10. Celebration
Celebration
The Castle was a symphony of dancing, laughter, and an abundance of food and wine.
The grand hall pulsed with energy, the Cait Sidhe fully immersed in the celebration.
Maelan’s court, his guards, and his military were the first to join them, filling the space with congratulations, playful jabs, and tales of Maelan’s past. Some were embarrassing, others riotously funny, and a few near-death experiences had the room roaring with laughter.
Callan’s hand rested on Maelan’s shoulder as he turned to Sorcha. “Do you know why Maelan has two tails when he shifts?”
Maelan’s eyes rolled, his expression one of utter defeat, as those around them stifled their smiles.
“No, but please, do tell,” Sorcha leaned closer as she crossed Maelan’s lap.
“Ever since Maelan was a boy, he struggled with shifting,” Callan began.
“The first time he changed, he had two tails. No one knows why, but the poor lad couldn’t shift without them.
Eventually, he managed with just one tail as a small cat, but the larger the shift, the more peculiar his forms became. ”
The men at the table began to dissolve into fits of laughter, their chuckles rippling through the air.
Maelan opened his mouth to protest, but Callan quickly continued, “One time, he shifted into a dog but had too many ears, a cat’s tail, and when he tried to bark... he meowed.”
Callan howled with laughter; it sounded like a cat gargling water, mimicking Maelan. The entire table erupted in laughter, and Maelan’s face turned crimson.
Another man at the table tapped his temple and, with a strange gesture, conjured an image of a young Maelan mid-shift.
The creature he transformed into was hideous.
Maelan, in the image, hopped around screeching, chasing his own tail, and Sorcha burst into laughter, watching in amazement.
The images danced in the air, swirling across the table before Maelan waved them away, the tiny grains of glowing sand dissolving into nothingness.
Sorcha watched as Maelan pulled Callan into a headlock, Callan mockingly crying for help. She couldn’t help but notice his beautiful smile, the way his face lit up amongst these people—his friends, his family, his home.
The wine flowed freely, filling goblets that never seemed to empty. Platters of spiced meats, honeyed fruits, and delicacies Sorcha couldn’t even name covered the banquet tables, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted almonds and warm cinnamon.
Korat found them eventually, beaming with pride. “I see you’re still standing, my queen,” she teased, green eyes glinting with mirth.
Sorcha turned, grasping Korat’s hands with genuine excitement. “You are a miracle worker. Everyone has been in awe of this dress all night.”
Korat grinned, pleased. “I’m happy to hear it”
Maelan took every opportunity to pull her into a dance, spinning her effortlessly through the crowd, his laughter warm against her ear, his tail wrapping around her waist to catch her when she stumbled.
The court was enamored with them, offering toasts to their union, filling the room with applause and cheer.
But across the hall, Kyron kept his distance.
He never joined in the festivities, never approached the table. Instead, he lingered near the walls, a casual observer, stealing glances at Sorcha when he thought no one was looking.
And Sorcha felt every one of them.
As the night stretched on, people began to drift away, murmuring their congratulations before departing.
Some guards had indulged too much, now sprawled across the floor on plush cushions, half asleep with goblets still clutched in their hands.
Others continued drinking, their voices softer now, laughter easing into more subdued conversation.
It was only when Sorcha stepped away, moving toward one of the arched doorways onto the balcony to breathe in the cool night air, that Kyron finally approached.
He was quiet as he came to stand beside her. “You look like a queen.”
Sorcha turned to him. “Kyron, what did you want to tell—”
“I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you more tonight,” he cut in, speaking faster. “I was just having a hard time with it, but it’s okay. Whatever happens tonight, Maelan's a good man, and I’m not going to stop you.”
Her throat tightened, but before she could find the words, Kyron gave her a small smile. “Goodnight, Sorcha.”
And then he turned and walked away.
She watched him go as a sudden shadow moved beside her.
“Come, Firelight.” Maelan’s voice echoed through the darkness, startling her as he emerged from the balcony’s shadows, only his silver eyes gleaming in the night.
“It’s getting late,” he said, stepping closer. “We should join the others.”
The soft swish of his tail, as it gently wrapped around her once more, was a whisper against the quiet.
His fingers slid into her hair, twirling it between them, while his other hand cupped her chin.
In the moonlit dark, his features were sculpted like tawny quartz, catching the moon’s rays on his cheekbones and diffusing the harsh silver into a gentle, golden radiance.
The deep crimson stain of wine graced his full lips, and a subtle warmth radiated from his skin, the lingering heat from their earlier dancing.
His eyes sparkled like pools of starlight as they kept flickering to her lips, making every part of her ache.
Suddenly, everything else melted away as his breathing quickened.
His hand tracing slow paths across her jaw, down her neck, toying with the delicate hem of her dress.
Her fingers fumbled with the edge of his collar as he pressed a kiss to her neck, the faint scent of him intoxicating.
“Maelan,” she rasped, the sound catching in her throat.
His eyes met hers, blazing with a raw hunger that stole her breath. “Oh, firelight,” he rasped, his voice thick with need, “say my name like that again, and you’ll bring me to my knees.”
His lips pressed a warm kiss against the soft skin of her neck again, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine. The fabric of her dress whispered as his hand slid down, gentle pressure tracing the curve of her hip before pressing her closer against him.
She whispered his name, and Maelan’s voice rumbled, a low growl that seemed to echo into the night, “Sorcha. “
“Maelan!” a voice rang out.
“Maelan,” the voice singed, “Where the hells are you?!”
Maelan pulled away, his chest heaving as he looked at her, a strained smile appearing on his face.
“Duty calls, it seems,” he grumbled, his annoyance barely concealed by his feigned politeness.
Just then, Callan appeared on the balcony, his steps less steady than before, the heavy scent of mead on his breath as he clapped Maelan on the shoulder.
“There you are!” He looked Sorcha up and down, and then Maelan. “You two have all night to get… acquainted.” A smile spread across his face.
Callan wrapped his arm around Maelan’s shoulder and began pulling him toward the archway, disappearing into the hall but not before Maelan stole a glance at Sorcha, leaving her breathless under the night sky.
The rest of the evening Maelan stayed close to Sorcha, his hands brushing her waist as he passed or lacing his fingers into hers. It was sweet and gentle and as the night came to a close the two of them walked hand in hand to their bedroom.
That night, Maelan didn’t take the bed. Instead, he gathered a pile of pillows and blankets, arranging them into a makeshift nest on the floor near the hearth. He stretched out with effortless grace, hands folded behind his head, utterly unbothered by his choice of sleeping arrangements.
Sorcha lay on her side upon the bed, watching him with a raised brow. “You realize the bed is big enough for both of us.”
Maelan smirked, not bothering to open his eyes. “Of course. But I figured I’d give us the opportunity for a good night’s sleep.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, really?”
He chuckled, shifting slightly. “Besides,” he mused, “I have a feeling you’ll sleep better if I weren’t distracting you. "
Sorcha snorted. “That is not why.”
“Mm.” He cracked one silver eye open, grinning. “Would it make you feel better if I curled up at the foot of the bed?”
She grabbed a pillow and threw it at him.
He caught it effortlessly, laughing as he stood, his torso bare, the muscles rippling as he moved toward her.
Maelan bent over her as she lay there, suddenly unable to breathe.
He leaned in, his lips soft as he kissed her cheek.
Sorcha’s hand traced the scar on his side from the banshee, and he froze.
Her hands tracing the marking along his torso, gently pulling him closer.
“Goodnight, Firelight,” he purred against her lips before kissing her tenderly.
She melted back against the pillows. “Goodnight, Maelan.” She grumbled.
Despite everything, the chaos of the day, the pressure of what came next, his presence was the comfort she needed. The soft rise and fall of his breath, a steady rhythm in the quiet that lulled her to sleep.