31. Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mist peeled off my skin, and for a heartbeat I thought we were still in the in-between. That uncomfortable place where I couldn't touch ground.
Then the world cleared.
Clouds stretched endless and white. An ivory bridge arched toward a castle carved too high, too bright, towers spearing the sky. Below, a moat shimmered—a gods damned moat of liquid light.
I blinked, disoriented.
This couldn’t be right.
“Where are the volcanoes? The rivers of fire?” My voice felt too loud, too mortal for the grandiosity surrounding us.
Beside me, Tairngire only crossed his arms, his eyes flicking lazily to the gates. “Disappointed? Were you hoping for ash and brimstone?”
“Yes,” I snapped. “At least that would’ve made sense. Because this—” I gestured at the glowing bridge, the banners rippling from ivory spires. “This looks like a fucking fairytale.”
There was the smirk I hated. “Careful, Little Seer. In Cindraloch, fairytales bite.”
The glowing moat below churned my stomach, but I forced my gaze higher. “So…whose castle?”
His answer came easily. “A half-born king, sired to Scáthae.”
I blinked. My pulse skipped. “Scáthae?” The name left my lips in a whisper.
The Warrior Goddess. The Blood-Bound Huntress.
The one Branwyn and I once pretended allegiance to in a shady tavern in Caer Anam.
I couldn’t imagine she would take it too lightly if she knew that, regardless of what Branwyn thought.
I swallowed. “You mean to tell me that she’s here?”
Tairngire’s green eyes flicked down, catching the tremor in my words. He arched a brow. “Terrified? Or excited?”
“Both,” I admitted before I could stop myself.
He chuckled. “Good.”
Mist curled around the moat, the castle spires stabbing pale and merciless into a sky too bright to be real…but it somehow was. I tugged at the strap of my satchel, the Obsidian Heart heavy against my side. “Why don’t you just…mist us in?”
“Because here, such behavior is frowned upon.”
“Frowned upon? By who?”
“The half-born,” he said simply, as though it were explanation enough. “Proud folk. Entrance is theirs to grant—even to gods.” His tone dipped, a crack in the calm, then smoothed again. He cleared his throat. “Cute, isn’t it?”
“Or exhausting,” I muttered.
Thunder rolled in the distance. Wait, no…hooves.
Two riders emerged from the gates, half-born both, broad, fierce, their skin inked with lines of heritage that shimmered in the light. Bronze armor gleamed, their eyes focused unflinching. Not cowed by divinity. Not even by Tairngire, the Forest God himself.
The gates loomed massive behind them, carved with rough symbols, harsher than the murals in Anamcroí. Shields and spears crossed the iron bars, and at the center, a serpent devoured its own tail.
Infinite.
One guard dismounted, planting his spear into the stone. “Who seeks entrance to Cindraloch?”
Tairngire didn’t flinch, didn’t bow. His hand brushed mine, barely tethering me. His voice was calm, steady, threaded with authority that made the horses shift uneasily. “Guests of the Warrior Goddess. The king is expecting us.”
The guards exchanged a look, skeptical but silent. They shouted up, words in a tongue I didn’t know.
With a groan, the gates opened.
Light spilled across marble steps carved as if from clouds. The air grew warmer, pulling us forward.
Beside me, Tairngire leaned close, his murmur soft at my ear. “Careful, Little Seer. Pride lives in the stones here. Mind that tongue of yours.”
“When do I ever not?” I muttered sweetly.
That earned me my new favorite chuckle, dark and knowing. “See, that right there is what worries me.”
The gates groaned shut behind us. The echo was swallowed by pale stone. My boots struck loud against the marbled tile. Every step magnified in the cool, crisp air. It was too clean, scented faintly of frost and steel.
Statues lined the hall—of warriors carved in marble, their eyes burning with arrogance. Black and gold banners hung heavy, marked with Scáthae’s sigil: the raven’s wing spread wide, a spear clutched in its talons. Pride lived in every inch of this place. Pride…and conquest.
The guards led us over a bridge of liquid silver water into the inner halls.
Half-born moved along the paths, their gazes cutting toward me, curious and unsettling.
Their attention wasn't aimed at the god who walked amongst them, but at me. My fingers twitched, wanting to catch Tairngire’s sleeve just to keep from drifting under those stares.
“Stop staring back,” he murmured, stride steady, voice low. “They sniff out weakness like wolves.”
My jaw clenched. “I wasn’t staring.”
He hummed and shook his head. “Of course, you weren’t.”
We passed into the courtyard. Gardens stretched wide, but nothing soft lived here. Rows of blood-red flowers cut into geometric lines. The trees were pruned until their limbs trembled, as though beauty itself had been broken into submission. Even the earth here was forced to bend its knee.
At the archway, the guards fell away, leaving us before towering black doors veined with gold. The runes carved into their surface beat faintly.
I forced my voice steady. “Is she really here?”
Tairngire’s lips twitched. “You’ll know soon enough.”
The great doors began to open, spilling pale gold into the courtyard.
I stepped forward, stone gleaming under my boots like polished bone. The hall rose vast and cold, ceilings vanishing into shadow. The air reeked of iron and smoke, as if war itself had seeped into the marble.
At the far end, a throne loomed atop a black stone dais. A figure sprawled lazily in the seat, broad with armor glinting in the light.
My teeth ground together. “What’s his name?” I whispered.
“King Caedmon,” Tairngire said, the clipped syllables carrying a weight he didn’t bother to explain.
The name sank into me. Caedmon. It fit the man on the throne—immovable, dangerous, his stillness more threatening than rage.
As we crossed the hall, silence pressed down, heavy as chains. My steps echoed off every pillar. The half-born king didn’t rise. He only tilted his head, studying us from a distance.
Tairngire’s arm brushed mine as the doors sealed shut behind us. The vastness closed in, and I felt the weight of that gaze pin me where I stood.
“Listen well, Little Seer,” he murmured, voice laced with steel “When we reach him, you kneel. Both knees. Head bowed, eyes lowered. Do not meet his gaze until he permits it.”
“You’re serious?” I hissed back.
His expression was stone, unshakable. “Do I look as if I jest about such things?”
“Yes,” I seethed.
He ignored me, eyes fixed ahead. “Show no weakness. Do not falter when his voice cuts through you. Half-born kings are lofty creatures, and this one bears the sire bond of Scáthae. His throne was won by blood, and blood sustains it.”
It made me wonder just how that blood had been spilled and how much it took to be victorious. This place might look like a fairytale, but Tairngire was right—it could definitely bite.
“And if I do?” I asked.
His head tilted, just enough for me to catch the glint of emerald in his eyes. “Then he will eat you alive.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or mocking me.
His golden curls fell into his eyes, and I noticed that damned dimple in his right cheek again.
He looked positively delighted by my anxiety, and I couldn’t decide if my reaction to his dimple or his insufferable facial expression made me angrier.
I puffed out a breath and forced my eyes away. The sound of my heartbeat thundered as the vaulted ceiling echoed it back. My knees shook, and not just from the training Tairngire had just dragged me through, but from the weight of what waited ahead.
Caedmon’s gaze was already on me. Even without looking up, I could feel his stare prickling my skin.
My knees hit stone, hard. I bowed low, swallowing my pride with the heat burning my face.
Gods, ridiculous. All of this.
Silence seemed to stretch to infinity. Everyone in the vicinity had to have been able to hear my labored breathing.
Then a voice came, deep and resonant, filling the chamber. “Oh, gods’ blood, Tairngire,” King Caedmon roared, laughter spilling over itself. “You rude bastard. You told her to kneel before me?”
The solemnity shattered, even the walls seeming to soften.
My head snapped up. The man on the throne wasn’t the cold tyrant I’d braced for. He was smiling wide, haughtiness in every line of his posture, but mirth sparking in his eyes. Draped in fine-forged armor, golden cuffs bright at his wrists, he radiated ego—but not cruelty.
Smoke gray eyes. Hair streaked silver at the temples, cut close around his beard. Confident, yes. But not ruthless. Beside me, Tairngire’s mouth twitched. He was enjoying this far too much.
Fury flared hot at my nape. "You—” I hissed at him. “You played me.”
Caedmon’s laughter doubled. “By the stars, I like her already.”
Tairngire’s voice was smooth, measured, touched with that arrogance I’d come to loathe, and though I’d never admit it out loud, maybe even…admire.
“I knew you’d appreciate her fire,” he said, inclining his head toward the throne.
Caedmon leaned forward, still smiling, but his eyes sharpened as they swept over me again. Not in a barbaric way, as I would have expected…but almost kind.
“An odd sight indeed,” he said, laughter still threaded through his tone. “The Seer, weighed down in armor far too heavy. Tell me, Awakener, why bury her under so much steel?”
Was he fucking serious? Armor too heavy? Too heavy!
I snapped my head toward Tairngire. He had known. He’d smirked through every stumble, every clumsy swing, and now he stood here like this was the best entertainment he’d had in centuries.
Oh, how I loathed this god.
“You mean to say that there’s lighter armor?” My voice came so low I didn’t recognize it, venom dripping from every word.
Tairngire only lifted a brow, daring me to continue. I glared daggers at him and he cocked his head to the side in a silent challenge.
I could practically hear his voice in my head. What are you going to do about it, Little Seer?
Caedmon threw his head back and laughed, utterly delighted by my fury. “She bites,” he said warmly. “She’d make a fine warrior, a fine warrior indeed.” His chuckling didn’t stop. His eyes crinkled with joy.
Tairngire folded his arms, eyes sparkling as if my anger were the sweetest gift, as if trading barbs with a king while I seethed was the highlight of his eternal life.
How pathetic.
“Please,” King Caedmon’s voice softened, though it carried easily through the vaulted chamber. “Stand. The Seer need not kneel before me. Her burden is not one any mortal should bear.”
My eyes widened. For the first time, not as jest, not as some savage taunt, but as truth, someone spoke it out loud.
It was recognition.
My knees shook as I rose, and it wasn’t from the weight of the armor.
I finally met his gaze. The king was much younger than I expected.
Early thirties in mortal years, although he could be centuries old and probably was.
Round cheeks, handsome in that classic, immovable way.
His eyes glimmered, they carried no cruelty.
There was laughter there, too, always laughter, as though the realms themselves amused him more often than they angered him.
“You are not what I expected,” I admitted on a whisper.
He barked a laugh, the sound echoing against the high stone.
“And why would I be? Stories told in Caer Anam?
Pah! Temple books you've read and believed?” His smile tilted.
“Some of your priests enjoy painting us all as monsters. Their reputations seep into the tales, and so Cindraloch becomes nothing but fire and shadow.”
My cheeks burned. He was right. Every word struck. The stories I’d clung to suddenly felt small, poisoned by prejudice. Even the Elder Sgàthánwing had his opinions. But standing there before the laughing king, I felt just how little knowledge I had.
Caedmon rose, each step down the sweeping stairs hit like a drumbeat. Half-born or not, his presence filled the chamber like a god’s. His cloak dragged crimson across the stone, his eyes alive with the same spark of mischief I’d glimpsed before.
“Cindraloch is not all fire and ash,” he said, voice low and steady. The weight of mortal lifetimes woven through each word. “It is lineage. Prestige. Choice. Those who call us beasts and scoundrels do not understand us, or perhaps they fear they might.”
The words pressed heavier than the armor Tairngire had shackled me in. Then, light steps. A woman entered, golden braids neat, leather armor fitted close. She bowed, voice quiet. “My lord?”
“Mairenn, my dear,” Caedmon addressed her easily. “Will you please show our guest to her chambers.” His tone was gentle—too gentle. It rattled me more than if he’d barked the command.
Wait…chambers?!
“I-I can’t stay here,” I blurted. “I have duties. Sacred vows. My temple—”
They were just excuses. Truly, I was more worried about the beasts that were making their way into the Seventh.
I still hadn't mentioned what I'd seen to anyone. Who would be there to eradicate them? Surely, I couldn’t leave it up to the forest or the Elder’s…
I spun to face Tairngire, desperate. But he only stood with arms folded, looking bored, calm—infuriatingly so.
“This is your duty now,” he said, tone final. “To learn what has always been forbidden to you. To rise into the purpose you keep running from.” He leaned in close so only I could hear, tone soft. “What you truly fear will be taken care of in your absence. You have my word.”
My chest tightened at his reassurance. How did he do that?
He read my mind all the time, effortlessly. Meanwhile, I couldn't even accurately guess at what he was thinking half the time.
“You can’t just abduct—”
“Actually, I can,” he interrupted, lips curving, shadowed with something darker. “And I will.”
“Why?” My voice cracked. “Why am I always the last to know?”
He stepped closer, heat rolling off him, the scent of pine and smoke clinging to his leathers.
“Because some truths are not given. They are earned. And you, Little Seer, are close to earning more of them. You’ll enjoy your time here.
Far more than what you’ve been subjugated to your entire existence. Try not to resist it too much.”
Then he turned, waving his hand dismissing me like a servant. “Go with Mairenn now, I need an audience with the king alone.”
My fists curled tight. All this talk about truths, and still he kept them caged from me.
That was rich.
“Of course you do,” I muttered.
He didn’t even glance back, only tossed over his shoulder, “With time, Little Seer, you’ll earn them all.”
And damn it—those nine words burned hotter than this dreadful armor ever could.