the wind, within the waters, through the trees. The responsibility to stay and watch over the mortal plane, heavy on their shoulders even as they yearned to return. Which forced Aisling to wonder why Niamh and the rest of the other Sidhe of the Other, stayed behind. Why they still reigned in the world of magic, of dreams, of visions, of the afterlife.

“The Goblet of Lore.” Filverel repeated the object’s full name. “A chalice said to hold the bubbling brew of the Forge of Creation itself. Whosoever sips from its lip, can build, write, create at the limit of their own imagination but only beneath the light of a storm moon.”

The room swelled with wonder, eyes wide and mouths parting.

“The Goblet could win this war,” Galad said, bringing his fist to his mouth in thought.

“Why doesn’t Niamh use the Goblet herself?” Aisling asked. “She, a queen of the Other, assisted by the Goblet, could change the course of ill omens and prophecies herself. She could save us all.”

Lir inhaled before speaking. “ If she knew its resting place,” the Sidhe king said.

“Few know where the Goblet lies—even its keeper,” Gilrel said, speaking directly to Aisling. “After the gods lent Niamh its power, they hid the Goblet between the folds of the Other—a token not to be found by the unworthy.”

“Find the Goblet and we find Sidhe victory of the mortals, Danu, and the Lady,” Filverel said.

“And should Aisling wield it, alongside the power fomented by hers and Lir’s union—ultimate sovereignty is within our grasp,” Fionn said, his voice strained and almost pleading.

Aisling’s ambition grew hungry inside her gut, her tongue wetting at the words against her own volition.

“But such an opportunity won’t be granted if Niamh believes Aisling and Lir to be the harbingers of ill omens, the inevitable death of the Sidhe, and ill-equipped to unearth the Goblet,” Fionn said.

Aisling considered Fionn where he stood. His silver hair and embroidered robes were more disheveled than she’d seen them before, having spent the evening in Annwyn’s dungeons. Nevertheless, his eyes held Aisling’s stare with the same cool confidence he’d possessed when they’d first met. Held her gaze even as Aisling approached. Yet, a single glimmer of hesitation in the twitch of his jaw was enough to betray his nerves.

“Perhaps it’s whatever human ghost remains inside me, that finds your every gesture so?—”

“Aos Sí?” Fionn finished for her, a reference to how her clann referred to the Sidhe.

Aisling nodded. “Like a tea steeped far too long.”

Fionn smirked, but Aisling saw the way he hung onto her every word. How he listened for its tone, for its mood, wondering if this conversation would be his last.

“Ash,” Lir said, taking another step toward her till his boots reached the edge of the dais.

“You’ve said it countless times before and yet,” Aisling spoke to Fionn, “your silver, Sidhe tongue finds another way to express it; Lir and I, despite being pulled to one another by fate’s fickle threads, are destined to bring ruin. Like we did at Imbolc .”

The corners of Fionn’s lips twitched upward. Hope blooming around the frost in his iris.

“Like you did at Imbolc ,” the son of Winter repeated.

Aisling held out her hand, palm up. In response, Frigg’s expression bore the suggestion of an unsung growl, but he dared not voice it in Lir’s audience.

Aisling’s draiocht fizzled and popped, rising up her spine till it blossomed in lush bouquets of flame, dangling from the oaks Lir had grown centuries prior.

Lir’s knights, Peitho and Gilrel, and everyone in attendance held their breath, glossy eyes reflecting the violet of Aisling’s fire. Spells that Castle Annwyn had never sheltered within its walls. Spells that, by their nature, contradicted all that was forge-brewed or born. Fire and magic together was blasphemy. And they all knew it.

Aisling’s breath hitched.

“Every moment the two of you spend together, is another pace closer to the destruction of our world,” Fionn said, stepping closer to Aisling. “Your union is lawless. There are those elements in either this plane or the next that long to be together?—”

“The sun and the moon, the fox and its star, the moth to the flame…” Aisling trailed off.

“Aye, yet, by the bounds of the natural world, never can their love be. Despite how much either might desire it.”

Aisling, against her own volition, met Lir’s gaze over her shoulder. Immediately, her heart took off, beating against her rib cage as though its rightful home was with the beast, fury and all, behind her, standing before his throne. Still, she sank into the sage of his eyes and wandered deep into their grisly forests.

The magic between them electrified every breath she and Lir shared, every glance, every touch, every thought one had for the other. Lightning webbing between them like the threads of their caera bond, twisting painfully, hauntingly, till Aisling found her obsession with the Seelie king all-consuming.

“And what’s your solution?” Aisling returned her attention to Fionn.

The son of Winter glanced at Lir. Frigg flattened his ears against his head.

“That depends,” Fionn said. “On which path you choose to take: I believe you can fulfill the omens that presage the desolation of the Sidhe or you can spare us. The road is cleaved by your potential and fate is shackled to your decision. So, what will it be?”

“My allegiance is with Lir and the Sidhe,” Aisling said, her voice laced with the echoing ring of prophecies spoken aloud. Aisling resisted the urge to meet Lir’s eyes. She felt him watching her, but she needed to stand on her own, without his strength to guide her. A sentiment he understood despite the muscle that leaped across his jaw as he withheld his violence.

“Then let history remember Oighir and Winter’s support in the sparing of the Seelie race.” Fionn snapped his fingers and a belt sparkled into existence around his hips.

Immediately, Peitho sucked in a sharp breath, her shoulders going rigid beside Aisling with recognition.

The belt was seemingly made of solid gold. Plate by plate, the belt hung on the son of Winter like a chain of shields, braided together by silver threads. It clinked when Fionn moved and flashed brilliantly when graced by the light. But it was the eerie, near-intangible ring of its magic that unsettled Aisling most of all. As if a gong had been struck and the noise was trapped inside the belt, echoing into oblivion. And if Aisling listened to it closely, the ring became a scream—desolate, hopeless, and angry.

“This is Anduril,” Peitho whispered beneath her breath, just loud enough for Aisling to hear. “The Blood Cord of the Dark Sun.”