25. Forgotten
Forgotten
For hours, the heavy walls of the grand hall had vibrated with booming voices. Even out on the riverbank, the sharp, biting cadence of the gods’ deliberation bled through the stone, a low, rhythmic rumble that made the air feel thin.
Sorcha crossed her legs and sank into the riverbank, the earth giving way beneath her weight like a plush cushion.
She pressed her palms into the cool turf, letting the smooth blades slide between her fingers while the western breeze tugged at her golden hair.
Behind her, Maelan’s boots thudded softly against the grass as he paced.
He dropped beside her with a dull thud, his shoulder slamming into hers.
He let out a jaw-cracking yawn, threw a pack over his eyes to block the blinding afternoon sun, and drifted off.
Sorcha and Kyron kept their voices to a low murmur, planning their return to Lumora over the distant noise of the council.
Sorcha’s eyelids grew heavy under the baking sun, her thoughts blurring until a sudden shadow blocked the light.
“Sorry to interrupt this moment,” a voice chimed from behind, “but we’ve come to a conclusion.”
Sorcha bolted upright, her spine snapping straight alongside Kyron. Beside them, Maelan didn’t stir, merely letting out a rhythmic, soft snore. Sorcha drove her elbow straight into his ribs.
“What the hel—” Maelan wheezed, curling inward as his eyes blinked open. He glared at her, groggy and scowling, until his gaze flickered up past her shoulder. Danu stood over them, her divine presence luminous against the trees.
“... o,” Maelan finished, the fight draining from his face. Sorcha and Kyron pinched their lips together, cutting him a sharp, unified look that practically screamed shut up.
“If you’d follow me, the council awaits,” Danu said, turning back toward the fortress.
Their feet thudded hard against the stone steps as they hurried after the goddess, leaving the bright afternoon behind for the shadows of the grand hall.
Inside, the massive chamber felt hollow.
Half the heavy oak chairs sat empty, some pushed back hastily or left crooked.
Stained goblets and forgotten parchment littered the long table.
At the head of it sat the Dagda. He slumped forward, rubbing the bridge of his nose where deep lines had formed, his broad shoulders weighed down by an invisible anvil.
They slid into their seats, Sorcha’s eyes darting to the empty spaces, her chest tightening as she wondered what kind of storm had raged here while they were outside.
“We will give you the names and locations of eight of the children,” the Dagda continued, his voice heavy as a falling stone. “There are many others. Some we do not know of. Some refuse to be named.”
A cold weight dropped into Sorcha’s stomach.
Eight. The number felt devastatingly small against the vastness of the realm, yet the prospect of finding them felt like trying to gather scattered grains of sand in a storm.
She pressed her knuckles into the edge of the wooden table to keep her hands from shaking.
They were scattered far and wide, vulnerable and hidden.
“They are scattered far and wide across the realm, Sorcha,” the Dagda said, echoing her rising panic. “If what you say is true, it will be dangerous for you to cross the sea.”
At the mention of the sea, a draft of crisp, salty air cut through the stagnant smell of the grand hall.
From the deep shadows near the tall, arched windows, a figure shifted.
Manannán stepped into the light. He wore a cloak that rippled like deep ocean water, the fabric shifting from stormy gray to sea foam green with every movement.
The faint scent of brine and rolling tides followed him.
He didn’t speak immediately, but his ocean dark eyes locked onto Sorcha,
“Manannán has volunteered himself to aid you,” the Dagda announced, gesturing toward the sea god.
Manannán stepped forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over Sorcha. He extended his arms, presenting a bundle of cloth.
“This cloak grants invisibility,” he said, his voice a deep steady current that vibrated in her chest. “In case you find yourself in need. Carry it with you. Never leave it behind. Speak its name, and its magic will awaken. Feth Fiada.”
As he placed it in her hands, a knowing smirk touched his lips. “When you cross the sea, I will be there. You’ll know.”
Sorcha’s fingers trembled against the fabric. It felt impossibly light. Where her hands cupped the cloth, her fingers vanished entirely, swallowed by a shifting chameleon swirl of green and deep slate. It moved against her skin, like a living thing.
“She will serve you well if you care for her properly,” Manannán added, stepping back into the shadows. “She will shroud you in shadow and mist.”
Sorcha managed a tight nod, her voice dropping to a breathless whisper. “Thank you.”
The sea God sank back into his heavy oak chair, melting into the background.
Morrigan stepped forward next, her gaze locking onto Sorcha with predatory focus. “I shall keep watch over you. You will not see me as I stand now. Look for a crow, a raven, a wolf, or even a passing stranger. And when the time calls for war, I shall fight.”
A thick knot formed in Sorcha’s throat. A wave of heat pricked behind her eyes, and she clenched her jaw, pinning her lips together to keep from sobbing. She simply nodded. Morrigan’s gaze softened just enough to signal her understanding.
Finally, the Dagda rose. The floorboards groaned beneath his immense weight as he handed Sorcha a crisp roll of parchment bound with blood-red thread.
“I will do all I can to aid you on the journey ahead, Sorcha,” the Dagda said, his broad shoulders sagging.
“But you must understand—we left the mortal world for a reason. We could not fight every battle alone, stretched between both realms. We were exhausted, losing our kin to war after war for the realm of humans.”
He leaned in closely as he spoke, “To sway the Tuatha, you must prove yourself. Prepare the mortals. Fight. Earn our steel. And I promise you will not do this alone. Until then, there are still those among us willing to help. Go to Goibniu in the city of Gorias. He has offered his forge, while my city, Murias, will aid as well.”
Sorcha accepted the parchment, her heart hammering against her chest. The scroll felt heavier than it should.
Eight names. Eight fragile lives scattered across a hostile world, waiting to be hunted down by Vaelric and Bres.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second, forcing down the panic clawing at her throat.
She would prove to these gods that humanity was worth saving.
She would make them see the beauty in their flawed, mortal lives.
The sun bled low and orange across the purple haze of sky as they finally left the grand hall behind. The words of the Dagda echoed in rhythm with her footsteps: Prepare the mortals. Fight. Earn our steel.
They had barely cleared the palace gates when a familiar patch of ink-black fog coiled out from the brush. Before Sorcha could blink, the mist lunged.
“Oh!” Sorcha gasped, her boots skidding on the dirt as she tumbled backward onto the grass.
A whirlwind of freezing, damp shadow erupted over her. Noctis lapped at her face, her misty form leaving beads of dew across Sorcha’s cheeks. A breathless laugh broke through Sorcha’s lingering dread.
She wrapped her arms tightly around the swirling fog. Her hands sank through the chilly exterior, burying themselves into the dense, silky black coat underneath.
Kyron rubbed his temples, letting out a long, bone-weary sigh. Beside him, Maelan crossed his arms and offered an exaggerated, sweeping bow.
“I see your pet has finally graced us with her presence,” Maelan smirked, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Good to see you, Noctis.”
Noctis offered a pleased, bounding leap, her tail kicking up wisps of dark smoke. She trotted over to Kyron, stopping dead in her tracks. Her mist flickered and flared like static electricity, her posture rigid as she waited.
Kyron offered a half-hearted, limp wave of his hand. “Hey, girl.”
Noctis let out a sharp, disdainful huff. With an offended flick of her tail, she spun on her heel, turning her back to him completely as she slinked back to Sorcha’s side.
Sorcha chuckled, burying her fingers in Noctis’ thick fur. “We’re headed to Gorias. Will you be joining us?”
Noctis didn’t hesitate. She pranced to the front of the group, her shadowy frame stretching forward as she trotted down the dirt path. She paused, glancing back over her shoulder, clearly waiting for them to catch up.
The wind grew increasingly hostile as they climbed, biting at Sorcha’s cheeks and turning the sweat on her neck to ice.
Ahead, Gorias bled into the rugged mountain peaks, its towering silhouette a jagged crown barely visible through the swirling mountain fog.
Small campfires flickered from distant ridges like dying lanterns, their amber glow quickly swallowed by the thickening dusk.
The path wound upward, narrowing into a steep, rocky coil that seemed to tighten around them with every step.
Maelan exhaled, his breath pluming in ragged white wisps. “Are we headed to the heavens? Because if so, I have a lengthy list of things to repent for.”
Kyron let out a short, dry laugh, his lungs rattling between gasps of thin air. “I’d start reciting them now, then. I’ve never set foot here, so we could very well be marching straight into our own graves.”
Maelan cut his eyes over, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “That’s adorable, Kyron. Thank you for those profound words of wisdom.”
Sorcha tuned out their bickering, her focus narrowing entirely on the vertical trail.
Noctis continued her erratic dance, bounding ahead into the fog, flickering completely out of existence, and then condensing randomly on a higher ledge.
Sorcha yanked the Feth Fiada tighter around her shoulders.
Her legs burned like hot coals in her thighs, but she forced one boot forward, then the other.
The Dagda was testing them; that much was blindingly clear.
Two hours ago, Kyron had tried to bypass the trek entirely, gathering his mist to teleport them to the summit.
Instead, a violent snap of warding magic had violently thrown them backward, leaving them coughing in the dirt fifty feet further down the mountain.
Frustration had boiled over, and with bruised egos and sore limbs, they reluctantly started the grueling climb.
Only those strong enough to endure the mountain’s wrath earned the right to stand before the City of Gorias.
Suddenly, Noctis swirled around Sorcha’s boots, her misty form churning in restless, agitated waves before she let out a low whine.
As Sorcha took another step forward, the shadow-hound froze.
She pressed her nose against the empty air, her dark mist flattening against an invisible, shimmering barrier that rippled across the path.
Noctis’s edges began to fracture and dissolve, her form flickering violently as she tried to fight the city’s perimeter wards.
Sorcha slowed to a halt, a pang of heavy understanding settling deep in her chest. Noctis couldn’t cross the threshold. The ancient, divine energy of Gorias refused to let a creature of pure shadow enter.
Sorcha stepped back across the line, kneeling into the dirt.
“I’ll see you when we leave,” she whispered, her fingers ghosting through the chilly, shifting mist. Noctis gave her one last lingering look before collapsing inward, scattering into the mountain shadows.
With a steadying breath, Sorcha stood and turned her attention back to the summit.
The massive silver gates loomed out of the fog, flanked by towering obsidian walls whose smooth surfaces were deeply etched with silver runes that hummed with a faint pulsing light.
Sorcha was mesmerized, caught in the sheer grandeur of it all, when the crack of a spear striking the ground snapped her back to the present.
A soldier stepped forward, “State your name and reason for entering the city.
Kyron stepped forward. “Sorcha, Kyron, and Maelan. We were sent by the Dagda to see Goibniu.”
The soldiers exchanged glances. Then, without a word, one turned and motioned them forward while the other pushed open the great gates, leading them into the heart of Gorias.