41. Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The corridors smelled of smoke when Branwyn arrived at my door at dawn. Her hair was painted gold by the light. She stepped inside without ceremony, grinning as if we were off to steal honey cakes, not chase down the heart of a realm.
We didn’t linger. Together, we strode through the grand halls and into the mist-drenched courtyard where the company awaited us.
At the gates, horses pawed the earth. The tall beasts were cloaked in barding that shimmered faintly with runes. Half-born warriors checked tack and weapons. Their laughter edged with nerves, and at the center were the chosen.
Mairenn stood in the center of it all, her hair braided tight, scaled armor inlaid with gold filigree. She has daggers at her hips and bow across her back. Pride lifted her chin, daring anyone to doubt her.
Ciaran saddled a steed beside her, trading some joke that made her break out in a full-on grin.
Caedmon’s general looked every inch the part – dark hair chopped short, jaw freshly shaven, armor marked with the crest. He surveyed the group, assessing strengths with one glance.
When his gaze flicked to me, yesterday’s easy smile ghosted his mouth.
Another son of Scáthae I recognized, Aidan, stood beside him.
Broad and towering, pale-blonde hair falling sharp against his severe features.
No decoration adorned his armor, only brutal practicality.
A great sword rested at his back. His silence warned people away as much as Ciaran’s charisma drew them in. A dangerous duo.
The warband looked every inch hardened and honed. And me? I felt like a fraud in enchanted armor, light as silk, with a dagger at my hip as if that alone made me belong amongst this band of battle-worn warriors.
Another group emerged from the mist, their armor darker, presence harder – the iron-forged children of Goibniu. If Caedmon’s warriors gleamed like firelight, these were iron made flesh.
Branwyn leaned close. “The one on the left is Bram, Domhnall’s Ard-Connacht.”
Massive, scarred shoulders like a castle door, his armor bore deep notches, and his face was unreadable. Bram wasn’t made for mirth, that was for sure. His eyes slid over me once before fixing forward again.
I followed Branwyn’s gaze to the wall of muscle beside him. She sighed with—was that admiration? What a strange expression for her.
“Maddox,” she practically swooned. “Second only to Bram, and twice as brutal.”
I raised my brow and snickered at her, she simply nudged me in the ribs. Hard.
Horns curved from Maddox's head, polished black—earned only in blood-soaked battles. His expression was careless, but the way others gave him space betrayed his lethality.
Then my gaze caught the women.
Branwyn’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, Domhnall chose his bitchy warrior princess to join us.”
Ailbhe. The venom-tongued woman from the ball. Her gown was now replaced with armor that fit like a second skin. Her dark hair was pinned tightly against her skull. The sharp angles of her face were the same, laden with the memory of last night. She looked incredibly pleased with herself.
Bitch, indeed.
At her side, the other girl from last night was too pretty to be overlooked, too fierce to be dismissed.
Branwyn let out a whistle. “Saoirse. Ailbhe’s little shadow.
Don’t mistake her beauty for softness, though.
That would be a stupid mistake. I’ve seen her in action. She’s a legend on the battlefield.”
She moved with the grace of a panther—dangerous, deliberate. Her gaze wasn’t cruel like Ailbhe’s, but assessing, as if weighing what kind of opponent I’d be.
Together, they were a wall of steel and shadow, every bit their god’s reflection. My stomach tightened. The seriousness of the situation we were in had me wanting to spill my breakfast all over the pristine grass.
The courtyard stilled as the kings stepped forward.
King Caedmon rose first, silver and gold armor gleaming with crimson threads. His crown was iron, runed, a warrior’s mark. His presence carried strength that didn’t need proving. Though today, his face was carved in stern resolve. An almost completely unrecognizable look for him.
King Domhnall was his opposite in every way—armor dark steel, unornamented, discipline carved into every line.
His eyes scanned the party, pausing longer on me.
Though not in a cruel way, more like he was measuring me.
I almost wished he had looked at me cruelly, though.
I wasn't sure anyone wanted to be measured by the King of Iron.
Above them, Scáthae stood, radiant in her fierce beauty. Golden thread glinted in the rising light as her gaze swept her chosen, lingering briefly on me—a silent reminder of the bargain sealed the moment I touched her hand.
Then Goibniu, broad as stone, armor black as night, eyes burning like embers. Pride burned there…but also expectation. He didn’t deal in softness.
The courtyard suddenly stilled with silence rolling like thunder before a storm.
Tairngire stepped in like he owned the courtyard. Everyone and everything split for him to pass. Leathers hugged his frame, forest green stitched with light. His golden curls caught the sunrise.
And all I could think of was last night—his hand, his voice, the heat he left in his wake.
Now he walked toward me as if nothing happened, as if he hadn’t crossed every line the Fates put in place for me. His glowing eyes found mine, too bright, untampered. The others bowed. My knees nearly buckled for another reason. His mouth curved into a knowing smile.
The gates yawned open. Horses stomped as if they sensed this was no ordinary journey. My gut twisted. I’d never ridden one before. I was bound to make a fool of myself.
I tried to think back to the scrolls I’d stolen, as I always did. Fragments surfaced. Sit tall. Grip with your knees, not your hands. Trust the beast beneath you or it will not trust you back.
My palms were slicked inside my gloves. I glanced up and saw Tairngire watching me, I scowled at him in response. His lips twitched, as if he were trying to hold back a smirk.
Bastard.
Branwyn’s witch-sight caught it before I could hide it. Her gaze flicked to him, then back to me. “Well. That explains the air, doesn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?” I snapped, too defensive.
She laughed softly. “Don’t bother pretending, Aurenya. I may not see the Weave, but I feel it. Gods, it’s practically sparking off you both.”
I scowled. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Her golden hair caught fire in the dawn. “You burn brighter around him, sister. And he—” Her chin tilted toward him, reins in hand, speaking with kings like the world bent to him. “He glows hotter around you. And not in the divine way.”
I turned away abruptly, but her pensive smile followed me.
Tairngire’s voice cut sharp across the clamor. “Mount up. We ride until nightfall.” He moved through the restless horses with infuriating ease, nobody thinking twice about denying him.
All was in order, until the silence broke.
“Well, of course the Seer doesn’t have her own steed,” Ailbhe drawled, stepping out with a tone far too eager to sound bored, as I'm sure she intended. “What use would the temple’s chained princess have for riding?”
Her words pierced, but the sting only sharpened my fury. I scanned the line of horses, counting them one by one. And then again…and again.
Eleven. Not twelve.
My stomach dropped, replaced by heat that flared up my spine as I realized what this meant. My eyes snapped to Tairngire, who was whispering words to his horse in the Old Tongue—a giant dark beast, a steed meant for a god. His gaze locked with mine, and I knew what he’d intended.
Oh, absolutely the fuck not.
“I see now,” I said, voice cutting low, my chin lifting. “You were about to put me on your saddle like some prize to be displayed.”
The courtyard stilled. Tairngire arched a brow.
“Well, that won’t be happening.” I stepped forward, the force of my own anger carrying me. “Fetch me my own steed, Tairngire. Now.”
Gasps rippled through the gathered chosen. Ailbhe’s smile curved, slow and poisonous, like I’d stepped right into her trap. “Oh, a Seer with a complex. Careful. Gods don’t like being ordered about by the likes of mortals.”
“No. Let him be careful,” I snapped back, never taking my eyes from Tairngire. “Because I will not ride chained to anyone, regardless of the blood that runs through my veins. And he knows it, too.”
Tairngire gave no answer, just burned his emerald gaze through me.
I recalled the words he’d said before bringing me here and threw them back at him. “Trial by fire, right Tairngire? So, fetch me a stead.”
There were unintelligible murmurs throughout the courtyard. I didn’t even try to decipher them.
He stared at me with an unreadable expression for what seemed like hours. My heart was pounding with rage, definitely not embarrassment.
Then he cocked his head to the side, his expression indifferent. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll walk,” I bit out, lifting my chin in defiance. “But I will not ride with you. That answer is final.”
He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, clearly not appreciating my attitude on display.
I didn’t have the capacity to give a damn.
The bond hummed hot enough to burn as we stood off against each other in a battle of wills.
Finally, he whistled and a stable boy scrambled, leading forward a broad gray stallion.
It pawed the ground, tossing its head as if already weary of me.
I stepped close, ignoring the way my knees wanted to tremble. “Be gentle,” I whispered against its ear, fingers brushing the bridle. “I know I’m not what you wanted.”