3. Chapter Three #2
For among the divine there were two kindreds.
The An Chéadchumtha, the First-Crafted, spun by the Old One’s hand in the dawn of all things; and the Na hArdaithe, the Ascended, mortals chosen and remade, risen into godhood through fire and trial.
When those two bloodlines entwined, their children were rarer still. Demigods. I’d never seen one.
Branwyn’s eyes lit. “Perfect,” she murmured, already looking back at me.
“Your name is Maeve. Mine’s Eleanora.” She stood and gestured.
I followed as she moved toward the half-born table.
“Act like this,” she muttered, chin high, eyes scanning the crowd like every soul was either a mark or an enemy.
I matched her stride, shoulders squared, leather creaking in a way that was somehow both alien and familiar at once.
The scarred soldier noticed us first. His gaze swept over me once, slow enough to be deliberate, then slid to Branwyn.
Ugh, how revolting.
Suspicion narrowed his eyes. “And what’s this?” he drawled, blunt as a cudgel. “You two aren’t from around here.”
Branwyn’s grin bloomed like a fox scenting a henhouse.
“Not unless ‘around here’ includes the northern passes of Scáthae’s Reach.
” She leaned on their table, voice dropping into the cadence of a fighter spinning campfire tales.
“We serve the warrior goddess herself. Mortal chosen bearing her mark.” Her glamour flared, blood shimmering with blessing.
“Two moons on the road, chasing a message meant only for her ears.”
I resisted rolling my eyes. Divine realms, she could lay it on thick. “Secret mission,” I added, flat and bored, like I’d repeated it to strangers all week.
The horned soldier leaned forward, smirking. “That so? And what’s the goddess want with mortal women?”
“Isn’t a question you want the answer to,” Branwyn replied on a shrug, tone leaving no room for debate.
The table beside the half-born had gone quiet, nosy townsfolk leaning in.
Mortals blessed by divinity weren’t allowed passage between realms unless on a divine mission, which was exactly what Branwyn’s glamour implied.
The half-born chuckled, glancing at each other, torn between wariness and intrigue.
I tipped my chin at the dice, lips curling. Time to have some real fun. “A couple of half-born. Do you like to play war? Is that what you do in Cindraloch?”
Branwyn stiffened. She hated when I did this.
The scarred soldier stilled, dice clattering to a stop in his palm. “We don’t play,” he said.
The horned one leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Cindraloch’s not a game, girl. We train for war. Real war. When it comes, you should know this. What with being mercenaries for the Goddess of War herself. I thought Scáthae trained her women better.”
The scarred one snickered in response.
Branwyn’s expression soured, a rare slip of emotion.
For her it was personal. She was half-born, sired to the Morrígan.
But to these men, she was just a mortal mercenary.
And the way that these men blatantly disrespected half-born women was both crude and entirely offensive.
Branwyn could do some serious damage. She once sicced a crocodile on a couple of fishermen for leering at her too long as she was picking herbs by the river. Not to trifle with, that one.
The scarred soldier cleared his throat and spoke again. “With the way things are in Karthmor…war may be imminent.”
The name snagged something in me. The Underworld.
Branwyn’s irritation faltered, replaced by shock. “Karthmor?” she asked lightly, though her fingers had gone still on the table.
The soldier nodded. “The realm beneath the realms. The one you reach only when your last breath’s been stolen.
The King of Ash has never wanted more than what belongs there—the souls of the fallen.
But now?” He leaned in, shadows crawling across his cheekbones.
“The whispers say he’s looking elsewhere. ”
My throat tightened. I glanced at Branwyn.
She was watching me with an assessing gaze.
She had no idea what I’d seen tonight, and as much as I trusted her, I would be keeping it that way.
But that…thing I had seen held the Chthonic bond to the Underworld, and even I knew it had no business being here.
I couldn’t deny how odd it was that the King of Ash was keeping pets now, and that they were making their way onto sacred ground.
Branwyn finally reached for the dice, breaking the tension with practiced ease. “Then I suppose,” she said smoothly, “we’ll see if the whispers are worth worrying about.”
The horned one tilted his head, leaning back and crossing his arms. “You two got names?”
“Eleanora,” Branwyn replied without pause. She gestured toward me. “And this is my sister, Maeve.”
I flicked her a sidelong look. Sister. Cute.
I kept silent as the half-born’s eyes raked over me again, trying to place me and failing.
I really didn’t like the way these half-born were looking at us.
There was no way they could know who we truly were, but my instincts were telling me how dangerous these men could be. And yet, I wanted to push them.
“Sisters, hmm?” he asked slowly, like he was tasting the word for venom. “You don’t look much alike.”
“Different fathers,” Branwyn said, smile like a blade. “But the same temper, so mind your tongue.”
A chuckle rumbled from a nearby table. The scarred one didn’t laugh. His gaze stayed on me, sharp enough to peel skin.
I arched a brow. “Something wrong?”
He smiled—all teeth. “Not yet.”
Branwyn shifted her weight, casual, but I felt the steel beneath it. “Then let's keep it that way, shall we?”
The air tightened. They glanced between us, as if weighing whether to push or back down. I almost hoped they would push. Pompous bastards. I’d drawn blood tonight, and now I had a taste for it.
My thoughts flicked back to Tairngire’s warning in the Elder’s hut:
Your arrogance will get you killed.
And gods help me, it made me want to grind my teeth and grin in the same breath. Because these two assholes could benefit from that advice.