19. Tuatha
Tuatha
Sorcha lay bleeding, her consciousness flickering as the world around her blurred into a chaotic mix of motion and sound.
Kyron hurried towards the gate, his murmured words weaving a pattern in the air.
The wards shimmered and parted at his command.
Just as they passed through, a healer turned, their eyes widening in alarm.
“Kyron? What’s going on? Where have you been?” The healer’s gaze fixed on him, taking in his disheveled appearance, the unnatural angle of his arm, and the pain etched on his face. Instinctively, they reached out to heal him, but Kyron recoiled.
“Not me,” he interrupted.
Maelan approached, Sorcha limp in his arms, his hands slick with rivulets of blood that stained his shirt and pooled on the stones below. The marble floor drank the crimson tide, its stark white now streaked in warning.
The healer paled. “Kyron?”
“It’s Lugh’s daughter!” Kyron’s voice was urgent. “She’s dying.”
The healer moved in a flash, lifting Sorcha as if she weighed nothing more than a feather.
Then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone.
Maelan exhaled, watching the space where Sorcha had just been.
Kyron stared at Maelan, arms still outstretched holding her ghost. Maelan’s eyes met Kyron’s, and he began to walk forward.
Kyron turned without a word and began walking ahead.
Maelan followed until a large building rose before them like a monument, an ornate structure of copper and stone, its roof encrusted with gems that glinted under the pale light.
Large frosted windows lined the front, their glass catching the fading glow of the sky.
Inside, a woman sat behind a desk, her black hair a striking contrast against her pale skin.
She looked up, brilliant blue eyes flickering between them.
She spoke, quietly and calm. “They are in the room down the hall.” The walk down the hall felt infinite as the walls pressed in, suffocating beneath the weight of the floral etchings carved into the stone.
Their footsteps fell in sync, the steady rhythm broken only when they halted abruptly before the ornately decorated room ahead.
A forest of emerald covered the walls, the scent of alcohol and herbs curling through the air, yet beneath it lingered the bite of copper.
Sorcha lay still upon a bed fit for royalty, her pale skin almost merging with the pristine sheets.
Around her, three healers worked with swift precision, their hands alight with magic, their hushed voices weaving an urgent melody.
The healer who had greeted them at the gate, an older man with kind yet burdened eyes, turned as they entered.
His gaze fixed on Kyron. Without a word, he grasped Kyron’s fractured arm and forcibly reset it.
Kyron cried out, his body recoiling from the sudden, intense agony.
The healer uttered words Maelan couldn’t decipher, and just like that, Kyron’s arm healed, as if it had never been injured.
Kyron’s breathing was labored. “I’m sorry,” he rasped.
The healer offered no reply, already turning his attention back to Sorcha.
Kyron exhaled shakily and gestured to Maelan; they needed to go.
Hours drifted by as the sun began its gentle descent.
The dying light filtered through the windows, a warm, golden hue, like being suspended within amber, caught in a timeless moment.
Kyron and Maelan had drifted in and out of sleep, slumped in plush chairs within what appeared to be a waiting room.
Their clothes were stiff, crusted with a rusty stain, the thick scent of blood lingering stubbornly in the air.
A soft touch drew Kyron from his weary stupor. One healer stood beside him. “She’s going to be alright.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Maelan ran a hand over his face and then through his hair, exhaling as if he’d been holding his breath. Kyron nodded once. “Thank you.”
The healer gave a small, knowing nod before turning and disappearing back down the hall. Kyron stood, stretching his body and rolling his shoulders. “I think we should get some fresh air.” Maelan stretched his legs and stood, his body so stiff that it almost hurt to stand up straight.
“Good idea,” he groaned.
Beyond the healing halls, the world seemed too perfect.
The sky remained suspended between dawn and dusk, with vibrant hues.
The trees were extraordinarily tall, resembling cathedrals, their leaves sparkling like diamonds, unaffected by the elements or the passing of time.
Reflecting a world that did not bend to the natural order of life and death, the rivers gleamed in varying shades of green, their waters eerily calm.
It was as beautiful as it was suffocating.
Maelan exhaled while stretching his shoulders, trying to ease the tightness that had settled there since leaving the halls. Sorcha would live, and that should have been enough, but it wasn’t.
“You don’t seem relieved.” Kyron’s voice cut through the silence.
He gazed past Maelan towards the distant, unending horizon.
Maelan snipped back. “I am, there’s a lot on my mind, is all. "
Silence hung between them until Kyron finally turned to look at him. His clouded eyes burned.
“You saw what he did,” Kyron said. “He barely tried.”
Maelan didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to picture Vaelric standing over Sorcha, that smirk carved into his face, as if she had never stood a chance. As if none of them had.
“Yeah. I saw,” exasperation colored his reply.
Silence stretched between them once again, the sounds of the city and the rustling of leaves behind them. The trees swayed, but the air remained calm, just a kiss of a breeze.
“This place is wrong,” Maelan muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Kyron raised a brow. “Because it’s peaceful?”
“Because it’s not real,” Maelan gestured vaguely at the landscape, his lips curling. “Nothing here knows pain or sickness; nothing here dies. It just is. Forever.”
Kyron didn’t answer immediately.
Then, softly, almost to himself, “Not forever.”
Maelan frowned, glancing at him. “What?”
“Not for everyone.” Kyron muttered.
It was the way he said it that made Maelan pause. The weight behind those words, as if they slipped through the cracks. A thought struck him. He turned, studying Kyron more closely now. The man who moved like a soldier, who spoke of this place like an outsider, and had never called it home.
“You weren’t born here, were you?” Maelan realized cocking his head to one side.
Kyron didn’t react at first. Eventually, he exhaled and turned toward the city. “No,” he admitted.
Those words held sadness, but venom also tinged them.
Maelan narrowed his eyes. “Then where?”
“My father wasn’t Tuatha.” His voice trailing off.
Maelan blinked. That was unexpected. “A mortal?”
Kyron said nothing. He didn’t confirm or deny, but the silence spoke for itself.
Maelan let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “Well. That explains a lot.”
Kyron shot him a dry look. “Does it?”
Maelan shrugged, smirking. “It explains your softness.”
Kyron looked as if Maelan had struck him; the words were a physical blow.
They walked for a few more steps before Maelan glanced at him again. “You ever met him?”
“No,” Kyron said bluntly.
Maelan studied him for a moment, then nodded. He didn’t press; some silences weren’t meant to be filled. Before he could say anything else, the surrounding air stilled. Maelan’s body tensed. His hand drifted toward his weapon, but Kyron’s grip caught his wrist before he could draw it.
“Don’t,” Kyron warned Maelan.
Maelan’s eyes flicked to his. “You feel it too?”
Kyron didn’t look away from the trees ahead. “Of course I do.”
The presence lingered, just out of sight.
All the surrounding sounds had muted; the breeze was gone, the scents from the city and flowers disappeared.
It was bleak despite the sun shining down on them.
Maelan watched as his breath drifted into cold puffs before them.
Kyron kept his hands by his side as he waited, and Maelan followed his lead.
A few long moments passed before their senses were overloaded.
The scents of the Tuatha court flooded back in as the sounds of people chatting, merchants murmuring, and birdsong rang loudly.
The sun was warm, and the breeze was gentle again.
Maelan exhaled. “You can’t tell me that was nothing.”
“It’s the Guardian's eye; it watches over the court. It was watching us.” Kyron stepped forward, resuming their walk as if nothing had happened. “Come on. We’re getting off the streets, we’re going to see my mother.”
Suddenly, an enormous wolf slammed into Kyron, knocking him off his feet and into the bushes.
Maelan started forward in alarm, but Kyron burst into laughter, grabbing the wolf’s thick fur and flipping him over his shoulder.
Mid-air, the wolf twisted, bones reshaping, fur giving way to flesh. He landed hard, howling with laughter.
Maelan froze, confused, eyes wide.
“Gods damn you, Conall,” Kyron wheezed through gasps.
“You should have seen your face,” Conall said, grinning as he pushed his silver hair from his gold-flecked blue eyes. A long scar carved down one side of his cheek, harsh against his smooth skin.
He looked from Kyron to Maelan. “Who’s this?”
Kyron rose, brushing grass from his shoulders. “A friend.”
The moment settled, and Conall’s expression changed. The humor drained from his face, replaced by frustration. “You vanished without a word; patrols were sent to bring you back, but you were already entangled with the Circles.”
Kyron met his eyes. “You would’ve tried to stop me.”
“I’m supposed to,” Conall snapped. “You ignored a direct command. You weren’t just told to stay away from her; you were bound to that order.”
“She was in danger.” Kyron argued.