12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Iwas running. The forest stretched endless around me, trees rising like pillars carved from shadow. Moonlight fractured through the canopy, silver beams dripping across damp earth, every sound sharpened—breath, heartbeat, the crunch beneath my boots.
A bow thudded heavy against my back, its weight as natural as breath. In my hand, my dagger gleamed, steady, balanced, mine. My body moved with a hunter’s grace, each step sure, silent.
I wore leathers, dark and worn, bracers strapped at my wrists, a cloak cut short against the brush. Wild waves tumbled from beneath my hood, catching the moonlight like strands of flame.
I was stalking something.
Not mortal. Not half-born. Not even a demigod. Other.
The air trembled with it. The forest shifted around its presence.
I crouched low, dagger angled, bow whispering against my shoulder as I eased forward. Muscles coiled, waiting. My blade was poised, breath shallow—every nerve alive.
And then it was gone.
I gasped awake, lungs sipping in air. Darkness pressed close, familiar and small after the boundless forest. Yet the phantom weight of bow and dagger still clung to me. My fingers flexed uselessly at my side, reaching for steel that wasn't there.
Sweat dripped from my temples. My heart hammered too fast for a dream that should have slipped away the minute I woke up. But it hadn’t. The scent of moss, the hush of branches, the pulse of something not mortal still lingered, sure as if I’d carried it back with me.
I shoved the coverlet aside and sat up, breath ragged, staring into the dim stillness.
The dream had felt too much like Sight. Too much like truth.
The tug in my chest pulsed again, a rusty hook trying to sink into consciousness. I pressed my hand there, attempting to ground myself. That’s when I felt it, the godsforsaken bond. It thrummed through me, foreign and alive, as though Tairngire had left a piece of himself lodged under my ribcage.
Great, so last night hadn’t been a nightmare.
I dressed briskly, forest-green robes falling heavy across my frame.
Sacred colors of the First Forest, a prison dressed in the brilliance of divine light.
Bound to a god, bound to service for eternity, bound to walk realms I was never meant to.
Which ones? And why? The questions clawed, unanswered.
Raised voices cut through my brooding.
I opened the door to Saorla and Branwyn mid-bicker—words snapping over the kindling in the hearth.
“Mark my words, Crone. You will not drag her off on another of your harebrained schemes,” Saorla bit out, her arms crossed, eyes hawk-sharp.
Branwyn leaned against the table, hood shadowing her grin. “Oh, relax, old bird. She’s not porcelain. And she needs to come with me today.”
“What she needs,” Saorla shot back, “is her wits about her, her feet where they belong. Not traipsing through gods-know-where because you’re bored.”
Branwyn’s grin only widened. “Boredom makes saints of no one. Besides—” she tipped her head toward me as I stepped in, “speaking of the Seer herself. Perfect timing.”
Both pairs of eyes landed on me. Saorla’s piercing. Branwyn’s alight with mischief.
“What in the gods’ names are you doing here?” I muttered, staring at Branwyn.
She pushed off the table, hood falling back with the kind of dramatic flourish only she could pull off. “Ah, Aurenya lives. Good. Your sacred duties can wait a day. You’re coming with me.”
Saorla scoffed. “Over my dead body.”
“Careful,” Branwyn purred. “Tempt me with a promise like that, and I might take you up on it.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Goddess save me.”
Branwyn’s grin turned wolfish. “Not today. Come on, love. Just you, me, and the forest. And a few things I need to collect.”
Saorla made a low sound of warning. “I being the key word.” She shook her head and shot me a weary glance. “This will end in trouble, and you know it.”
Branwyn winked at me. “The best kind.”
“And then,” I said, ducking under a low branch, “after leaving a cryptic note at my door like some wandering minstrel, he appears in between the trees—late, mind you—like I was the one inconveniencing him.”
Branwyn’s head snapped toward me, eyes wide. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“You have to be,” she said at once, then plucked a sprig of yarrow, slipping it into her satchel. “Because no sane god would be that absurd.”
“Apparently, this one thrives on absurd.”
She gasped, throwing her hand to her chest with theatric flare. “You’re telling me he actually left a riddle at your door? What’s next? Blood? Starlight?
“Branwyn.”
“What?” She was grinning, shameless. “I thrive on details, Aurenya.”
I rolled my eyes skyward and crinkled my nose. Thrived on drama was a more accurate statement. “It said to meet him when the last star crowns the night sky above Anam Lac.”
“Oh, great divine.” She doubled over laughing, nearly missing the foxglove she was about to pick. She steadied herself, brushing the purple bells tenderly, though her voice remained merciless. “That is—even for a god—ridiculous. Did he swoon when you arrived? Recite more poetry at you?”
“No,” I snapped. “He insulted my cloak.”
Her mouth fell open again. “He—Wait.” She leaned closer, scandalized. “He insulted your cloak?”
“Yes. Said it was impractical.” I scratched the back of my neck. “Which is fair. But it’s all I have, you know.”
Branwyn straightened, utterly delighted. “Oh, I like him already.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, eyes narrowed. “Of course, you do.”
She breezed past, effectively ignoring me, stooping to snap a stalk of mugwort. “And then what? Don’t skip.” She wagged a finger at me as if I’d dare.
I exhaled sharply. “The Fates appeared.”
Branwyn froze, mugwort in her hand, staring at me like I’d just confessed to bedding a god. “The Fates?”
“Yes.”
“The actual three?”
“Yes.”
Her jaw dropped so far I had to resist the urge to shove her mugwort into it. “By the Weave, Aurenya. And you just”—she made a wild gesture— “drop that in like you’re talking about supper?”
“I didn’t think dramatics were necessary,” I muttered. Heat rose in my chest again.
She shook her head, tossing the mugwort into her satchel. “You’re hopeless.”
We kept walking. She was still muttering something about forced despondency when I let the next words slip.
“They bound me to him.”
She froze mid-step, turned, blinked at me like she’d misheard. “I’m sorry. Come again?”
“The Fates.” My throat tightened, but I kept walking. “They bound me to him. To Tairngire.”
Her gasp sucked the air out of the forest. “WHAT?!”
A crow startled from the branches above, cawing as it vanished.
I winced. “Gods above and below, Branwyn! Keep your voice down.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Branwyn was stalking after me now, golden curls bouncing as she shook her head violently. “You don’t casually announce that the Fates stitched you to a god.”
“It wasn’t—”
“Oh, it was!” she grabbed my arm, cutting me off, her mouth wide with horrified delight. “Tell me everything. Did they cut your palm? Did you bleed into the Weave? Did he get down on one knee? Don’t you dare leave out a word, Aurenya!”
I scowled at her. “I handled it.”
“You handled…” She barked a laugh that carried through the trees. “Handled being soul-bound to the Awakener himself like some mortal plaything presented to him like a gift?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I snapped, sharper than I meant. Anger bit at my ribs.
Branwyn’s grin only widened.
“Oh, this is fabulous,” she breathed, plucking thyme without looking. “Our sacred, solemn little Seer—bound to the most arrogant god in the Seven Realms.” She pressed the sprig under her nose as though it were the sweetest thing she’d ever scented. “If the High Priestess finds out…”
“She already knows, so does Brannach. They orchestrated the entire. Horrific. Ordeal.” I said, venom in every word.
That shut her up for a beat—long enough for the wind to scatter gold light through the leaves. Then she let out a low, incredulous laugh.
“Holy shit,” she said, shaking her head. “They’ve gone and tied you to trouble incarnate, sister.”
I shot her a withering look. Branwyn, merciless, simply plucked more sage. “Tell me, can you feel him now? Is he lurking in that incessant mind of yours, listening to your every thought?”
“If he is,” I bit out harshly, “he’s hearing me imagining strangling you with your own cloak right now.”
Branwyn’s grin split wide. “Oh, gods above, you can feel him!”
Heat prickled in my chest. “It’s not like that. It’s—”
Her eyes gleamed, wicked. “Does it tug when he thinks of you? Did you wake flushed in the middle of the night?”
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “Damn you, Branwyn.”
A throat cleared ahead. Deep. Commanding. Enough to halt us both mid-step.
The sunlight cut in shafts through the trees. And there he was.
Leaning against a trunk like he’d been there all along.
No hood this time. His wild, sunlit curls caught the light, carving him out of shadow and gold.
Emerald eyes gleamed like blades beneath the shade, fixed right on me.
And that grin—gods, that grin—hooked at his mouth in a sinful way, one that made my blood pump faster through my veins.
Leathers clung to him, cut for movement, muscle shadowed beneath like the forest had forged him. Golden runes curled over his skin, alive in shifting light. He looked every inch the god everyone in Anmcroí whispered about—the Stagborn, the Awakener. Broad, unbending and smug as ever.
And me?
I was furious.
Furious that I was bonded to him by Fate. Furious that the air caught in my lungs every time he appeared from nowhere. Furious that my stomach betrayed me, low and traitorous. Furious that of all the trees in this cursed wood, he had chosen that one to lean against like the arrogant bastard he was.
I folded my arms tight, voice honed sharp. “Of course. Because why wouldn’t you be here, looming like some carved idol in leathers?”