Chapter 6
The world around Cian snapped back into focus with an abrupt jolt, as if some unseen hand had thrown the switch on reality.
From the fuzzy recesses of his mind, he felt the coolness of river stone beneath his paws, a harsh, biting contrast to the simmering heat of rage that coursed like molten lava through his blood.
The scent of burning peat and a pungent smoke thickened the air around him. Failinis, his ferocious wolf spirit, snarled deeply, a primal sound that reverberated through the caged room that separated them. Cian’s lips twisted into a snarl that matched Failinis’s.
The wolf revealed teeth that were more than capable of crushing bone with the greatest of ease.
Failinis was coiled like a spring ready to launch into action, instinctively prepared to strike at anyone who dared approach.
Yet the golden ropes that bound him were no ordinary snares.
Their magic hummed around them, fiercely locking his muscles in place and leaving him with no choice but to remain still against his will.
Burncourt.
What was going on? Why had they been brought to his father’s house?
We are pledged to Fionn.
I know, Failinis.
Through the wolf’s eyes, the rath’s imposing timber walls loomed around him, their aged surfaces rough and solid, each splintered crevice a testament to time’s passage.
He scanned the hall, paused on his father, and the silent snarl became audible and loud enough to rattle the walls.
A pissed-off Grá Croí who’d been separated from his mate was not to be trifled with, and his father knew it.
It is why he had us bound.
I agree, Failinis
The wolf refused to be cowed by the unwavering figure of authority his father presented with his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, his expression unreadable yet intensely focused.
From the time they had come of age, both he and his wolf had refused to be ruled by their father.
It was why they had trained so hard and attended the warrior games in secret.
Pledging their allegiance to the High King of the Fianna, Fionn had enraged their father.
But the other option would have been a fight for the leadership of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
The last thing he wanted to do was lead the clans.
Warriors he could handle; clans, planting crops, and magic…
not his favorite thing to do. Especially not when he had three brothers coming up behind him who were much more suited to the role.
Behind his father, two of Cian’s brothers, Cú and Cethen, flanked the hearth like a pair of sentinels. He couldn’t tell if they agreed with what was happening by their rigid and tense stances or if they too were victims of their father’s manipulations.
If they helped him take us, I’ll kill them all.
He was as angry as his wolf. But Cian was more than aware how Cethen craved the king’s role.
If Cian broke his allegiance to Fionn and the Fianna and returned to the fold, the clans would follow him, whether he wanted them to or not.
If he was in Cethen’s place the last thing he would want was the heir to the throne returning and taking over.
Two out of three brothers were accounted for.
Where is the other one?
Failinis scanned the hall, looking for the youngest of them all.
There, near the door.
Miach’s arms were wrapped around his stomach, which spoke of unease.
When Failinis turned his massive head toward him, his eyes darkened with something that resembled pity.
That gaze dredged up the bitterest memories and the most painful realizations; his Grá Croí would die.
It was like a dagger pressed against his heart, and Failinis thrashed against the constraining ropes, a guttural growl tearing from his throat.
The wolf and the man fought against the binding magic that held them captive.
Cian’s spirit howled in defiance, echoing the snarls of his wolf brother.
He urged Failinis to break free, to assert his will against the golden prison ropes.
He refused to be leashed like some lowly, common hound of the realm.
He was a creature of power, spirit, and fire, a being forged in the crucible of war, and he refused to be subdued like this.
“Enough!” Dian Cecht roared. “Shift back, Cian. Now.”
The command snapped through the room, a decree meant to be obeyed without question or hesitation.
Failinis bared his teeth in response; saliva dripped from his mouth onto the smooth river rock floor, an instinctual, visceral response to his father’s demand.
No.
The refusal echoed powerfully in Cian’s mind, resonating with the deep-rooted instinct to resist. If he did not shift, his father could not use him or force him to bend to his will.
“Shift now. As your father and your king, I order you to shift now.”
I am sworn to Fionn.
Not you.
It was as if Dian Cecht viewed Cian, not as a son or a warrior, but as a disobedient child in need of correction.
He lifted a hand, fingers weaving through the air, and the golden ropes tightened their grip around Cian with an intensity that flared bright as the midday sun.
Burning, searing pain lanced through Failinis’s expansive form, piercing through Cian’s very essence and forcing the shift before he could muster enough resolve to resist.
Bones cracked and shifted, and sparks flew as his fur receded into his skin. His muscles twisted and contorted in a chaotic dance of transformation. The agony that flooded through him was a visceral reminder of the power he harbored within but was now being forced to relinquish.
With a gasp, Cian crashed into the cold floor, the thud of his naked form reverberating through the chamber as he shivered in shock, trembling not just from the chill of the stone but from the shame that flooded every corner of his mind.
The ropes magically adjusted and bit cruelly into his wrists and ankles, marking his skin with their golden threads.
He shot a glare upward at his father, chest heaving from the torrent of emotions inside him, and he could only muster the words that felt both damning and liberating in the same breath. “You’ve lost your damn mind.”
Dian Cecht crouched before him, tilting Cian’s chin up with a finger that felt simultaneously like the softest caress and the coldest accusation. “Have I? Or have you forgotten your place?”
Cian jerked his head away, anger boiling hotly in his veins. “I pledged myself to Fionn. To the Fianna. You had no right—”
“You are my son.” Dian Cecht’s voice dropped to a lethal whisper that seemed to darken with every syllable. “And you will do as you’re told.”
At that moment, Cú stepped forward, his imposing figure blocking the light from the fire, casting a wide shadow that loomed ominously over both brothers. “Father, this is madness. The Grá Croí bond—”
At least one brother is on my side.
“Is a complication,” Dian Cecht retorted sharply, not even breaking his stern gaze from Cian. “A complication we will remedy.”
Cethen shifted uneasily, his usually calm demeanor fracturing under the strain of their father’s words. “You can’t just—”
“Enough!” The command echoed off the walls of the dimly lit chamber, cutting through the heated exchanges amongst his sons.
Dian Cecht stood tall, raising his hand, the gesture imbued with authority, making the air feel charged with expectation.
“Cian will be cleansed of this... attachment. The bond will be broken before the next full moon, and his marriage to the daughter of Tuireann will take place before the night ends when the sunlight floods the tomb of Newgrange.”
The hell it will.
You will not take my Grá Croí from me.
Or force me to marry another.
Cian felt his heart twist cruelly inside his chest; the very notion of breaking the bond that had started to build with Reaper twisted like a knife within him, bringing forth the bitter realization of what that could mean—not just for him but for Reaper as well.
The repercussions echoed in his mind, and the mark inscribed on his arm burned searingly in response, as though the very concept had ignited his blood with the flames of the underworld.
He lunged against the golden ropes binding him, the harsh fibers biting into his skin, but he was undeterred by the pain.
“You don’t get to decide this!” He slammed every ounce of fierce determination fueling the anger coursing through his veins into his voice.
“You do not get to deny me what the fates have promised.”
Dian Cecht’s dark eyes flared, and his jaw clenched. “I decide everything when it comes to my bloodline.” His declaration hung heavily in the air, causing Cian to feel the full pressure of it, smothering and almost choking the breath from his lungs.
Cú stepped forward, a massive presence that blocked the flickering firelight. “Calm yourself, brother. Fighting won’t help.” His voice was steady, working as a stabilizing force amidst the turmoil swirling around them.
Cian spun around to face him, teeth bared, rage igniting like a wildfire in his eyes. “You’re just going to stand there? Let him do this?” His disbelief was palpable; he could hardly fathom the possibility that compliance with breaking the most sacred bond of all was even an option.
Cú’s jaw tightened, his resolve evident as he answered, “What would you have us do? Defy our father? Start a war with the Tuireann?” His words were steeped in wisdom, grounded in the reality of their world and the overwhelming consequences of rebellion.
“And what of war with Fionn and the Fianna?” Cian shot back, his heart pounding in rebellion, a wild urge to protect Reaper and their bond propelling every word from his lips. “I have pledged myself to him.”
“Fionn hasn’t been seen in more than five thousand years.” Dian Cecht smirked, “I doubt a dead man is going to have a problem with a broken vow.”
They don’t know.