5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Branwyn eventually broke the silence on our walk back to the temple district. ‘Well,” she said, her tone light but edged with curiosity, “that was an interesting little tableau. Two mysterious, brooding men circling each other like carrion birds. Odd, don’t you think?”
“Odd’s one word for it…”
Her eyes cut toward me, bright in the dim streetlight. ‘So? What’s scratching at that head of yours?”
The blood on my hands. My duty choking me. A god following me around. You know, the usual. I said none of it.
I let out a sigh. “With my Sight, I couldn’t see a single thread around either of them. Nothing. Not mortal, not divine. It was as if they’d been cut out of the Weave. Completely.”
That earned a raised brow. “That’s…unusual, and now that you say it, my witchy senses weren’t attuned to them either. I was distracted by the sheer strangeness of it all.”
I glanced at her, words heavy on my tongue that I should have left there, but didn’t. I let out a long exhale.
“Eryndor Vale is a god, and he's using an alias.”
Branwyn blinked, then barked a laugh. For a moment, she thought I was joking.
But when she saw my face and realized that I was serious, she cackled outright.
“No way, Aurenya. I would have seen through whatever glamour he had. Gods can’t hide from me—not with the Morrígan’s blessing.
I’ve met plenty who’ve tried, and none succeeded. ”
I sighed, frustration biting at the edges. “I’ve never doubted your gift, Branwyn. But, gods can slip past you. Tonight was proof.”
She slowed, turning just enough to study me in the lamplight. “And how exactly do you know that?” she asked, voice lower. “And if you’re right, why isn’t he parading about like the rest of them? Flaunting power, dripping divinity like perfume mortals can smell from a mile away. Why hide?”
I shook my head, frustrated. “I don’t know. But I’m telling you—he did it. Or someone else cloaked him. And it…annoys me.”
Her brow arched. “Everything annoys you.”
I ignored that. “First, he casually leans against a monument at the soul bonding rite like he had every right to be there.” I started a rant then, frustration slipping out before I could catch it.
“Then, I’m summoned to the Elder’s hut, where he stood like he belonged, while Brannach demanded he start protecting me from some unnamed threat to the Weave.
Now, he’s in Caer Anam, hiding his godhood under some ridiculous name that makes him sound like a villain from Aeos Sítheann. ”
Branwyn’s lips twitched like she was trying not to grin at my outrage, and her disbelief melted into thoughtfulness.
“Hmm. Well, that would explain your emotional reaction back there. And I must agree with you, Eryndor Vale does make him sound like some cocky Fae prince. They’re so fucking dramatic with their titles.
” She rolled her eyes, then they widened. “Wait…do you think he’s a Fae god?”
I shook my head, breath escaping in a rush. “His true name is Tairngire.”
Branwyn halted so fast her boots scraped the cobblestones. “The Tairngire?”
I nodded warily. “The one and only.”
Her mouth parted in disbelief. “There are entire fireside tales about him.
The Forest God who bows to no king, no goddess, no council.
When Cindraloch trespassed into his woods with three hundred soldiers, none walked out alive.
He scattered them to pieces. Some wandered for months thinking they were still marching.
Others swore the forest whispered in their ears until they turned on each other.
They say his home is somewhere deep within the First Forest, built by the bones of his enemies. "
Her eyes widened as the realizations hit her all at once. “So that’s what Davorin meant with his odd forest remark. That’s who the Old Gods sent to protect you?”
I pulled my cloak tighter, rubbing my arms. The air felt colder all the sudden. “Apparently.”
Branwyn muttered so quietly I barely caught it, “Why in the Seven Realms would he agree to that?”
I didn’t answer, because that question had stalked me since I’d left the Elders’ hut. We walked slower now, steam rising off the cobblestones underfoot.
Tonight, I’d let myself feel too much. Too much freedom. Too much of what I wasn’t supposed to have. And already, I could feel the balance tipping—the invisible hush in the air that always came before the other shoe dropped.
Branwyn didn’t speak for a while, and when she finally did, her voice was softer than before. “You know I’ll always stand behind you, Aurenya. Always. You want to burn the rulebook? I’ll light the match for you. In fact, I’m waiting for the day you ask.”
I caught the smallest lift of her mouth from the corner of my eye. She had no idea how close I was getting to burning it myself.
“But if the Old Gods have sent protection…” She shook her head, “It means something is coming. Something bigger than Caer Anam. Bigger than Anamcroí. Probably bigger than any single realm.”
Her gaze drifted toward the horizon, to the World Tree etched against the stars.
“I’ve felt the shifts for a while but couldn’t put names to them.
Those men in that tavern weren’t the first I’ve heard whispering about strange happenings in Karthmor.
You need to be careful, little sister. Not afraid—just aware. ”
My chest hollowed at her words, as if scraped clean, and for the first time that night, I was certain whatever Tairngire was doing here, it wasn’t just for me.
By the time I slipped through the temple district’s gates, the moon hung low, spilling light across the thatched rooftops. My steps quickened as I left the sanctum’s cold stone behind for the winding lane where Saorla’s hut waited.
It wasn’t much compared to the spired halls I was meant to call home, but it was mine. Or as close as I would ever get to having something of my own.
The door opened without a sound, and warm air met me. The familiar scents of chamomile and woodsmoke enveloped me like a blanket. The hearth still glowed faintly, the embers banked low. Plants crowded every surface—bundles of thyme and rosemary tied with twine, herbs curling toward the firelight.
The kitchen was old-fashioned, just as Saorla liked it: clay jars, carved spoons, a basin of water, a stone counter smoothed by decades of use, and a small table stood draped with a cloth of faded leaves.
This was where she spent her days, brewing teas and tinctures, grinding roots, bottling salves for Aíne and her needs.
She’d lived here longer than some demigods had drawn breath and knew Caer Anam’s woods as if they were her own body.
Our bedrooms branched off the main room—two narrow doors.
I’d never forgotten how hard I'd fought for mine. The Seer was supposed to live in the temple, under constant watch, a prized relic sealed in marble and shadows. At thirteen, Brannach insisted I move there. I refused. I begged. When that failed, I simply stopped carrying my things out of Saorla’s until he gave up.
I suspected the High Priestess had a hand in it all, but I never asked.
The house was modest, but it reminded me of the life I might have had without the Sight—quiet mornings in Morhaven, a kitchen warm with steam, freedom without divine eyes watching. Of course, it was an illusion. They were always watching.
The only sound was Saorla’s breathing from behind her door, deep and steady. I sometimes wondered if Branwyn spelled Saorla’s nightly tea so she slept harder. She seemed to snore louder on the nights we mucked about the village. I shook my head and smiled at the thought.
With the last of Branwyn’s glamour wearing off, I slipped into my room and let the door close softly behind me. Shelves sagged under books and scrolls—some from my training, others bartered for under Branwyn’s tricks in the market square.
Travelers brought the best finds: books on weapons, spellwork, and current events happening in Morhaven.
Topics that weren’t available to me in the temple library.
Reading was my own luxury, and I clung to it.
Knowledge was the only weapon I could properly wield, perhaps that was why brandishing steel tonight had felt so thrilling.
I pushed the thought aside, my eyes catching on the carved wooden fox on my table beside a smooth river stone.
Both had come with me when the Veilwalker carried me from the mortal realm.
Above them hung a single copper medallion, its etched symbol still a mystery.
I liked to think it was from my parents—the ones I'd been taken from—but it was just a lie I told myself often enough to believe.
I sat on the edge of my bed, surrounded by the muted hum of plants, the fire’s faint crackle, and the steady breath of a night holding itself taut. I could feel sleep weighing down my eylids.
The tavern still pressed at the edges of my mind: Davorin’s assessing eyes, Tairngire’s unreadable smile, Branwyn’s warning. And beneath it all, that restless awareness—the kind that makes you glance over your shoulder even when the street is empty.