Paint flecked from the rotting wood of the railings once grand stairs overtaken by moss and vines. The doors were easily twice Sorcha's height, terrifying and imposing in their grandeur and age.

“Is this what it felt like?” Eamonn asked.

“What?”

“Walking up to the main door of the castle on Hy-brasil and wondering what was behind it?”

“Yes,” she replied. “This is exactly what it felt like.”

“I don’t give you enough credit for your bravery.”

“Or for my foolishness,” Sorcha added with a grin. “I was just as impulsive when I walked into your throne room.”

She placed her hands against the wood and shoved. Surprisingly, her hands didn’t puncture the door. The echoing creak danced down her spine, but it swung open without falling off its hinges.

It was a start.

She peeked through the cobwebs and tangled vines. There were shadows dancing upon the walls, ones she didn’t think came from the plants. Could they be goblins? They looked faintly similar to the hunched creatures she had seen in the Unseelie castle.

Eamonn’s hand landed on her shoulder and nudged her behind him. “Let me go first.”

“I thought you were afraid of ghosts?”

“Not so much that I would let you put your life before mine.” His lips tilted to the side. “Have a little faith, sunshine.”

“I never doubted you.”

His scoff echoed as they walked into the great hall.

King Nuada Silverhand’s castle was as grand as she imagined it. Stained glass windows framed the hallway, and colored lights danced on the white and black checkered floor, which was missing a few pieces of marble.

Vines grew over the walls, and giant blue hydrangeas poked through cracks and crevices. Gold glinted on the wall nearest to her. Sorcha stepped closer, shifting ivy to the side and stumbled back with a gasp.

Eyes stared back at her.

Eamonn caught her against his chest. “It’s a painting.”

“I thought it was… It looked so…”

He spread his hand wide against her belly and leaned down to chuckle in her ear. “Who is afraid of ghosts?”

“Apparently both of us. Whose bright idea was it to come in here when the sun was setting?”

“I believe it was yours.”

“Right, queen of bad ideas.”

“Come on, Sorcha. We’ve only stepped a few feet into the castle.”

“Now you want to explore,” she grumbled and detached herself from him. “What are those shadows?”

“The glass.”

She glanced up. The stained glass high above them revealed outlines, human and faerie in nature, created by smoke and black tar. “Strange.”

“An intimidation tactic most Fae recognize.”

“I didn't think the Seelie Fae would be all that interested in marring such beauty.”

A shadow passed over his face, his blue eyes piercing her with their intensity. “That wasn’t created by the Fae.”

“The Fomorians then?”

“Likely.”

He turned and marched through the hall as if he owned it. And in a way, he did. As a direct descendent of Nuada, he was the only person remaining who could claim this haunted place.

He always seemed to end up in forgotten places, she mused. Their feet left slashing marks against the dust ridden floor. Some of the large blue blooms picked up their heads as she walked past, tiny vines stretching for her.

“The plants don’t do that with anyone else.” Eamonn narrowed his eyes at the offending greenery.

“Sure they do. They just want attention.”

“From you.”

She picked her way over a tree which had fallen through the wall and landed atop a stairway leading up. “They don’t do it to faeries?”

“No.”

He paused in front of a plant that had grown so large it covered the entire wall. “Come here.”

“I don’t know if I want to. They seem more interested in me than the other plants.”

“I want to try something.”

“I don’t.”

“Sorcha,” he growled.

She gritted her teeth and let him grab her hand. “What do you think will happen? They’re just plants!”

“They aren’t just plants. They’re guards.” He furrowed his brow in concentration, holding her hand just above the nearest hydrangea. “These flowers aren’t native to the Otherworld, and yet, here they are.”

“You think I have something to do with that?”

The plant reached out a thin vine and wrapped it around her finger. Smooth and warm, it slithered to her wrist, gently stroking the sensitive skin.

“I think there’s something behind this wall of plants,” he murmured.

“Why do you think that?”

“The stairs stop here.”

“They also keep going behind us. This could just be a wall.”

“You said you have druid blood. Ask the plants.”

Sorcha rolled her eyes. “Ask the plants, he says. As if that's possible.”

The vine tugged hard on her wrist. Eamonn caught hold of her hips and pulled her back against him, but the plant did not let go. Another vine lashed out and wrapped around the other arm, this one significantly thicker and stronger.

She stared in shock as the leaves parted and green eyes met her gaze. The rustling wind brushed past her ears, but she could not feel it.

“Eamonn?” she gasped. “There’s another painting.”

“I don’t see anything, Sorcha.”

“Please be another painting.”

The eyes crinkled at the edges in a smile. She had time to let out a small whimper before the vines pulled her arm even harder. Eamonn’s hands slipped, crystals digging into her soft skin before the plants enveloped her.

“Sorcha!”

She stumbled out to the other side of the plants, which placed tiny leaves against her bottom and pushed hard. Wildly, Sorcha spun in a circle, praying the opening would still be there. She wasn’t fast enough and couldn’t catch even a glimpse of Eamonn through the tightly wound plants.

The wall rippled, leaves twisting and turning, flowers pushing through to stare back at her. Unnerved, she glanced over her shoulder.

“The throne room,” she said in awe.

What else would the flowers guard?

Roses crawled over the walls, sinking thorns into stones, red sap oozing down the cracks like blood. Threads hung from the ceiling — remnants of once grand curtains — each strand humming as her gaze passed over them.

“They’re your ancestors.” A voice drifted out of the darkness.

“Torin?”

“I never strayed far from your side, granddaughter.”

He stepped out of the shadows, his staff thunking against the cracked stone floor. Robes hung from his broad shoulders and braids twisted through his long grey hair. He looked different here. Stronger and more confident.

“What is this place?” Sorcha asked.

“Our ancestral home.”

“This is the castle of Nuada Silverhand. I have no claim here.” She hoped. A small part of her clenched, hoping he wasn’t about to tell her she was a descendant of the great Fae.

“That is where you are wrong. You have more claim than Nuada did when he entered this place.”

Torin circled her, his staff echoing in the chamber. The roses turned with him, twisting and twirling in the air, following his every movement.

“This is a Seelie castle.”

“It used to be, but it was Fomorian before that. And afterwards as well.”

"How is that possible?" she asked. "The Fomorians and Fae have never lived side by side."

"They did here for many centuries."

Her eyes widened. “The Fomorians and Fae lived in harmony?”

“They did.”

“But that's not possible. All the legends say the Fae and Fomorians hated each other.”

“The legends were wrong. It was here our people first started.”

“Are you claiming druids came from the Fomorians? I thought we had Fae blood.”

“We didn’t come from the Tuatha dé Danann.” He stopped in front of her and smiled. “It is why we’re connected to the land, to the sea, and to the sky. A faerie and a human can make a faerie or a human child. Fomorians and faeries made something else entirely.”

“They made druids,” she said in wonderment.

“Indeed.”

“Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?”

Sorcha tossed her arms out to the side in disbelief. “I’m having a hard time believing anything lately. Why am I here, Torin? I might suggest this was your plan all along.”

“Yes, I wanted you to return to this castle.”

“Why?”

“You should be with your family.”

“My family is back home. I left them to come here, so you must give me a better reason than that.”

He stepped back, gesturing at the roses which bent to his will. They slithered away from each other, scraping across the floors and walls until they revealed a giant stained glass window in the shape of a sun. It was so big she thought it would rival a tree. Six men’s height, or taller, spindly pieces all fitting together to create a masterpiece of art.

Light splintered through the room, revealing two thrones at the center. One blackened by fire and jagged, the other covered in roses and thorns.

“What is this?”

“These are the thrones of our people. Many have sat upon them, Nuada, Balor, kings and priests. But it is not the first king who shaped our world.” Torin walked towards the blackened throne, placing his hand upon a knife sharp point. “Nuada Silverhand created an empire of Tuatha dé Danann. He fought, he battled, and he ruled as a good man.” He placed his hand on the vines of the other. “Ethniu, his wife, was a Fomorian who gave up her world to be with him.”

“Ethniu?”

“The daughter of Balor, king of the Fomorians. She left everything she knew because of her love for Nuada. And as his first wife, she gifted him children the like of which the world had never seen. Children who became the druids. She feared him, loved him, and sat upon this throne to spread goodness and light.”

Sorcha swallowed. “This is too familiar to me, grandfather.”

“As it should be. Time repeats itself over and over again. Stories, legends, myths, they’re all happening even now as we speak.”

“You want me to be queen,” she blurted. "Queen of the druids."

"Queen of the Seelie Fae."

The words sounded ludicrous even to her own ears. Her? Queen? Of all people, Sorcha was the last person to ever desire a throne.

“I am not royalty," she argued. "I am a midwife, and I am happy as such.”

“You searched your entire life for something more than squalling babies, screaming mothers, and a brothel.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to be a queen,” she growled. “It’s ridiculous to even consider the thought!”

“You would make a good queen for the Fae.”

“He’ll never ask.” Her heart shattered into a million pieces, but she meant every word. “He will be the greatest king they have ever seen. He will take a Seelie faerie as a bride and forget all about me. I will help his people, I will guide his thoughts, but he will never make me queen.”

“He already has. He’s brought you before his people, made speeches with you by his side, planted his seed inside you. What more could you want?” Torin slapped both hands down on the thrones.

“The words,” she said. “I want him to say it. I want him to ask me to be his queen. Otherwise, I'm forcing myself upon him.”

“Sorcha. Do this for your people.”

“Who are my people?” she cried out. “Please, tell me grandfather. To whom should I show my allegiance? The human family who raised me as a child? The faeries who took me in and showed me kindness? Or the druids who appear in my life unexpectedly and ask for impossible things?”

“You go with your heart. I can read you like a book, child. You want to belong somewhere, and I tell you now, you belong with us.”

The words soared through her veins and took root in her soul. “Us?”

“Did you think we left you? Or that we brought you to a place that was not as much yours as ours?”

People stepped out of the vines. Each flower, each leaf, each stalk revealing a soul hidden in the shadows.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Torin said with a smile. “Centuries have passed since the last druid walked these halls. And now, you can take the throne. Nuada is not your ancestor, Sorcha, he left his wife to the mercy of the wilds. But Ethniu with her gracious wisdom, and her kind heart, married another. You are her descendant.”

“You want me to walk in her footsteps?”

“I want you to take up your blood right. This place, this castle, these people are all yours.”

“They are his!” Her shout echoed and a few of the spirits blasted back.

The throne of Ethniu shivered. Leaves quaked and buds pushed forward to bloom into bright red roses.

Torin gestured towards the movement. “This place is no longer that of the Fae. It can be something far more than that, and you are the only one who can take this step. Join us, my sweet girl.”

“What would a Queen look like?” she asked. “What kind of ruler would I be? All I can do is control them.”

“What do you think he plans to do?”

“To help his people.”

“With Nuada’s blade? That sword controls all who stand within its path. He destroyed an entire army on his own because they stood still and let him cleave their heads from their shoulders.”

She swallowed. So that was how he had won. All this time, she wondered just how far he would go to gain back his throne.

Now she knew.

“The queen tempers the Seelie King,” she repeated the words Oona had told her so long ago.

“She always has. But now is not the time for a tempered queen. Now, when the worlds are shifting and time is unraveling, we need a Queen who will speak for us all.” Torin stepped forward and held out his hand. “Speak for the druids, for your people. For those who have a right to the Otherworld just as much as the Fae.”

Sorcha stared into his eyes, wondering just how much of this was truth. He might be her blood, but she didn’t believe for a second he wouldn't lie to her.

Torin had his own agenda. His words tasted bitter and dangerous. Would she go against Eamonn by taking her grandfather’s hand?

He smiled. “I’m not trying to trick you, Sorcha. Few druids draw breath, and I would not see our people die out.”

Something wasn’t right. Brows furrowed, she reached for his hand and watched as hers passed through it. “You aren’t real.”

“I am real to you, to our people.”

“But you aren’t here.”

“Didn’t they tell you the castle was haunted?” The corners of his eyes wrinkled. “Druids are connected to the earth, tethered by their souls. We are not quick to fade from this realm.”

“So you are all…” She looked around, catching the gaze of each druid lingering by the ivy. “You’re all dead.”

“Yes.”

“Your souls are in the plants.”

“And the dust, the glass, the mortar of this castle.”

Sorcha’s eyes filled with tears as she realized the magnitude of this decision. These weren’t just trapped souls, they were her family.

“If I do this, will you be released?”

“No,” Torin shook his head. “That is not what we want. We want to be here, with you, and give meaning to all the sacrifices we’ve made.”

Sorcha lifted a hand and pressed it to her heart. The shifting spirits blinked in and out of existence. Torin wavered in front of her and the throne glowed. “None of this is real, is it?”

A few of the spirits spoke, their words like the rustling of reeds in fall.

“This is very real.”

“No it isn’t. This is the same as the altar, as the snake, as everything else you’ve shown me.”

Spirits sank back into the greenery at her words. Torin’s teeth flashed bright in the white of his beard. “You have never ceased to impress me, granddaughter, but in this you are wrong. The altar was real. This is real. Whether or not what you see is physical, does not make it any less important.”

“Then if I take the throne?”

“You do so in the physical world as well.”

She blew out a breath and weighed her options. Queen was a heavy title to bear, and not one she’d ever intended to have. She hadn’t considered what a relationship with Eamonn would turn into, hadn't wanted to. His choices were his own, and she couldn't control him.

Sand tipped through the hourglass of her mind and she saw their time together dim.

Torin placed a hand back on the throne. “What kind of king will he be without you?”

“A better one.”

“Do you believe that?”

She didn’t. She had already seen what he could do, had heard of his battles, and seen the mark of each sword slash upon his skin.

Sighing, Sorcha picked up her skirts and walked towards the throne. “I never thought I would agree to be queen with a dirty hem.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” The cold touch of his hand passed over her forehead. “But there is far more symbolic regalia for you to wear.”

Magic shimmered down her body like a cold splash of water. Gasping, she looked down to see her dress had disappeared.

Thick green wool swayed around her hips with golden threads embroidered in the shape of leaves falling to the ground. A leather corset hugged her ribs, ending just below her breasts. The long sleeves of the green underdress hooked around her middle finger, triangles of fabric leaving her hands warm and green.

A magnificent silver fur covered her shoulders, soft and infinitely warm. She tossed her head, red curls falling freely to her waist.

Arching a brow, she looked up at her grandfather. “Furs and wool?”

“The regalia of our people.”

Thank the gods he hadn’t put her in a faerie outfit. She turned with a sigh. All the other druid souls watched her, their faces painted blue and their eyes hopeful.

What was she getting herself into?

“You walk in the footsteps of Ethniu,” Torin said. “This throne does not make you a Queen, but your actions from here on out. Do you accept this title?”

“I do.”

She lowered herself onto the throne with a troubled mind. Was she ready for this? Sorcha could say with near certainty she wasn’t. Responsibilities already weighed heavy upon her mind. And now she had even more people to take care of.

A great cheer lifted in the throne room, but she hardly heard it. Vines closed over her wrists, thorns dug into the sensitive skin of her biceps.

“Torin?” she called out. “What’s happening?”

“Now, we test your lover.”

“What? No! Stop!”

Leaves stuffed into her mouth and roses bloomed over her eyes. She pulled against her bindings, flexing her arms and wiggling her legs until thorns dug into her skin. Blood slicked across her biceps as the vines tightened and pinned her down.

“Eamonn!”

* * *

“Sorcha!”

The vines dragged her through the wall and he could do nothing about it. Her warmth still heated his palms.

He growled, lifted his blade, and hacked at the green leaves. They did not move, nor did they break as the sharpened metal slid across them

“Magic,” he spat. “Where have you taken her?”

No one responded. Instead, the leaves bounced as if someone behind them chuckled. Tilting his head back, Eamonn roared as fury turned his blood to fire. How dare they? Ghosts with no form had no right to still be on this land, let alone steal what was his.

He clenched his fists and stilled his breathing. There had to be some sound, some hidden chink in the armor of this place. No faerie had ever built a castle without leaving secrets behind.

The plants snapped vines at him, each thorn dripping green poison. He jerked backwards, holding his blade up as a shield. They left a slick, shiny residue on the Sword of Light. Disgusted, he slid it back into its sheath.

He would have to find another way. He turned and ran his hands over the walls. If it were his castle, he would have put some kind of stone that would shift, opening a door or secret chamber. No magic was completely controllable. Faeries always had an escape plan.

Giggles erupted behind him.

Eamonn froze, hand immediately reaching for his blade. “Where is she?”

“Here.”

“She’s not here.”

“Then she’s there.”

He turned on his heel. The space behind him was empty other than the shadows which danced upon the walls. Eamonn’s lip curled. “Unseelie. Show yourself.”

“No.”

The Sword of Light sang as he pulled it free again. Its sharp edge glinted as he raised it over his head and pointed directly at the shadows. “I command you to answer me.”

The giggles grew louder and one of the shadows pulled off the others. It was human in shape, but he knew how deceptive these creatures could be. When it noticed his gaze, the shadow waved.

“No.”

“I command you.”

“Oh how lovely. He knows how to use a sword.” The shadow twisted into a plant which shook in laughter. “Shame he doesn’t know how to deal with ghosts. Turn around.”

He spun. There was no longer a wall behind him, but a moor filled with fog and will-o’-the-wisps.

“What trickery is this?”

“Welcome home, brother,” a masculine voice spoke in his ear. “Just how long did you think you could avoid me?”

Eamonn twisted, slashing his sword through the air. It passed through Fionn’s throat without leaving a single mark.

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you some kind of mirage?”

“Oh, much worse than that.”

There was something wrong with Fionn’s eyes. Eamonn had seen anger, madness, and fear reflected in those eyes that were eerily similar to his own, but he had never seen such glee.

“You thought you would come here and….what? Take a new throne? Eamonn.” Fionn tsked. “That is so petty. What’s wrong with mine?”

“I have battled you for five years.”

“And you want me to believe you’re finished?” Fionn’s hair slid over his shoulder, a graceful waterfall of movement and gold. “That’s quaint. I know you aren’t done. So what are you really up to?”

“Our people have bled long enough.”

“That’s not why, either,” his twin snarled. Leaping forward, Fionn blasted through Eamonn’s form in a shower of icy pain. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve told you already,” Eamonn stumbled to the side and stuck the tip of his sword against the ground. What had Fionn done to him?

“You're still hiding the truth. Half-truths, brother, only succeed in making us both angry.”

“I am not angry.”

“But you will be.” Fionn reached for him, fingers curling in the air just before he touched Eamonn’s face. “You and I were close once. As only twins could be. What did you do to us?”

“You know this was not my choice.”

“Wasn’t it? You were always the favored son, the firstborn. While you were out battling, and killing, and maiming our allies, I was fixing all the bridges you burned along the way,” Fionn snarled. “Tell me again, brother, how this was not your doing.”

Eamonn's palms slicked with sweat and the pommel of the Sword of Light slipped in his grasp. He didn’t have a response to his brother’s accusations. They were all true. Eamonn had filled his youth with poor decisions and war. Fionn had spent his learning how to be king, and filling his head with old, outdated prejudices.

“We’re both at fault, are we not?” Eamonn finally asked. “I was a poor brother, but you were the one who stabbed me in the back and let me hang.”

Fionn rolled his eyes. “We’re going back to the ‘poor pitiful Eamonn’ card again?” He disappeared, reappearing directly behind Eamonn. “You deserved to hang.”

“I did nothing wrong.”

“You are not fit to be part of this family. Monster.”

“I am a good man. I have always been a good man, and I will not allow you to take advantage of our people any longer.”

“If you want it that bad, take it.” Fionn’s hand lifted over Eamonn’s shoulder and pointed towards a jagged throne. “Take your new throne, become king of the weak and foolish.”

And there it was. The throne of Nuada, blackened by years of warfare. The metal tips curved and split away, sharp enough to slice the throat of anyone who got too close.

It was perfect for Eamonn. That throne had been through more than Fionn could even imagine, more than Eamonn had suffered.

He felt the imprint of his brother’s hands upon his shoulders for a brief second before he disappeared. Eamonn glanced once over his shoulder. Mist and fog obscured any shape from his vision. Shivers danced down his spine as he felt the gaze of someone, or something, watching him.

Should he take the throne? In this place, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

He worried that he would become someone else. Someone darker, more dangerous, closer to his kin than he wished to be.

His boots struck the ground, solid and comforting in the weightlessness of the bog. The throne was his birthright, and the symbol of everything he had fought for his entire life. He would take it, no matter the cost.

But, as he expected, the spirits were not done with him yet.

The instant his foot touched the first step to the throne, a soft voice echoed behind him. “Eamonn?”

“No,” he groaned. “Not that. Anything but that.”

“My son?” Queen Neve, the most beautiful Seelie faerie to ever exist, walked out of the mist. He stared at her, pain splintering through his chest as if someone had run a sword through his heart. “My beloved boy.”

“Please don’t do this,” he moaned.

“What are you doing in this place, my shield?”

The childhood nickname made him squeeze his eyes shut. “You aren’t real. You aren’t here with me now.”

“Eamonn, of course I am.” He flinched as her hands touched his cheeks, gently tracing the outlines of wounds that had smoothed with age. “What have they done to you?”

Though he knew it was a trap, his resolve shattered. With a ragged sound, he folded around his mother and drew her into his arms. She was so small, so delicate, in his strong grasp. He worried he might break her.

“My shield,” she said as she stroked his hair. “Hush now, Eamonn. I am here.”

“This is impossible, Mathair. You cannot be here in this twisted place.”

“I came as soon as I felt your presence. What are you doing here?” She pulled back to stare up at his face, and something inside him healed when she did not flinch away.

“Fionn must be stopped, Mathair.”

“Your brother is doing his best. It is all we can ask of him.”

“His best is not enough.”

“So you come here? Of all places?” Neve looked around, worry lines forming between her eyes. “I never understood your obsession with your grandfather. He and I never got along.”

He remembered. Their arguments were quiet, as his mother had always been, but powerful enough to push everyone from the room. She had kindness bred into her, but she was one of the Tuatha dé Danann who supported the old ways.

“My grandfather was a good man and brought about much change for our people.”

“Until we removed him from the throne,” she replied. “Eamonn, don’t do this.”

“I must.”

“If you take this throne, how long do you think you will stay upon it? You will show our people it is possible to dethrone a king. They will do it over and over again until the Otherworld is reduced to ruin. Let things stay as they are. It is safer that way.”

Eamonn’s lips twisted to the side. She had said the same things to him long ago before his twin had carved the future into Eamonn’s flesh.

Her hands upon his jaw turned him back towards her. He drowned in her pity, in the sadness of her eyes. “My son. Do not sit upon that sullied throne.”

Every word she said cut him to the bone. He pulled her close and pressed his lips against her forehead. Squeezing his eyes shut, he said against her, “I love you so much. Memories of you kept me alive for so long after I was banished. I remembered you brushing my hair as a child, singing lullabies, whispering stories in the dark after father had grown angry. I wish I could tell you all this in person.”

“You are.”

“You aren’t really here.” He squeezed her. “But whoever you are, you will need to do a lot better than this.”

His mother dissolved into thin air.

Eamonn ground his teeth together and spun in a circle. Spreading his arms wide he called out, “What else? What further evil do you have planned?”

Fingernails clicked as they wrapped around a spike of the dark throne. Ready to pull his blade, to run it through whatever phantom they called upon, he turned on his heel with a snarl.

He fell silent as Sorcha stepped around the throne.

They had clothed her as a princess of his people. Fine feathers slid across her curves, each dipped in gold and carefully sewn into the dress. Flakes of gold stuck to her fingers, tangled in her hair like stars, and dotted across her shoulders.

She was so beautiful.

His expression crumbled, and he twisted away from her. This was worse than his mother, worse than this twin. These spirits had no right to twist her form like this.

“Eamonn?” Sorcha asked. “Why do you turn from me?”

“You are not Sorcha.”

“Is this not to your liking? This is the form you desire most, is it not?”

He almost groaned. Her hands stroked his biceps, circling him until she stared up at his face. This was a truly talented trickster. She looked exactly the same.

“Eamonn,” she tilted her head to the side. “Kiss me.”

“No.”

“Do you no longer want me?”

“You know that would be impossible.”

“Then why won’t you kiss me?”

“Stop this.” His voice was little more than a croak. “Why must you torment me?”

Her hands smoothed over his chest, dipping into the crevices and circling the numerous wounds. “Sometimes tormenting is fun. Come with me, my love, let me show you.”

Her love. He bared his teeth in a grimace. “You aren’t playing fair.”

“I never said I would.” She looped an arm over his neck and pulled him down. “Come, my love, my life, come with me from this awful place.”

“You are not my Sorcha.”

She couldn’t be. Every person so far had not been the person he expected them to be. Why his mother and Sorcha were solid, he did not understand. But he knew this stunning phantom was not the woman his heart beat for.

“Let go of me,” he growled.

“Why? Don’t you want me?”

“Where is she?”

“Who?” Sorcha tilted her head to the side. “Don’t you mean me?”

“You are not Sorcha.”

“I could be, if you wanted. I would grovel at your feet, press kisses against your lips and worship the ground you walk upon.”

“That is not what I want.”

“Isn’t it? Why else would you choose a human woman? If you wanted an equal, you would have chosen a faerie.” She tsked and stepped back, smoothing her hands down her chest and stomach. “You wanted a druid, a forbidden creature to taste and sample until Sorcha grew old and frail. Leave the weak girl behind, Eamonn. Take me instead.”

“Never.”

“Why not?”

“She is not a weak woman, nor is she less because she is druid,” he snarled. “Her name on your lips is blasphemy.”

“You claim to care for her?”

“Her bravery, courage, and unwavering loyalty to my people captured my heart from the moment she first washed up on Hy-brasil.”

“Prove it. Prove that you care for her, more than anything else.”

“How?” He would do it. He wouldn’t hesitate to prove that she was the reason he drew breath.

“Choose.” She lifted a hand and pointed towards the throne. “Which future do you want, Eamonn?”

Another throne appeared next to his. Tangled vines and thorns stuck out in all directions from the roses blooming, but it was the shape that held his attention. Red hair peeked through the gaps of greenery, streaked with blood and sap.

A choked sound slipped off his tongue. He stumbled forward, but hesitated when he remembered that everything had been an illusion thus far. “Is it really her?”

“Of all the things you’ve seen, that is the only truth.” The other Sorcha leaned against his side. “You have two futures before you. One as king, seated upon your throne knowing she is safe and sound. Beside you, yes, but also kept safe from all you fear. The other future is that she is free to wander on her own.”

“Why wouldn’t I choose the second?”

“You can’t control her if she wanders free. Sorcha will continue to grow into her own power, finding her history, her family, her culture. Everything you love may change and grow into something else.” She traced a circle on his chest. “Just how much do you want to ensure your future, High King?”

To be certain she was safe would be a pleasure he had never considered. Consorts of kings had suffered worse, at least she would be alive.

“Can she see?” he asked, voice cracking.

“No. She is awake, but not. Dreaming without sight, sound, or touch.”

“So she isn’t really alive under all that.”

“An offer for you, Eamonn of the Seelie Court. If you leave her here, she will join with the rest of her ancestors. She will live among the roses for all eternity at your side.”

For all eternity, the words echoed over and over again. She wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t have to watch her grow old, crumbling to dust in his hands. Centuries of loneliness spread out ahead of him without her. He could keep her safe and preserved.

But it wasn’t his choice. She was a fiercely independent woman and Eamonn had no right to make these decisions for her. He could only keep her safe for so long.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “She is not mine. She is her own being and I will not take that from her.”

The Sorcha beside him flashed a feral grin. “Then go to her, High King. Free your bride and remember that we told you not to take this throne.”

“Why?”

The thing burst into shadows and rushed away, giggling so loud that the halls echoed with its screeches.

Halls.

Mist and fog disappeared. Eamonn stood in the same place he had when Sorcha disappeared through the wall.

He spun to the wall of roses, seeing only an open space where the plants had once stood. Charging through, he rushed into the throne room with the giant glass sun while shouting, “Sorcha!”

Two thrones stood at the end of the hall. One black, the other covered in red roses. She sat upon the queen’s throne, bound into place by the very beauty that set her apart.

He blew out a horrified breath and ran to her. His eyes did not stray to Nuada’s throne, to his birthright, to anything other than her.

She needed him.

Falling to his knees, he ripped at the thorns that tore his flesh. Crystals flashed into view, peeking through tiny holes in his hands. The fine bones of his wrists creaked with stone that sent shivers of magic pulsing through his veins.

“Hold on,” he growled as he pulled at the plants. “I’m here, Sorcha. I’m here.”

The sound of her exhalation was music to his ears. He yanked her hands free and pressed them against his face.

“Can you hear me?” he asked.

She did not respond.

Frantic, he stood and ripped vines away from her head. The flowers shrieked as they pulled away. There were leaves in her mouth, he realized.

He scooped his fingers between her lips, pulling handfuls of plants out. Over and over again, he yanked leaves and vines away until she let out a moan and then gasped.

“Eamonn!” she cried out.

“I’m here,” he pulled her out of the throne and wrapped his arms around her. His soul settled, peace finally easing the tension in his neck. “I’m here, mo chroí. I am so sorry.”

“This was not your fault,” she coughed as she spoke. “This was mine.”

“Do not blame yourself.”

“I should never have brought us here. You were right, this is a dangerous place.”

“We will find another castle.” He pressed his lips against her forehead and tightened his hold. He had almost lost her. Again. “We will leave this cursed place and never return.

“I cannot.”

“We can, Sorcha. This is not the only option for us.”

“I cannot, Eamonn!” She pulled away, her green eyes dark and haunted. “This castle echoes with the souls of my people. Druids, like me. I told them I would stay, I took the throne.”

“You did what?”

He stumbled backwards, looking at her as if he had never seen her before. He had fought against the demons of his past, denied his birthright, and she had taken the throne?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. “Eamonn?”

“They told me not to take the throne.”

“Who?”

“Your people.”

She licked her lips. “These are the thrones of Nuada and Ethniu. They wish us to walk in their footsteps, following the path they carved together.”

“Does that future not belong to me as well?”

“It was a test,” she said. Her eyes were as large as the moon. “They were testing you, Eamonn.”

“And what was the test?”

She believed the words she said. He could see the truth in her eyes and taste it on the air. But what could such a test prove? That he had a weakness?

Another voice joined them, deep and unfamiliar. “A test you passed, my boy.”

The man was old. He wore a wrap of fur and balanced upon a cane, but Eamonn was certain the ancient exterior hid powerful magic.

“Did I?” Eamonn asked. “And what was the test?”

“That you would take care of my granddaughter.”

“Granddaughter?” Eamonn looked from Sorcha to the new man. “I see no family resemblance.”

“Then you are far less capable than I thought you to be. She is mine, and if you wish to take her, then I needed reassurance you would treat her well.”

“Have I not thus far?”

“You have ignored her. You have fostered a fear of her own magic and controlled your people while not listening to her words. You are a Tuatha dé Danann. You must excuse me, High King, but I do not trust you.”

Other words echoed underneath the deep tones. Suggestions of punishment should Eamonn make a mistake. But something else as well. Something older, and so powerful that it resonated in his tones.

Eamonn narrowed his eyes. “Just how old are you, grandfather?”

“Old enough to know when a boy is trying to back me into a corner.”

Sorcha reached out and touched Eamonn’s arm. “His name is Torin.”

“This is the druid who found you in the glade?”

“I am,” Torin replied.

“You are not what you appear.”

Eamonn pulled Sorcha into his arms, tucking her behind his broad back as he pieced the stories together. “How many generations have passed since you were her grandfather?”

“Seven.”

Although surprised Torin would respond so easily, Eamonn recognized the game. “You said you were a druid?”

“Yes.”

“Were you something else before?”

“Yes.”

Sorcha pulled against his arm. “What are you doing, Eamonn? He’s my family!”

“That is Ethniu’s throne behind you, is it not?”

Torin lifted a brow and placed a hand upon the back. The roses twined around his wrist as he nodded. “It is.”

“And you sat upon that throne yourself, didn’t you?”

“Clever boy,” the ancient man chuckled. “Take care of her.”

A blast of air pushed them back as Torin disappeared from the room. The thrones remained, symbolic but still pulsing with power.

“You know who he is,” Sorcha exclaimed.

“I do.”

“Who?”

“Ethniu’s father, King Balor.”

“I thought he was dead?”

“We all think the ancient ones are dead, but they exist in some manner.” Eamonn glanced down at her, brows furrowed in worry. “You are King Balor’s granddaughter?”

“And you are Nuada’s grandson.”

He had grown up with the legends of Balor, the Fomorian god. His third eye would open and cast destruction wherever it looked. He had been the only one capable of defeating the original Tuatha dé Danann on the battlefield. A great king, a horrible enemy, and the father of the druid race.

And now, he looked upon the fearsome creature’s granddaughter with new eyes.

“Do you fear me now?” she asked. “I did not know who I was.”

“No, mo chroí. I am in awe of you.”

“Good. I would not want you to see me differently because of this.”

“Come here.” He yanked her forward and pressed his lips against hers. “We will weather this storm, as we have all others.”

“Is this a storm? Who my family is?”

“It is a sign. We bring together families, people, races that have never existed side by side before. We are the beginning of a new age, Sorcha. Together.”

He swept her into his arms and carried her from the haunted place. Spirits fled from his shadow as he brought them into the light. And in that moment Eamonn made a vow to himself that he would protect her from everything.

Even herself.