THIRTY-SIX
brYNDIS ASHGLO
Mate bonds, while not particularly rare, are sacred. They should be protected at all times. If a faerie’s mate is harmed, they too will suffer.
The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper
The last rays of the afternoon sun kiss the domed roof of the castle as we all gather at the foot of its steps.
Ivy climbs its white stone structure, reclaiming it.
Immaculate lawns and elegant fountains with lanterns adorning the paved walkway guide us toward the front entrance.
Faeries surround us, radiating sophistication with their every step.
Each gown is a masterpiece crafted with intricate details that seem to defy gravity.
Some fabrics flow like liquid moonlight.
Others glow like the rising sun. It’s hard not to stare in awe, giving away my mortality and the lack of experience that comes with it.
The three of us, Odhran, Eadan, and myself, stand quietly, united in our shared tension.
Odhran is as still as a statue, standing tall as if nothing is bothering him, but I can feel his anger through our newfound connection, burning through him like a forest fire.
Eadan huffs, raising her chin, and her mask of arrogance falls into place.
Faeries can’t lie, but they are masters at twisting their truths into wicked nets.
The sight of Sloan and Sheridan approaching us, wearing black leather armour instead of gold and green, catches the attention of onlookers.
Odhran’s choice of uniform is a statement, an act of rebellion and disunity.
A blatant disregard of the crown despite their servitude to it.
It’s a dress code Odhran enforces, and one he gets away with solely because of his effectiveness in dealing with threats.
Sloan told me they call themselves The Hellions of Undoing.
I told him it’s cute they have their own little club.
“Be alert,” Odhran warns his friends.
Sloan’s mouth skews into a smile. “Don’t you worry about us.
We’ll be just fine.” He pats Odhran’s shoulder, and a look of understanding passes between them.
There’s an unspoken conversation happening between them, and I’m missing a crucial part of it.
I don’t set foot in that place; Odhran once told the first prince. I can’t help but wonder why.
I close my eyes and find myself back in my mother’s Great Room. Odhran’s back is turned to me, hiding his face from sight. In this safe space, time stands still. Here I am in control.
Slowly, I close the distance between us as his posture stiffens. His once strong and assertive presence is now replaced with a subtle vulnerability. His shoulders droop, as if the weight of the world rests upon them.
“Odhran.” My voice is a whisper. My safe room is so quiet even my heartbeat seems too loud.
He doesn’t face me. “Odhran…” My fingers graze the side of his hand, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Are you alright?” I know his tension isn’t because of my refusal to discuss the mate bond, which Aed happily explained the details of before our arrival here.
Odhran’s shift in energy is because of the palace, and the fact that he’s about to enter it, something he’s vowed not to do, which he’s broken to be with me.
His anger builds the closer we get to the front entrance, radiating through our connection, an invisible tether linking our minds through an exchange of blood.
It’s a strange thing to be able to communicate with him this way, made possible by feeding on me while the droplets of his own blood closed my wounds.
A simple cut on the palm and a subsequent handshake enables him to speak with his friends.
Their bond wasn’t created with fangs and lips pressed to skin, at least that isn’t what Eadan had explained before we left Odhran’s home.
Having any part of one’s self inside another’s mouth is a form of intimacy, and the very reason so many faeries find the act of feeding so arousing.
There’s nothing arousing about their connection—that much she was adamant about.
The connection lasts as long as it takes red blood cells to be replaced within the body, a few weeks.
Then the crimson handshake is repeated. Perhaps our connection is to end soon too.
It’s been three weeks since we were in Brogan’s throne room together.
It all feels too much and is causing me a headache.
“I’ll be alright once this shit show is over and done with.” His voice quivers. Shadows, as cold as a winter breeze, curl at our feet.
I search his eyes, but there’s no indication that he’s willing to share more than he already has. Something happened behind those walls, of that much, I’m sure. “I’m here to listen when you’re ready.”
A muscle feathers along his jaw. I leave the Great Room, returning to the present.
As if we didn’t skip a beat, Sloan’s hand lowers from Odhran’s shoulder.
Sloan’s unruly auburn curls are tied back into a messy bun, in stark contrast to his friend beside him.
His golden skin is light against Sheridan’s tawny complexion, and his hair is long compared to Sheridan’s clipped style.
They’re two different worlds united in friendship.
Where Sloan relies on his strength, Sheridan has stealth on his side.
Eadan gives me a pointed look, cautioning me. He may be a dick most of the time, but circumstances have shaped him that way. She’d told me back at the tailor’s shop. You need to ask yourself; how deep do you want to wade into this?
How deep will I wade? If not for my sister, I would willingly plunge into the depths of the ocean, surrendering myself to the vastness of the unknown. But I need to save Laoise. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t. If she ends up like Selma… or me.
Hundreds of ravens materialise out of nothing, swirling in a tornado of darkness above Sloan and Sheridan, the air singing with beating wings. “Remember what I said. And if anything happens…” Odhran says, looking at Sloan.
“It won’t.” The hardness in Sloan’s usually warm eyes confirms his statement as false confidence. If something goes wrong, I know he’ll risk himself to ensure the safety of his friends. They all would.
“Darragh has many enemies who only pledged their loyalty out of fear. That oath dies today. Don’t let our men die along with it. They may attack while the crown is at its weakest.”
“My informants haven’t detected any unrest along the borders.” Sheridan steps forward, tension broadening his shoulders. “Nonetheless, we will send word as soon as situations change.” With a bow of his head, he dismisses himself.
“King Brogan stands with us. Stay in contact with his emissary.” Yes, King Brogan did send a letter to Odhran, but only I could recognize the open ending in his note, because of the private meeting I had with him and the bargain we sealed.
Fómhar aligns with the King of Geimhreadh, he’d written.
Not its heir. Not its rightful king, just king.
Darragh is the current King of Geimhreadh, even if he’s forsaken its needs, and Odhran hasn’t been crowned, even though he’s the heir.
My stomach turns in a sickening knot. The closest Geimhreadh has to a king is the one ruling from his throne in Samhradh, the one who conquered it and named it his, King Darragh, and soon to be King Eamon.
What blinds Odhran is hope, and hope is a cruel lover.
It’s that same hope that leads me to believe Brogan aligns with no one.
Sloan and Sheridan turn, marching toward a gathering of soldiers wearing the same black armour.
I touch the backs of my fingers to Odhran’s, and he takes my hand, leading me down the decoratively lit path toward the castle. His anger grows and my chest tightens with every step we take.