The Mortal Queen (The Aisling Trilogy #1)

Chapter I

CHAPTER I

Some say they arrived on dark clouds, descending towards the Earth on ships forged from thunderheads. Some say they emerged from the world beneath the waves, born of the deep—a land where even tyrants could not spread their hands and conquer. And still others believe they were here all along, living parallel to mankind. Between the trees, beneath the mountains, within the wind. Just beyond mortal touch.

To Aisling, it mattered not where the Aos Sí came from, from what abyss the fair folk crawled from. Only that they were savages the Forbidden Lore considered warriors, heroes, ancient deities, breathed to life by the blood of the Forge. They were feral, fierce, powerful, a race that defied all that mankind had done to carve itself into the earth.

To Aisling, the Aos Sí were a punishment. Divine retribution for mankind’s condemnation of the Forbidden Lore, the tales of creation, and the origin of the Earth.

“Are you afraid?” her mother asked, cloaking Aisling’s face with a scarlet veil. The torchlight caught the beading of her crimson gown, setting the princess ablaze like a cave of twinkling rubies.

“No,” Aisling lied, grateful for the veil shrouding her expression. Although fear had its uses, the proclamation of it rarely did. Not to mention, Aisling wouldn’t give her mother the satisfaction. Clodagh believed she was weak. Believed she was unfit to sacrifice herself for Tilren or the North. A sentiment that mirrored her father’s own. Had she not been the only daughter of noble birth in all the Isles of Rinn Dúin, perhaps she wouldn’t be here, dressing herself for the unimaginable.

Three knocks sounded against her chamber doors. Before either of the women could grant permission, the door swung open. Four young men entered, only a handful of years Aisling’s senior, each dressed in Neimedh tartans and Tilrish finery: Starn, Fergus, Iarbonel, and Annind.

“It’s time, Sister,” Starn, the eldest of her brothers, proclaimed. He swallowed, studying Aisling’s dress, her slippers, her sweeping veil, the crown of ebony braids that unraveled like ink down her spine.

Aisling tore her eyes from her brothers, a sharp pain splintering her heart. She didn’t look like herself; these were not Tilrish clothes nor styles. And what’s more, Starn’s gaze was one of mourning, indulging in this fleeting moment, place, person, soon to be a memory. Soon to be forgotten. Soon to be gone.

Aisling nodded, straightening her posture and following her brothers from her quarters. They escorted her through their fortress, a formality, for she’d walked these halls a thousand times, ran through these very corridors as a barefoot child, the cook waving her wooden spoon, chasing her for stealing soda-bread before supper. Helping Starn sneak the wolfhound pups into their rooms, naming them after the Tilrish kings of the past, their great-grandfathers. Annind shushed her as they hid behind the study’s drapes from their father’s wrath, their toes peeking out beneath the scarlet trim.

Just beyond Castle Neimedh’s threshold, Fergus took Aisling’s hand as she climbed into her carriage. This was as far as her brothers would accompany her. Clann Neimedh, her family, all except her father, would travel separately until they arrived and met in neutral land, territory unclaimed by either mortal or fair folk.

But the world outside of Tilren, through the carriage window’s smudged pane, was not as Aisling remembered it. The wilderness, the land outside of Clann Neimedh’s reach, had grown wilder, more feral, inching towards her carriage, eager to catch a glimpse of her father’s generous offering, the Tilrish high king’s sacrifice in the name of the North. This unbridled land a direct foil to the scorched and burnt pastures closest to Tilren’s walls. And such blackened fields a declaration of mortal authority over the wilds.

But as the trees grew denser, the destriers pulling the carriage whinnied and stomped their hooves restlessly, eyeing the woodland as if the forest would swallow them whole. A host of tall, thin, wooden sentinels peeping from their beds of needles. Groaning as they extended their spidery fingers and scraped the carriage windows with their branches. And, indeed, the forest had dared to swallow Tilren whole, its creeping vines slithering up their stone terraces, burned again and again by mortal men. As if these leaves, roots, and flowers were another attempt on behalf of the fair folk to reclaim what was never theirs to begin with.

As a child, Aisling roamed these verdant fields, explored the crags that slumbered like mighty giants, danced through these wicked kingdoms of greenwood, oblivious to the perils of fair folk or, at the very least, uncaring. Bewitched by the natural world’s beauty and sung from her sleep to inhale its tempestuous opiate. But the violence of war, battle, and conquest had forced Aisling deep behind mortal walls until she was prohibited from ever stepping foot outside Tilren’s boundaries lest the sole mortal princess of the isles be captured by the fair folk.

“No matter what, Aisling, do not forget who you are,” Nemed told her, sitting on the carriage bench across from her own. Her father was a tall, broad man, handsome if it weren’t for the horizontal scar that stretched across the bridge of his nose and both of his cheek bones as though his head were nearly sliced in half––a mark bestowed by the Aos Sí themselves, a touch of their fury gifted by battle. “Do not forget the world that made you. They will try to deceive you. They will spin lies as easily as they spin their thread. No matter what or how much they take from you, do not let them take who you are or where you come from.”

Despite the cold, sweat dappled across Aisling’s forehead, her palms, her lower back. She didn’t dare respond to her father. Not unless he requested it or gave her permission. She only nodded, staring out the window once more. She would obey him. For, of course, she would never, could never, forget all she’d ever known: the iron keep and the family that had protected her all her life.

She heard the drums first. And as the night aged, the torchlight in the distance became her beacon in the darkness, a light she dreaded to approach, wishing rather to dissolve into shadow than travel any further. Indeed, Iarbonel had always been the one most afraid of the dark when the siblings were but infants, Aisling, despite her age, comforting her older brother when Nemed snuffed out the candlelight come evening. To Aisling, darkness was pure, whole, all-encompassing, capable of swallowing whatever it desired.

But onward they rode until Aisling could give form to the mass of black interrupted by firelight: crowds of creatures, tents, and blazing stakes nailed to the ground.

The beat of the drums drifted through the evening breeze, echoing off the walls of the cliffs. Great crags surrounding the seemingly endless expanse of wilderness where this ring of fire burned. Stone giants come to witness her fate.

“And remember, Aisling: even in your dying breath, never give them the satisfaction of seeing you wilt, witnessing your fear,” Nemed said, his voice low and as formidable as the thumping of the drums, like the heartbeat of the Forge itself. “You represent all of our kind when among them now. Never forget that.”

Aisling chewed on the inside of her cheek, sucking in a breath she scarcely possessed the courage to exhale. To release the air from the cage within her.

The carriage stopped. Aisling clutched the seat as the vehicle rocked, settling into place. It was time. They had arrived. Far quicker than the mortal princess would’ve liked, for even now she considered running, fleeing into the shadowed realm of the wood till she found her iron walls once more.

Outside those thin carriage doors, whispers from the crowd filled the air and Aisling had to stop herself from choking on their sound. Hundreds of murmuring voices, Aos Sí and mortals alike, awaiting her arrival. But there was another tongue Aisling didn’t recognize, hissing amongst the babbling of her own people.

Aisling looked to Nemed for direction. He met her eyes as the door opened, nodding encouragingly as he gestured for her to exit. A glimmer of warmth flashed across the violet eyes they shared, a glimpse of vulnerability, of affection, of love, appearing as swiftly as it vanished.

Her eldest brother, Starn, stood waiting outside the carriage, lips pressed into a thin, hard line. Since Aisling was a child, she’d imagined this day, of all days, unraveling differently: her mother, Clodagh, beaming with pride, Tilrish pipes bellowing in the northern winds, her brothers’ teasing shaking the carriage. But never had she anticipated the glint of fury, as sharp as a blade, in Starn’s gaze. The mournful edge to Nemed’s usual stony expression.

Nemed offered his daughter his gloved hand as he awkwardly disembarked himself, both legs made of iron prosthetics, another gift from the Aos Sí.

The sea of spectators hushed the moment he emerged.

Aisling swallowed the stone in her throat and accepted her father’s gesture. Perhaps the last time, the princess realized, she might hold her father’s hand.

The throng of guests continued to murmur wildly, gasping as the princess stepped forth from her carriage and walked through the path of parted attendees. Aisling stared at the grass beneath her slippers, slickened by the dew beading on its blades. She couldn’t bring herself to face this foul species. To brave the frightful tales she’d overheard her wet-nurses spin when they believed her asleep, ghost stories summoned in the flesh around her.

Nevertheless, even from the corner of her eye, she witnessed how the Aos Sí towered above the mortals amongst them. Felt the intensity of their unrelenting glares, studying her every step. These fair folk despised her. Loathed every drop of blood that made her human.

Nemed brought both himself and his daughter to an abrupt stop. Aisling lifted her gaze, fighting the invisible weight pressing her eyeline to the earth. For now, Aisling and her father stood alone at the center of the circle of fire, surrounded by both races. Races who kept their distance, dividing themselves down either side of the circle. Fortunately, the night veiled the Aos Sí’s fine features, a small mercy to the princess. She need not lose her resolve now. Not yet.

“As high king of the Isles, I gift my daughter, Aisling of the Clann Neimedh, the sole northern princess,” Nemed declared, holding Aisling by the arm with an iron grip.

“ There is no greater honor. ” Aisling fought with herself internally. “ This is your purpose. ” That was what Nemed had told her. What her tuath and court had branded into her mind over the past several months.

Clodagh and all four of Aisling’s brothers, as well as the majority of the Tilrish court, stood frozen on her right-hand side. They were waiting, searching the crowd. Fear flickered across their expressions. Their terror for these wicked beasts near tangible in the shared wind, thick enough to slice. Doubt crept into her brothers’ knuckles the more tightly they grasped the hafts of their blades. It was a pointless reflex, Aisling knew. Swords, weapons—even if made of undiluted iron—would bear little consequence against so many Aos Sí gathered in one place. By now, there was nothing to prevent these savages from taking what they wanted.

Through the folds of Aos Sí, three riders emerged. They rode ivory stags, larger and mightier than any steed Aisling had laid eyes on––dressed in strange armor and crowned by their tangling diadem of antler and bone. But the riders, gilded by the firelight, were plated in sheets of fine metals themselves, armor so slick, so strange, Aisling’s breath caught at the sight.

A year ago, Aisling never could’ve imagined laying eyes on a member of the Aos Sí, these primeval deities imbued with ancient, arcane magic and power. Much less stand before them as she did now. It was enough to stun her. To erase the fear, the nerves, even for a moment. But even fear itself was intoxicating, a perfume Aisling was eager to smell more of. To quicken the pace of her heart and breath, both tempered into strict obedience all her life.

The three riders dismounted and lined themselves before the mortal princess and Nemed. The two flanking fae followed the center rider’s example, fae knights, legendary warriors nursed on death’s tonic. Mortal children battled in Tilren’s thoroughfares with spatulas as swords and cutting boards as shields, the largest among them pretending to be these primeval warriors ambushing Tilren’s streets and laying waste to their mortal homes, claiming their wives, and devouring their babes. Reenacting the stories they’d all been taught.

The center rider removed his antlered helmet and tossed it to the side. Through her veil of scarlet, Aisling willed herself to meet his eyes. Her hands may have trembled at her sides, her knees weak with fear, but she was no coward. So, with every ounce of will she could muster, she fixed her violet eyes upon him. She knew not his name, but she knew he was the one who would take her. The one who would accept the mortal offering. And beyond anything she could have imagined, what stood before her was far worse than anything she’d dreaded.

He was remarkable in appearance, stealing her breath the moment their gazes connected. His eyes, viridescent, were not the shade of the swaying oaks, the weeping willows, the bristling pines. They were the trees, imbued with the spirit of the forest. They were the green of an arcane wood, the blurred portrait of every tree and shrub and flora that bloomed from the earth. The whisper of their leaves in spring’s gale.

That was not all that left Aisling’s stomach in knots. His dark hair swept his fine cheekbones, several strands braided at random. He bore the great fae height for which they were renowned and the pointed ears. Features Aisling often heard described in passing amongst the chambermaids after their shifts in the dungeons. And just above the collar of his armor, Aisling could see his warrior markings trailing the edge of his throat.

He was beautiful. Frighteningly so. All the fair folk were, but nothing like the creature that stood before her, indulging her as she did him. His armor was the most intricate, artfully forged as if by the supple fingers of the rivers themselves. And as he stood before them all, the mortals, the forest, the crags, and even the Aos Sí held a collective breath, in either veneration or fear, Aisling couldn’t tell. Perhaps both.

Aisling dared a glance at her father then at her tuath standing to the side, to see if they felt as overwhelmed, as struck and dumbfounded as she did herself. For these fair folk were not the ghoulish monsters they’d been described as, those hunched creatures who lurked in the wilds eager to steal mortal land and women alike. Ugly, demonic entities that shied away from the light.

Perhaps this was an enchantment , Aisling realized. The Aos Sí were known for their mischief, capable of wielding unnatural powers.

“ They will try to deceive you. They will spin lies as easily as they spin their thread .” Aisling repeated what her father had told her, rehearsing it till it grew stale in her mind.

The princess struggled to catch her breath. Obviously, she’d never laid eyes on one of the Aos Sí before. Much less one of their kings. She’d seen illustrations, drawn her own conclusions based on the tales she’d been taught since she bore the capacity to sit still long enough to enjoy them. But this noble fae who towered over her was beyond anything her imagination was capable of conjuring even if they’d been described correctly. A savage, yes. A barbarian, yes. Something touched by an otherworldly hand. But there was more. More than she’d anticipated but couldn’t quite articulate.

And just as she studied this fae king, he studied her, exploring her like a predator appraises its prey. His gaze burned where it met her skin. Herself, flinching under his scrutiny, his disgust, his disapproval potent in the air between them.

Once he had his fill, he smiled wickedly, flashing two finely pointed canines. The very fangs that had disemboweled hundreds before her, the princess imagined. Innocent mortals who’d wandered too far from their homes. From the man-made world.

This wasn’t as it should have been. Aisling should’ve been gazing into another’s eyes, reassured by mutual love, trust, excitement for the future and all the Northern Isles. Another should have stood before her, her mother by her side, her brothers laughing, her father swallowing mead with the king of Roktling in celebration.

Aisling shivered and her skin grew colder the nearer these beasts approached. These creatures could slay the princess and her clann on a whim. With a flick of their wrists. With curses they hissed beneath their breath. But her father had known the dangers and organized this trade regardless.

The fae king gestured to the riders beside him. At his silent command, each unsheathed their greatswords and the metal screeched against their scabbards. All but the knight furthest to the right, who instead, unsheathed one of two twin axes.

Aisling recoiled, reaching for her father, but Nemed remained still, chin held high before his enemies. Never had the high king wilted before a threat and Aisling didn’t believe he’d start now, even if in the presence of these strange creatures.

The rest of the humans, on the other hand, matched the princess’s shock, gasping. Her brothers took a step forward instinctively. The Aos Sí laughed, their chatter rippling through the mass of spectators. Strange voices, nearly ethereal. Like the gentle chime of bells ringing in a soft wind.

Lifting their fae weapons above their heads, Aisling held her breath. Would Nemed truly stand here and watch them slay her in cold blood without so much as a protest? Starn cursed beneath his breath, holding Iarbonel back by the arm. Her mother whimpered but remained stunned, unmoving. The princess wrenched her eyes shut, swallowing the stone lodged in her throat.to Aisling opened one eye, then the other. The fae king and his two riders staked their blades into the earth, a line of weapons standing to attention. Aisling exhaled a sigh of relief, hoping none had seen her flinch. Perhaps the veil had shielded her expression.

All three riders then turned their attention to Nemed and his daughter, waiting for a response. Aisling looked to her mortal high king, but he appeared just as bewildered as she. All these years at war and still, they knew so little about the Aos Sí. Even their language was as foreign as it had been the day these demons arrived centuries ago.

Her youngest brother and nearest in age to herself, Annind, stepped forward from the crowd and leaned close to her ear.

“You are to choose the correct blade, Ash,” Annind whispered. “Only one belongs to the fae king and it is not necessarily the one which he has unsheathed from his own back.”

Annind had studied the fair folk for as long as Aisling could remember. What began as a curiosity for the enemy of mortal man, grew into fascination and eventually a means to communicate, translate, and aid in such exchanges between the races. A knowledge and expertise to which Aisling was now eternally grateful.

The princess regarded the three weapons, each as unique and as strange as the wielders themselves. Aisling knew little of swords or axes or weapons. As princess of Tilren, she trained alongside her brothers, but never did she demonstrate any proficiency; her arrows never stuck their target, her kicks never formed the correct arc, and her muscles never carried more than a shortsword. And so, she’d lost interest in combat, preferring to ride and ride quickly, her only skill amongst a family bearing deadly talents. Talents she envied, for their knowledge of such practices made them great, and her lack thereof made her weak. A fact that bred fire in her bones.

Staked before her now, the sword on the left bore a pommel embellished with sapphires. The sword in the center boasted a braided, golden haft with a fuller engraved in what Aisling could only imagine was fae. And the axe to the right wore an elegant, knotted wooden haft followed by a wide, black head speckled with etchings and nicks. Metal, leafy vines wrapping around each.

Although the three riders appeared only a handful of years older than Aisling herself, she knew it to be a deception. The Aos Sí lived for centuries, and while mankind rotted in the earth, these strange warriors maintained their youth and strength. And a king, one of the descendants of the twelve fae monarchs, would have lived the longest, had likely wielded his blades since the mythic destruction of the Forge.

So, Aisling approached the axe on the right, a weapon whose hilt was pressed with mild indentations from ages of being gripped by the same hands.

The princess’s stomach fluttered as her eyes met the fae king’s. Despite the veil, he watched her, an invisible tether tangling between them, growing tauter the longer he stared. His eyes narrowed as she neared the axe on the right. There was a flicker of something—dread? Surprise?—flashing across his emerald eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving his expression a solid wall of ice. Nothing that revealed the nature of Aisling’s soon-to-be choice.

She swallowed, ignoring the mortal whispers clouding behind her. They knew as little as she, but they could make their own guesses. By the sound of their hushed protests, Aisling knew they believed her to be wrong. That her instinct was misguiding her. For now, she was standing before the axe on the right, her hand hovering over the pommel. The oldest, most ancient among them. Aged and certainly not fit for a king.

Aisling met the fae king’s eyes and placed her hand on the blade to the right.

Silence. His face didn’t budge from its scowl but his eyes glimmered with…something Aisling didn’t understand. The rest of the fair folk didn’t so much as twitch. It felt in that moment as if their breath was caught in their fair folk chests; the air was thick and oily with their anticipation.

“If that is your choice, Ash, then you must unstake it from the earth,” Annind elaborated from behind. His voice grated against the silence.

Aisling glanced at her clann. Clodagh, her brothers, Nemed, all patiently awaiting her decision. What would become of her if she chose wrongly? They returned her glance, exchanging a life of memories lived until now. Memories that were at times warm and friendly, laced with children’s laughter. Others were cold, distant, and lonely.

Nemed slowly met his daughter’s stare, his scar seemingly redder, deeper, as if agitated in the presence of its makers. The glazed, violet eyes only she and him shared, sparkling with grief.

The princess wrapped her fingers around the hilt and pulled. The axe didn’t budge, heavier than Aisling could’ve ever anticipated. The crowds of Aos Sí snickered, their resentment for the mortal princess now only matched by their amusement.

Aisling clenched her jaw, heat flushing her cheeks and nose.

Some legends claimed the bones of the Aos Sí were carved from the same rock the Forge built the mountains with, affording them divine strength. Aisling didn’t doubt it, for the blade she attempted to lift was immovable.

The fae king approached her then. Aisling’s stomach twisted and her heart thrashed, willing herself to hold steady as he stood behind her and knelt to his knees. Her joints stiffened and her chest tightened, growing numb from his sheer proximity. The weight of his nearness pressed through the lace, hovering above her exposed flesh.

From this position, the fae king wrapped his arms around the princess, taking hold of her hands. His fingers and palms were rough, calloused, burning where his skin grazed her own. The princess gasped. She’d never been touched by a man outside her immediate family but, of course, she needn’t remind herself that these were savages. They paid no mind to the customs of civility or propriety.

Together, they slid the blade from the grass beneath them.

Relief swept over Aisling as the king raised the axe from the ground and held it above their heads, still gripping the axe’s haft and Aisling’s hands.

The crowd cheered and the music burst into rhythm once again. The fair folk banged their weapons against their shields, stomped their feet against the earth, and shouted words Aisling couldn’t understand. But despite their newfound fervor, their excitement, their anger still radiated their resentment, their confusion written across their ancient faces.

Aisling had chosen correctly. Selected the weapon that belonged to the fae king.

Cringing at the sudden burst of commotion, she forced herself to stand tall, to not hesitate before either the Aos Sí, her tuath, or the mortals of the North. And meanwhile, the fae king stood from where he’d kneeled behind her, releasing her hands.

Aisling, against her own volition, turned to study his reaction. His brow was furrowed but his interest in the mortal princess had piqued, regarding her as though she were a riddle breathed into human form.

But the ceremony was not yet complete.

The two riders, the ones who’d entered on either side of the fae king, approached the princess and their sovereign.

“ Atrealia de mer ,” the dark-haired fae said, holding his own hand before him, palm facing the night sky. Aisling looked to Annind, standing a few paces away.

“Give him your hand,” her brother instructed, more confidently than Aisling knew he felt.

Reluctantly, Aisling did as he said, extending her hand and mirroring the fae knight and king beside her, their arms distorted reflections of one another. One sleeved in crimson jewels, lace, and velvet. The other, bound by thick fae markings, armor, and leather.

The second knight handed the first a ribbon, a ribbon braided with ivory florals and owl feathers. The fae king knotted his fingers through Aisling’s own. Aisling’s toes curled at the gesture, palm to palm. Flesh to flesh .

The dark-haired knight wrapped their hands together with the ribbon. The thorns of the flowers scratched Aisling’s skin but she didn’t protest. This was why she’d come. Why her clann had offered her to the fair folk.

“ De réig can bhriollú, gallian duic ,” the fae king began, wrapping the ribbon one, two, three times, “ an chéar ghlal eng mo chuig fola .” Four, five, six loops.

Aisling’s chest burned the longer they were bound together, something stirring wildly in her gut. She snuck a glance at the strange king, but he appeared unaffected, rather distantly studying the mortal princess and her efforts to remain still despite the pressure of the moment.

“By the Forge, I vow to you the first cut of my heart,” Annind translated for the sake of the mortals observing the ceremony, “the first taste of my blood, and the last words from my lips.”

And just like that, they were handfasted.

Her whole life, Aisling had imagined standing in Castle Neimedh, wearing a white gown, bowing before her father with the prince of Roktling at her side. Instead, she stood in the wilderness, in a circle of fire, bound to a fae king. A barbarian. An enemy. The antithesis to the world from which she was born and bred. An immense death took place in her heart for the life taken from her.

The second rider, the one whose hair lit like flames, drew a dagger from his belt and cut his king’s palm. Aisling winced. From there, the first rider lifted a goblet of wine to which the fae king offered his own blood. He squeezed his hand into a fist, so the blood oozed from the wound and dripped into the goblet itself.

Aisling knew what was to come next. They gestured for Aisling’s hand once more. The princess hesitated, daring a glance over her shoulder at the clann that stood behind her. Aisling’s brothers each swallowed, their muscles tightening beneath their woolen cloaks. Her mother shied away from her glance, unable or unwilling to meet her eyes, her father shifting where he stood.

The princess raised her hand. She inhaled sharply as the dagger sliced her flesh and stole the blood from her veins. It hurt, an acute pain that was thankfully brief. No worse than the nicks and scars she’d received escaping Castle Neimedh to secretly climb the trees outside the city walls, or exploring Tilren’s narrow passages at night.

Drop by drop, her blood was poured into the goblet, the same as had the king’s.

The fae lord drank first. He tipped the glass back and Aisling couldn’t help but stare as his throat bobbed in the gesture, skin glimmering in the firelight. Then it was Aisling’s turn. The king angled their bodies so he could lift her veil, their other hands still tangled in the rope. Aisling caught his stare. There was not a breath that passed where their eyes unlocked from the other, as he folded the veil over her crown of braids, witnessing the bare flesh of her cheeks, her pale complexion, her violet eyes. She felt naked before him. Heart hammering against her chest. More vulnerable than ever before. For he appraised her unapologetically, exploring her expression and the fear that no doubt ran rampant across her Tilrish features.

The fae king brought the goblet to her lips, and she drank. It tasted of iron as it slid across and stained her tongue. But such a flavor morphed into something else entirely, transformed into a sweet syrup, lighting her belly with fire. Something Aisling could’ve drunk for hours and never tired of. Like the sap the Tilrish kitchens would boil over the hearth when highland temperatures dropped, filling the city thoroughfare with spice and sugar. A memory Aisling now realized was nothing more than that: a memory never to be lived again.

As soon as she swallowed, the crowd erupted once more. The beat of their drums thrummed through her core, awaking a wild excitement she hadn’t realized she’d harbored until now.

The Aos Sí stomped their feet and banged their weapons against their shields. The mortals clapped and at last her father beamed wildly, masking the cold anger burning behind his violet eyes. The unsatiated rage her brothers ground into their teeth. For now, she was both married and a queen of the Aos Sí.