26. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tairngire’s expression shifted as I declined his offered hand to help me off the ground. I could stand up just fine without it.
He glared for a moment before dropping the hand he’d been holding out and tightened his fist. “Come,” he said, voice too even. “Eat. You’ll need your strength. The Obsidian Heart is close.
The world shifted—his doing. A small table appeared beneath a crooked bough, with sunlight draping across it. On it, bread was still steaming, honey was thick and golden, cheese was dusted with herbs, and—gods above—pomegranate juice.
I froze. My throat went tight. That sweet, jeweled liquid wasn’t something mortals saw more than once a year at the Festival of Falling Stars when a single cask was offered in Caer Anam.
Everyone knew it came from the Underworld.
Trade routes were guarded by the King of Ash’s infamous hounds.
To see it here, set out like nothing, was staggering to say the least.
I glanced at him. He was already pouring a glass, unbothered.
“You don’t need to eat,” I said, suspicion sharpening my voice. “So why…” My words died as I looked down at the spread again. Every detail of it was mine, down to the honey-drizzled figs I used to steal as a child. Things I’d never spoken aloud. Things he shouldn’t—couldn’t—know.
The pounding in my chest got louder. “How did you…”
He didn’t answer, just slid the cup of juice toward me, the liquid glimmering like blood in sunlight. That damned half-smile touched his mouth, beautiful and frustrating. Suddenly the food wasn’t just kindness. It was truth. He saw me more clearly than I wanted, and that terrified me.
The first sip was almost unbearably sweet. Festival nights in Caer Anam burned in my memory—bonfires, fleeting joy. When I opened my eyes, his hard gaze was fixed on me.
I set the cup down with more force than necessary, my fingers tightening around it. “How did you get this? It doesn’t fall into mortal hands. And it sure as the Godhead doesn’t come from yours.”
He tilted his head, regarding me with amusement.
Anger sharpened my voice. “You slaughtered a pack of Karthmor wolves. You expect me to believe the King of Ash handed this over freely? That there won’t be consequences?”
He rolled his eyes.
Rolled his eyes.
“Consequences,” he echoed, far too entertained.
My eyes narrowed. “Peace has held since the Thread Wars ended. Fragile as it is, it was held. If you’ve somehow broken it—”
“The Weave frays whether I test boundaries or not,” he cut in, leaning back lazily while I burned.
“You think I’m the one upsetting the balance?
Look closer.” He waved a hand in the air, confidence oozing from him in spades.
“The creatures crawl into realms they were forbidden to touch. You've seen them, felt them. You’ve tasted their blood. That is not my doing.”
My nails bit into my knees. Wolves, visions, rot spreading through Morhaven, bound in black thread serving the Underworld.
My blade sinking into sinewy flesh. But the truth didn’t ease the suspicion clawing at my chest. We still hadn’t discussed my past transgressions, and he didn’t seem in a rush to push me.
For now.
“So you expect me to believe,” I said, voice holding a lethal edge, “that you walk into the Underworld, slit throats, and they let you sip their wine and eat their fruit?”
His eyes brightened, just a flash. “I don’t sip,” he said roughly, “I take, and finish every last drop.”
My heart skipped a beat at the way that he enunciated those last three words. They were another reminder that Tairngire was not a god who followed rules. But breaking rules that could shatter realms was something else entirely.
I glared. “I have more questions than answers. And for all the knowledge you think my books have given me—”
“Books,” he drawled. “For all the knowledge you think they’ve show you, Little Seer, you wield them like armor and still walk blind.”
The pounding in my chest made its way to my head. “Don’t you dare. The Elder Sgàthánwing only just started showing me anything useful, anything that actually helps me make sense of this. Until then, all I had were the books and scrolls I had to steal, mind you…to teach me what I do know.”
That earned me a deep chuckle. “Of course, those creatures are nesting in your library. Sgàthánwing always knew to perch where knowledge could be plucked.”
“What is your problem with them? You hold disdain for the Priestess, for the temple, for the Fae. So, what is it about them?”
“Disdain? No. Quite the opposite.” He drummed his fingers on his knee casually, as if the world weren’t falling apart. “I rather like them, actually.”
That made me pause. I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me, or if there was honesty beneath his words.
He leaned forward, smile tugging at his mouth. “Eat,” he ordered, voice smooth. “Save your questions until you can walk without swaying.”
I scowled, but the pomegranate juice was too rare, too tempting. So, I ate, silent for once. Though my thoughts were storming loud as ever.
When the meal was gone, the table dissolved back into mist, and we set off into the woods again. The air felt denser, charged with things unsaid.
I broke the silence at last. “The Obsidian Heart. What is it? Why does the King of Ash want it? And why are you trying to get it first?”
He didn’t deflect, a rare occurrence. His stride slowed, his eyes dimming to something more human.
“The Obsidian Heart,” he said, “is no jewel or relic. It’s a fragment. A shard of what was broken before the realms were named.” His gaze slid sideways, as if distracted. “The King of Ash hunts it because fragments like that can be wielded, bent, reshaped. And his hunger is never sated.”
My pulse quickened. “And you?” I pressed. “Why you? Why chase it at all if it’s so cursed?”
He let out a long sigh, but there was no mockery in it this time—only a shadow of something darker. Frustration, maybe. “Because if he takes it first, Little Seer, then nothing you’ve seen—not plague nor war, nor the petty games of gods—will compare to what comes next.”
His words were still wrapped in smoke and half-truths, but heavier than before. And although I hated his cryptic way of speaking, part of me wanted to believe he wasn’t only toying with me.
I kicked at a root, exasperated. “Why are we walking, then? If timing is so dire? You could mist us anywhere in half a breath.”
Tairngire’s chuckle rumbled, low and rough. “Because in Morhaven, magic is dimmed. Every time it’s wielded here, it demands a cost.”
I stilled. Threads of memory pulled apart—his conjured feast, blades out of nothing, fire-bright runes when he tore through the wolves. He’d been wielding magic constantly, carelessly, or deliberately. What price had he already paid?
“You’ve used it again and again,” I said through my teeth. “So what’s the consequence, Tairngire?
He tipped his head, golden curls catching the light. “Worried about me, are you?”
I crossed my arms, refusing to acknowledge that. “Only because we’re bound by this damnable thread. If you get on the Godhead’s bad side, I do too, and I refuse to be dragged down by your petty arrogance."
He chuckled. “Mmm, keep telling yourself that. But we both know your bleeding mortal heart can't help but care.”
I bit my tongue, refusing to rise to the bait.
I was still glaring when he stopped in the path, turned, and extended his hand, opening his palm.
“Watch.”
I frowned but leaned closer. His bronzed skin was scarred faintly. Suddenly, lines of silver light threaded across his palm, runes flaring to life. For a breath, it was mesmerizing.
Then his jaw clenched. The runes flared hot, searing, before dimming abruptly. A raw cut split across his hand where nothing physical had touched him.
My chest tightened. “You hurt yourself…”
He flexed his hand, blood beading bright. Divines healed quick as breath, but this wound lingered.
“That,” he said between clenched teeth, “is the cost of wielding too freely in Morhaven.”
I looked at the cut, then at him, perplexed. His teeth were still clenched, as if he was bearing the pain of a mortal flesh wound. I would have teased him about it if I didn't have more questions. “I don’t understand. You fought those wolves yesterday—”
“And I could do it again.” His voice was gruff. “But every strike, every flame, every breath of power leaves a mark. The magic here isn’t ours. It’s borrowed. And when you borrow from what isn’t yours—” He lifted his palm, the cut raw. “It takes something back.”
I swallowed. “Then why do it at all?”
His gaze narrowed. “Because some battles are worth the price.”
I swallowed. “And what about me? Do I just stand here useless while you bleed for every step?”
He leaned toward me, voice soft. “You are not useless. Not if you learn. So stop snarling and start listening.”
I scowled, but the words hit. He wasn’t messing around. He wanted me to see.
Tairngire stepped closer, slow enough that I didn’t flinch when he reached for my hand. He didn’t grab, just held his bleeding palm near mine, close enough the heat prickled across my skin.
“Feel, Little Seer. Not with Sight. With what’s here.” His eyes burned into mine. “This realm has teeth. Taste them before they bite.”
The forest seemed to shift, alive with a pulse I’d noticed and ignored before—darker, slower than Anamcroí’s hum. A heartbeat laced with rot. And I forced myself to sink into it.
His bloodied hand hovered above mine, but didn’t touch. My lungs burned before I realized I was holding my breath.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured, brows furrowing. “Feel.”
Reaching with my Sight was as instinctual as breathing, I couldn't easily turn it off. I sighed before squeezing my eyes shut. The forest’s hum pressed against me, a heartbeat not rushing but sick. Each throb poisoning the air, dragging through me like my lungs were filled with decay.
My stomach turned. “It feels wrong.”