Sorcha couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. Black sparks obscured her vision as poison coursed through her veins. The snake sunk its fangs deeper into her ankle.

Blood dripped from the twin punctures onto the snow where it sizzled and sank to the earth. Swallowing hard, unable to feel her own tongue, she glanced down and watched seedlings grow from the perfect red circles. The snow melted around their fragile stems.

She blinked and the powdery white returned, its blood-stained imperfection swallowing the seedlings.

The snake squeezed her leg, unlatched its mouth, and wound its way up her body. The smooth scales rasped against her skin as it looped around her neck and opened its mouth wide.

Venom dripped from each fang. She felt the poison land on her cloak, burning through the thick fabric and sticking to her breast. It burned, but she couldn’t lift her hand to brush it away.

Her gaze caught the slitted eyes of the snake. A low hiss vibrated through her skull and the air turned hot. She panted, but could not inhale enough air. Not while the creature swayed, tightening around her throat.

It looked away from her, pointing its flat head towards the forest beyond.

Delirious, she stared at the trees and watched the snow melt. Leaves unfurled and moss grew upon the trunks, so thick and lush that it rivaled any she had seen before.

The trees moved. They did not pull up their roots or bend. They parted like a wave as if the world ripped in half and a new path formed.

Sorcha furrowed her brows, struggling to stand and watch the phenomenon. The snake hissed in her ear and it sounded like words.

“Walk forward,” it said. “Walk towards your destiny.”

But she couldn’t walk. She couldn’t even lift a foot as the venom that tasted like nightshade froze in her veins. She was cold. So cold.

Snapping jaws closed around her jugular, sinking deep into the corded muscle of her neck and pumping more venom into her body. She felt it. Cold like ice and hot like fire all at the same time. It unthreaded from her neck and stretched in splintered pieces throughout her body.

“Go,” the snake hissed again. “The trees know the way.”

A tear slid down her cheek and she stepped forward. Whispers echoed in the trees. Not faeries, for she knew their voices well. The deep grumbles came from within the earth, tangled in the roots of trees. They groaned out legends, myths, and stories about a rose garden that grew between great oaks.

Sorcha listened as she walked through their path. Her vision warped, and she saw people in the shadows. Not faeries, not dryads, but figures wearing leather with their faces painted blue.

The sun set, and the moon rose at the end of the path—a full moon though she was certain it had already passed. Her head tilted to the side, baring her neck to the snake which hissed in her ear. The moon was dripping silver.

Fat droplets fell towards an altar at the end of the path. Sluggishly, they dripped into the basin. The water turned silvery-white, like milk with rainbows dancing upon the oiled surface.

“Drink,” the viper hissed. “Drink and join the others.”

“What others?” Sorcha asked, her words slurred.

The snake didn’t answer. She heard her ragged breath mingling with the steady thrum of her heart. It sounded like the beat of drums.

It was drums, she realized, drums beaten by those standing among the trees. They weren’t there, she thought. They couldn’t be there because she could see through them. They held swords and spears in their hands. The sound came from striking blade against shield.

“Drink the moon?” she slurred. She could already taste the heady flavor. The cold ice water that would wash away the nightshade as she swallowed.

“Drink,” the viper hissed again.

Sorcha stepped forward and dipped her hands into the altar. Underneath the milk white water, her flesh melted away. She flexed her skeletal hands, whimpering because there was no pain. Only a blank space where feeling should be.

She wondered how she was meant to hold the water in these hands. But as she scooped it in her palms, the flesh returned. She lifted the moon to her lips and drank deeply of its essence.

It slid down her throat like a balm. The physical effects of the poison washed away. Closing her eyes, she reveled in the return of sensation.

The viper’s jaw snapped.

Sorcha opened her eyes and stared at the moon. Blood dripped from the top and turned it red.

“A bad omen,” she said.

“Not for us,” the viper hissed. “Never for us.”

“Us?”

The phantoms stepped forward. Their hands trailed down her sides until Sorcha could no longer tell what was a hallucination and what was really happening. She could feel their fingers clutching her flesh.

They lifted the snake from her neck and stripped the clothing from her body. They plucked at her hair, pulling strands from her head. Their fingers were cold.

Shivering violently, she wrapped her arms around her nudity and stared at their painted faces. They warped, changing from man to beast.

To nightmares.

A woman stepped forward, twigs tangled in the long length of her wild hair. She was nude as well, twin circles painted around her breasts and runes carved into her skin.

“Welcome, sister.” She placed a crown of ivy on top of Sorcha’s red head.

“Sister?”

“We’re all sisters,” another voice rasped in her ear. “And now you have finally returned.”

“I’ve never been here before.”

“You have.”

“No,” Sorcha shook her head. “I would remember this place.”

They traced circles on her skin, leaving blue paint in their wake until runes and markings she did not recognize covered her body.

Hands pushed her forward, towards another altar she had not noticed.

“Lie down,” the voice behind her cajoled. “Lie down and join us.”

“I don’t know what is happening.”

“Come home,” they chorused. “Come home and finally be free.”

“Free?” Tears gathered in her eyes, although she could not explain why. “I want to be free.”

They pushed and pulled, stretching Sorcha out on the altar. The red light of the moon bathed her skin, its rays nearly as warm as the sun.

She heard the vines slithering over the stone altar before she saw them. Leaves softly rustled as they tentatively touched her legs and wrapped around her calves. They twisted around her arms and coiled in her hair.

“What is happening?” she moaned. “What are you doing to me?”

“We’re waking you up,” a voice sang. “It’s long past time for you to join your mother.”

“My mother is dead.”

“Your mother is always alive.”

Sorcha’s mind spun as the painted women chanted. They linked hands and rocked back and forth. They spoke in a language she did not understand, but that didn't matter. The moon was shining, its rays red as blood.

She thought the moon had cured her of the viper’s venom but she had been wrong.

The snake’s scales rasped over her hipbone. It traveled up her belly, between her breasts, and arched until it loomed over her and obscured the red moon. It opened its mouth.

The women stopped chanting. All fell silent as a fat drop of venom landed upon Sorcha’s chest.

“It is time,” the women cried out. “Will you join us?”

“Yes,” she found herself saying. “Yes I will join you.”

The snake lunged forward and sank its fangs into her neck.

Sorcha jolted forward. She landed on her knees in the snow, curling her fingers in the cold. She patted her body down, feeling only her woolen cloak and thick layers of skirts.

“What?” she mumbled.

It wasn’t possible. She had been in that forest glen with chanting women and a snake digging its fangs… She felt her neck for puncture wounds.

Two perfect scabs left raised edges on her neck.

“Hello, granddaughter.” The voice came from the edge of the clearing. It sounded like the whisper of tree leaves and strangely familiar.

She glanced up at the man. A leather thong pulled his silver hair back. Furs covered his body, and he held a staff made of silver wood she did not recognize. He stared at her with a gentle expression and recognition in his green eyes.

She knew his eyes.

“You have my mother’s eyes,” she observed.

“That is because she shared mine. Just as you do.”

“Who are you?”

“I am your grandfather.”

“What happened to me?” Sorcha gestured at her neck. “Was that real?”

“In a way. The things that happen in our minds always have meaning and are not always simply in our heads.”

“What was it?”

“An ancient ritual no longer practiced by our kind.”

“Our kind?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Who are you?”

He strode forward and held out a hand. “My name is Torin. I am your grandfather.”

She stared at his hand. Fine wrinkles stretched from the palm out to his fingers. They would have meant nothing to her before coming to this clearing, but she read them easily. A long life. A lost love.

Sorcha slid her fingers into his. “You are my mother’s father?”

“I am indeed.” He pulled her to her feet. “And you look exactly like her.”

“You knew her?”

“I did.”

“I did not.”

“An unfortunate mistake I take full blame for. She should never have been allowed to leave when she was insistent upon staying so close to the Fae.”

“Why did you let her?” Sorcha’s heart clenched. “If you knew it was dangerous, why did you let her go?”

“She wanted to take you into the wilds of the world. Brigid was never afraid of anyone.”

“Brigid,” Sorcha repeated the beloved word. “You knew my mother.”

“She was beautiful, like you.”

“I am not beautiful.”

He reached forward and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “How do you feel?”

“Like myself.”

“Not new?”

Sorcha flexed her fingers. “Perhaps a little new. What should I feel like?”

“Changed.”

“Why?”

“You took part in the ceremony. You are not the same person anymore.”

“Why can I not be the same person as before?”

“You gained much knowledge.”

“And knowledge changes a person?”

“It does.”

Sorcha wracked her mind for any differences, but she could feel none. She shook her head. “I feel the same.”

Torin frowned and held out his staff. “Take this.”

She took it.

“It’s well made,” she observed.

“Does it feel warm to the touch?”

“No.”

“Hm,” he pulled it out of her hands and pointed towards the forest. “Look at the forest. What do you see?”

“Trees.”

“And?”

“Leaves.”

“Hm,” he grumbled again. “And listen to the air. What do you hear?”

She closed her eyes and exhaled. She tried to listen, but couldn’t focus. Her hands were shaking, her heart beating so rapidly she forgot how to breathe.

Had she really been in the forest glen this whole time? Had the snake been in her mind? The women too?

He hadn’t answered her questions. Instead, Torin had spoken in veiled truths and strange riddles.

Who was he?

She found it hard to believe a relative appeared out of nowhere. Her mother’s family had never tried to contact her before. Nor did she remember her mother ever speaking of them. It was as if they didn’t exist at all.

“Child?” he asked. “What do you hear?”

“The wind,” she shrugged and opened her eyes. “I hear the same things as before.”

“Try again.”

“I fail to see what you are doing. Why do you want me to listen, look, and feel? What good will this do?”

“I’m trying to see what kind of druid you are.”

“I am me.” Sorcha lifted her hands palm up. “I am Sorcha of Ui Neill. I am a healer and a friend of the Fae. That is all.”

“A druid is always something.”

“Then I shall be the first to remain who I am.”

“Your mother was one of the Banduri. A legendary healer and seeress.”

“My mother was just a healer,” she corrected. “A friend of the Fae, as am I.”

Torin scoffed. “You can ignore your legacy all you want, but you are one of ours. You accepted it in the ritual and now you must learn.”

“I don’t take kindly to people telling me I must do things.”

“You will learn!” He struck the staff upon the ground, and an echoing strike slammed against her ears. “You have no choice!”

“You will be silent, old man!”

Her scream echoed through the forest and shook snow from the leaves. A cry echoed hers, the aching grumble of a troll awakened from its slumber.

“Oh,” he said. “So you are one of those.”

“What did you say?”

“We call your breed of druid a ‘Weaver.’”

Sorcha shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“A Weaver’s purpose is to tie together the lives of druid and Fae. To link those of us who keep watch over the land and its people. It is a rare gift.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want nothing from you.” He flexed his hands on the staff, leaning against it with a soft smile. “I want to help.”

“What can you possibly help me with?”

“Curing the plague. Returning home to your lost love. Finding the faeries and affecting the course of time.”

Sorcha blinked.

What was he going on about? Did he really think he could change all those things with a little druid magic?

“The druids are long gone,” she said. “How do I know you can do all you say you can?”

“Trust me.”

“I find that trust has grown far more difficult to earn.”

“Yes, after all you have gone through, I imagine it is.”

“What do you know of me?”

Torin nodded towards the remains of the faerie stones. “I have watched you since the beginning. I know you went to Hy-brasil, that you fell in love with the high king. I saw him force you to leave the isle so he could battle his brother without fear you would fall.”

Sorcha’s heart leapt in her throat. Eamonn’s image danced before her eyes. “Is he well?”

The question fell from her tongue like a drop from the moon. She wanted to suck it back in, to not ask at all for fear of what he would say. Her heart hadn’t healed yet. It couldn’t be torn open again so soon.

“He lives,” Torin said.

Her knees buckled, and she fell back onto the ground. “He lives?”

“He fights for the throne.”

“I told him to,” she sighed. “I don’t know if that was right or wrong.”

“He will save his people, but you must save him.”

“Why?” She looked up at her grandfather and saw an eye painted in the center of his forehead. Memories swam in her mind, images of a fearsome beast and her husband. “You work for the Unseelie Queen.”

“I have contact with her, but a druid works for no one.”

“Why am I so linked with the fate of the Fae?”

“You are his.” Torin smiled. “And he is yours. The end does not happen without both sides of the coin.”

“And his fate decides that of the Fae?”

“Precisely.”

“Oh, Eamonn,” she said quietly so that Torin would not hear the faerie’s real name. The forgotten prince was so intertwined with the future and he didn’t even know. “I should be there with him.”

“Yes, you should. But not now.”

“Why not now?”

“There are people you must save.”

Sorcha threw her hands into the air. “Why does everyone keep telling me that? I cannot save anyone at all! The blood beetle plague is worse than before. I need a cure.”

“Then you must ask for one.”

“Why? Because you have one?” She scoffed. “No one has the cure. All I can do is watch people die and wish I knew how to help.”

“I have the cure.”

Sorcha froze. He had a cure? There was no possible way he could have a cure, but he didn’t appear to be lying.

She rose to her feet and pointed at him. “You have the cure?”

“Yes.”

“The faeries said they had it.”

“The Fae you spoke with knew I had the cure. They would have traded that knowledge after you’d completed three great deeds.”

“And you’ll give it to me?”

“Yes.”

“For what price?”

“Druids do not ask for payment. It is a gift to my granddaughter.”

Sorcha shook her head. “No. Nothing is free. What do you want from me?”

“Our seers have looked into your future, and we wish for you to remember us kindly.”

“Why?”

“You did not want to see your future when the Unseelie Queen provided you the opportunity. Have you changed your mind?”

Had she? Sorcha wasn’t certain. So many other people seemed to know her future. Why shouldn’t she?

“No,” she conceded. “I do not want to know my path before I walk it.”

“Then I give you this gift, granddaughter.”

He reached underneath his cloak and pulled out a small vial. Gold filaments wrapped around the glass, leaving a melting texture on the outside of the orb. It was not of this realm, although she did not think it was from faerie either.

“This contains waters from the Cauldron of Dagda. They can give any human immortality, or heal any grievous wound. Make your choice wisely.”

She took the vial and held it to the weak sunlight. Fracturing rainbows danced upon its surface, like the water of the moon. “I would never consider keeping it for myself. There are so many people this could help.”

“Precisely why I feel no worry in giving it to you.”

She clutched the vial in her hand and sighed. “And returning to the Otherworld?”

“The Fae banished Druids from their shores long ago. I cannot assist you in returning. But if you create miracles as you travel, the faeries will find you themselves.”

“One drop of this will save a life?”

“And it will always replenish itself.”

“You believe Macha herself will find me?”

“I believe there are many ways to get to the Otherworld, and you will find at least one, if not many, in your travels.”

Sorcha blinked. “Travels?”

“Do you want to just save your family? Or do you want to save the world?”

She thought about the question long and hard. Long ago, she would have said the world. She would have given up everything she had just to journey and have that appellation stamped onto her name. Sorcha of Ui Neill, the healer of the blood beetle plague.

Now? She shook her head. “If I could give it to another, I would. As soon as I find a way back to the Otherworld, I will hand off this burden to another.”

Torin nodded. “I thought as much. You feel very strongly for him, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“I have no answer for that. He earned my trust and showed he is an honorable man. That is enough for me.”

“Do you love him?”

Did she love him? Sorcha knew she wasn’t herself without him. That she missed him so much her heart ached, and a great crater grew with every passing day. She could survive without seeing his face. She just didn’t want to.

Sorcha sighed. “What is love but burning passion and fleeting moments? I knew him for a small amount of time and I cannot say if I love him or the idea of him.”

“He loves you.”

Her heart stopped. Her stomach clenched and her hands began to shake. She tucked them underneath her armpits and shook her head again. “What?”

“He loves you. Faeries do nothing by half, and he admired you greatly.”

She wanted to go back to Hy-brasil. So much that she could barely breathe. But it wasn’t there anymore. Her home, her people, all destroyed by a beautiful king and his golden army.

What could she do? There was nothing left for her there but a faerie who wanted his throne and whose brother wanted him dead.

She sighed. “I wish we had longer together, but I cannot go back. How would I even find him?”

“I have faith in you.”

Sorcha turned to leave, but hesitated at the edge of the clearing. This place was always where her life changed. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked at her grandfather. A man who should have been in her life since she was a child.

“What can a Weaver do?”

He flashed a grin. “They’re the reason the druids were banished from the Otherworld and hunted until we nearly disappeared forever. They knit the Fae together with humans, but they can also control them.”

“They can control the Fae? They must need the faerie's name.”

“Druids have a drop of faerie blood. Some can control nature, some change the shape of objects or themselves. But Weavers? Weavers can command the Fae without knowing their true name.”

She clenched her hand around the vial that would save her people. Eamonn’s face flashed before her. The ruined crystals of his body glinted in the light of his brother’s sword. She remembered the mistreatment of faeries by the Seelie Fae and the corrupted castle of the Unseelie Queen. Their pain and anguish called out to her.

She could leave this clearing and never return. She could heal her people and be renowned across the land. She didn’t need the faeries’ help. Sorcha could forget them entirely as they had so clearly forgotten her.

Her hands trembled, and she turned towards her grandfather.

“Show me.”

* * *

A harsh strike of a hammer slammed against the back of Eamonn’s knees, and he fell with a grunt, crystal cracking against stone. It annoyed him to hear the harsh sound that no normal faerie would cause. There was no pain, no discomfort, not even the smallest twinge from his knees.

How far gone was he that he couldn’t even feel pain?

“So this is the high king?”

The deep voice of the Lord Under the Mountain rattled him. It was a voice Eamonn recognized, though one he had never expected to hear again.

Glancing up, his eyes caught upon the throne. The dwarf seated on the giant gold monolith was tall in comparison to the rest of his people. His beard was short, trimmed rather than left in a long braid. His hair hung to his shoulders which were free of armor and covered only by a sleeveless shirt. Black tattoos swirled in circular patterns from his shoulders down to his fingertips.

“Angus,” Eamonn said. “How fortuitous.”

The dwarf behind him shoved at his shoulders. “You’ll treat the lord with respect!”

“I’ll treat him with respect when he gets down off that throne.”

The Lord Under the Mountain snapped his fingers. “Have you no care for the head that resides upon your shoulders? At any point, I can order the guards to remove it, and they will not hesitate.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Eamonn tilted his head back to reveal his ragged neck wound. “It’s already been attempted a few times.”

“Aye, I remember you swinging up there.”

“I remember you dragged away in chains.”

“Tis a shame neither of us won our freedom that day.”

The dwarf behind him inhaled. Eamonn thought it rather pathetic that he didn’t realize sooner the two men knew each other.

Eamonn straightened his shoulders and placed his hands on his thighs. “Are you going to make me kneel for the rest of this conversation?”

“I rather like you on your knees.”

“Just so you can finally look me in the eyes?”

Angus snorted and hopped down from the throne. His heavy boots echoed as they struck the ground. He paused in front of Eamonn, planted his hands on his hips, and shook his head. “Shame that you’re right. You’ll have to lose your legs just so you can’t look down on me.”

“As if you’d ever let me.”

“All right, since you’re so handsome. Stand up.”

The dwarves surrounding them gasped as Eamonn rose to his full height. He slapped a hand against Angus’s shoulder and grinned. “You’re lucky I recognized you, otherwise we might have come to blows. You’ve changed, old friend.”

“And what would you have done if you didn’t? We’d have swarmed you.”

“Unless you’ve got your pickaxes handy, I don’t think it would have done much.”

“No,” Angus shook his head with a trouble expression. “It’s gotten worse.”

“It will only continue to worsen.”

“It’s no curse then?”

“No.”

“Shame.” Angus turned towards his people and waved his hands. “Off with you. I can take it from here.”

“But sire—”

“I said no, Cait.” He addressed her with affection. “You’ve done your scouting duty well. Return to your training.”

She huffed and joined the others, glancing over her shoulder before leaving the throne room.

Silence echoed in the large underground hall. Eamonn's own people were tongue tied, staring at Angus and he as if they’d conjured magic out of their palms.

Cian was the first to break the silence. “What the bloody hell was that?”

“This is Angus,” Eamonn turned with his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “An old friend from my days serving the previous king.”

“When you were fighting the Unseelie?”

He nodded. “Angus was one of the few dwarves who willingly joined the fight. He was a remarkable warrior.”

“Still am,” Angus quipped. “Don’t you be questioning my capabilities.”

“In my experience, sitting on a throne does little to sharpen the blade.”

“You have little experience sitting upon a throne.” Angus’s voice took a hard edge. “That fool twin of yours is hardly an example of a good king.”

“In that, we agree.” Eamonn gestured towards the faeries he brought with him. “Food and lodging?”

“Absolutely.”

While Angus called out for his people, Eamonn prepared his. “They’ll bring you food and water. I don’t know what kind of hospitality they’ll offer, but I assume they’ll at least provide beds. Get a good night’s rest.”

“I’ll stay with you, boy.” Cian straightened his cloak with a grimace. “I don’t like the idea of you here without one of us by your side.”

“Angus is trustworthy.”

“And you don’t always make the right decisions when you aren’t thinking straight.”

“This is my battle to fight, my friend.” Eamonn clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It is appreciated, but I’ll need you healthy for the rest of this journey.”

He grumbled, but followed the tiny dwarf woman who led them all from the throne room.

Angus perched on the arm of his throne, looking Eamonn up and down with a critical glance. “You look like you’ve been rolling with the pigs.”

“I’ve been on Hy-brasil.”

“Same thing then.”

“You could say that.” Eamonn held his hands out at his side. “I came in peace.”

“Ocras is out in the open. I’d dare say that wasn’t your intention.”

“One can never be too careful with dwarves.”

“Now that is the truth.” Angus bounced his knee before blurting, “Why are you here, Eamonn?”

“I want to kill the king.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Eamonn clenched his fists and forced himself to remain still. Angus would not refuse him. It was sheer luck he had become Lord and not one of his many brothers. Angus knew first-hand what Fionn could do to the Seelie Fae.

The dwarf pulled a blade from his hip and dug it underneath his nails. “You’re going against blood? Since when?”

“Fionn has crossed the line.”

“He didn’t cross the line when he tried to hang you?”

“Don’t focus on my misgivings. He is my brother, Angus. I had no desire to turn my back on the only family I have left.”

“So I ask again, what changed?”

“He attacked my home,” Eamonn growled. “He attacked my people.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the change of heart, but it doesn’t sound like you. You’ve never cared that much. He played you. What the hell changed to make you go soft?”

He saw red hair stirring in the breeze, trailing over freckled skin so white it was nearly milk. Dirty fingernails with blood caked underneath from helping heal his people, even though he didn’t want her to. Eamonn heard her name dance in the air and tasted sunshine on his tongue.

“I gained perspective.”

“You met a woman.”

Eamonn glared.

“In my experience, that’s the only reason a man would change his entire outlook on life. She must be a stunning faerie to have convinced you to return home.”

“She’s not Fae.”

“A human?” Angus’s knife slipped and cut his thumb. Fat drops of blood dripped to the floor, but he didn’t react. “You fell for a human?”

“I fell for no one.”

“A human, Eamonn? One of the unwashed creatures who swarm their world and destroy everything in their path?”

“She’s not like the others.”

“Oh, none of them are like the others. That’s how all the stories go until they turn on you and go back home. Just how badly do you hate yourself?”

“She wouldn’t leave,” he growled. The large hall suddenly felt tiny as the walls closed in on him. “Be wise, Angus, and still your tongue.”

“I don’t see her in your crew, thus I am correct. She left and now what? You want to take back the throne so she’ll return to your arms? Grateful a king would want to place her on the throne next to him?”

A slow warning growl rumbled through Eamonn’s chest. “Choose your next words carefully, friend.”

“You’ll attack me over a woman? How the tables have turned.” Angus hopped from his throne and tucked his knife back into his waistcloth. “I cannot provide as much help as you’d like. Your brother has attacked the dwarves too many times.”

“All I ask is for a few men to fight by my side.”

“I don’t have even a small number. I have enough to keep this stronghold safe while still helping out the other tunnels. You’ll have to make due with five.”

Eamonn grunted. “Five men? You want me to kill the king with five men?”

“You were a great general once. Think like that man again.”

Angus had lost his mind. There wasn’t a flaming chance that Eamonn could pull off the greatest assassination their people had ever seen with five dwarves, a gnome, a boggart, and a pixie at his disposal. No matter how renowned he was in battle, Eamonn would fail.

“I go to war,” he gritted through his teeth. “And you say I should fight with five men?”

“I didn’t say I wouldn't help in other ways.” Angus rolled his eyes. “Easy there, Untouched. Your quick temper hasn’t changed in all this time I see. Follow me.”

“Where?”

“Ocras has served you well, but she won’t be a match for thousands.”

“And you have a sword that will be?”

“It’s not just any sword. I have the sword of Nuada.”

Eamonn’s heart jumped into his throat. The sword of Nuada was a legendary blade, passed down through his grandfather’s line. No one had seen it in hundreds of years. All the relics of the original Tuatha dé Danann had disappeared long ago.

Until now.

“You have the sword of Nuada?”

“I do.”

“And you told no one until now?”

Angus scoffed. “Just who would I be telling? Your brother?”

“Why are you telling me?”

They descended a stairwell from the main throne room. Living space gave way to a giant cave system with networks of halls that disappeared deep into the earth. Pulley systems lifted dwarves up and down the great mines, all lit by a channel of lava that poured out of vats from above.

“Of all the royalty in the Seelie court, you’re the only one I’d trust not to use this blade against my people.”

“Why’s that?”

“I fought with you, Eamonn. I’ve seen what you can do with a sword and I’ve seen how you treat the Lesser Fae. You didn’t see us as base creatures.” Angus’s reflection in the polished stone walls revealed his grimace. “I hope I can trust your opinion to be the same now.”

“It’s been a long time. I fell into the affliction carried by my brethren.”

“No longer?”

“You can thank the little human for that.”

“Oh?” Angus’s voice lifted in curiosity. “What’s she got to do with all this?”

“She saw them as equals, even when I could not.”

“I think I would like this girl.”

“Most do.”

“But still so foolish that she left you?”

Eamonn growled. “That was my doing.”

“Ah.” Angus maneuvered them around dwarven miners who stared up at the beastly man walking among them. Most shied away from meeting his gaze although a few glowered as they passed. “Then it is not she who is the fool.”

He couldn’t agree more. He had been a fool to force her to leave, but there had been no other option.

Eamonn refused to put her in harm’s way. His brother would try to use her as a pawn. The Seelie would fight to capture her, to tear her from his side and do unspeakable things just to make her talk.

She was innocent. She did not know the ways of the Fae, nor did she know how to protect herself. Of all people, he would preserve that innocence with his last breath.

As they passed another group of dwarves, he flexed his crystal hand and told himself this would all be over soon. If he had the sword of Nuada, others would surely follow him. The dwarves may not fight, but there were many more creatures he could call upon.

They would follow the High King of the Seelie Fae to the pits of hell. Or he would force them.

And once all this was done, he could find her again.

Eamonn sobered at the thought. Time passed differently in her world. She may be an old woman, with wrinkles and frail bones. He’d never seen an aged human before. They weren’t often found in the Otherworld.

“In here,” Angus grunted. “And try to keep your wits about you, Eamonn.”

The dwarf was right. Eamonn forgot too easily where he was. The dwarven strongholds were mazes that even the most intelligent of Fae could get lost in. He needed to pay attention to where they were, in case Angus left him in the dark.

Angus reached up and pulled a lever. The pail attached to it dropped, pouring lava into a trough that spilled out into the most incredible treasure room Eamonn had ever seen.

Gold stretched as far as the eye could see. Mountains of coins, gemstones, and armor piled atop each other as if they didn’t matter in the slightest. These items should be displayed, placed in a setting of honor. A crown caught his eye, diamonds glittering in the solid metal.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“The place we put things we want to forget.”

“You put the sword of Nuada in this room?” Anger raced through his blood, hot and hard.

“I hid the sword of Nuada in this room. Great beards! Would you calm down?”

He had never controlled his anger well. Long ago, when war was in his blood and rage flickered at the edges of his vision, he had rode the waves of anger like a captain guiding a ship. He’d gotten too good at convincing people he wasn’t a split second from tearing out their throat.

“Just get it over with,” he growled.

“Eager to get your hands on the weapon that could change the tide of war?”

“It is my grandfather’s sword, and I still don’t think you have it.”

Angus arched a thick brow and plunged his hand into a mountain of treasure. Gold fell in an avalanche all around him, trickling down in great waves that sounded like dripping water. Each clink grated on Eamonn’s ears until he could barely stand it.

He watched with rapt attention as Angus pulled his arm out of the pile and brandished the most beautiful blade in all of history.

Claíomh Solais. The Sword of Light.

Red stones glittered in the pommel of the sword, each like a tiny drop of blood. The gold hilt tapered into the open mouth of a wolf that swallowed the rest of the blade. It was a beautiful blade. Light glinted off the sharpened edge, runes scribed into the flat edges spoke of the battles it had survived. And won.

Angus pulled it back when Eamonn reached for it. “Not so fast. You know the legends of this sword?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know what it can do.”

“It carries the power of manipulation, controlling the minds of others once the blade is drawn. Yes, I know, Angus.”

The dwarf grimaced. “I’m handing you a very powerful weapon, Eamonn. Please take this seriously.”

“Do you know the legends?” Eamonn’s lips split into a feral grin. “That blade will only work in the hand of the high king.”

Angus pointed the tip at Eamonn’s belly. “Kneel.”

“No.”

“Walk away.”

“No, dwarf.”

“Remove yourself from this mountain and never return.”

“Are you quite done?”

Angus shrugged. “I wanted to see if you were telling the truth. Do you want to see if you’re really the high king?”

Did he? Eamonn wasn’t so certain. He’d spent a majority of his life avoiding his birthright.

He licked his lips and held out his hand. “It’s far past time I accepted my heritage.”

“You’re certain?”

“Give me the sword, Angus.”

Although Angus’s face twisted in worry, he extended the hilt towards Eamonn.

Licking his lips, Eamonn reached forward and grasped the wolf head. Cold metal struck frigid stone, and fire raced through his blood.

He gasped and staggered backwards, holding the sword with both hands now in fear he would drop it. The wolf’s mouth opened and closed in a frenzy as it tried to swallow the blade. The desperate thumping of his own heart echoed until Eamonn’s eyes burned.

A pulse of magic filled the room, lifting the gold coins into the air and dropping them all with a boom that shook the walls of the cave. He clenched his fists around the haft of the blade and willed it to still. It would bend to his will.

The wolf exhaled and blue fire licked up the sword of Nuada. Twisting and hot, it burned the tips of his fingers. Crystals formed on the palm that had not yet been ruined.

Through it all, Eamonn gritted his teeth. He would bear it. If this was the price the blade had chosen, then he would pay it. His physical form would withstand the pain because he refused to break.

He heard the growl of a wolf in his ear and the pleased chuckle of his grandfather.

“Well met, grandson. Take the blade; it is yours.”

Another blast of magic fluttered his cloak, and all fell still. Fire cooled. Wind quieted. All he could hear was the ragged breath of the dwarf and the creak of crystal as he peeled his hand from the sword.

“What kind of cursed magic was that?” Angus spat out.

“That was my grandfather.”

“So, you are the High King of the Seelie Fae?”

“It appears so.”

“I will not bow.”

“I would not expect you to,” Eamonn said. He pointed the blade towards the dwarf and growled, “What other relics do you have hiding in this place?”

Angus struggled, clasping a hand around his throat while his face turned bright red. His body twisted and crumpled to the ground as he fought against the blade’s magic. “I will cut out my tongue before I tell you,” he choked.

“Then be free, old friend.”

Eamonn dropped the blade. Angus fell limp, panting as he stared up at Eamonn with a shocked expression.

“You’ve changed,” the dwarf observed.

“Time is not on my side. Now, we will talk about the army you have hidden in this mountain.”

“I don’t have an army hidden.”

Eamonn pointed the sword once more, arching a brow when Angus gulped. “Twisting your words will not deter me. We both know you aren’t telling me the whole truth.”

“I will not put my people at risk.”

“Don’t make me force you, Angus.”

“The man I fought beside would never stoop so low.”

Eamonn swallowed hard and cast his gaze from his oldest friend. “Then I suggest you choose wisely. There is no other choice I can make. Fionn must fall.”

“The dwarves have no army.”

“Then I suggest you find one. Quickly.”