7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
The echo of the tome’s closing still lingered when the lamplight shifted, softening to amber.
A deliberate beat of wings stirred the silence. “You found it,” came a voice threaded with age and authority.
I turned. The Elder Sgàthánwing was perched on the desk, its talons clicking against the wood.
"It…called to me." I murmured.
The Elder tilted its avian head, weighing me. “Then you are ready to see what others only recite.”
It stepped closer. “You’ve walked the temple halls and learned their histories. But you have not yet seen how the realms truly touch each other…or what stirs in the spaces between.”
My heart stammered. I hated being told my knowledge wasn’t enough, being that it was the only thing in my life I had control over. But the hunger to know pressed harder than my pride. I swallowed it back and asked between clenched teeth, “Will you teach me?”
“That depends,” its tone shifted, no longer cold but honed. “Do you wish to know what can never be unlearned?”
The answer lodged in my chest. I could only nod.
The Elder’s gaze flicked to me. “Then listen and hold your tongue. The Seven are not to be spoken of lightly. We begin not with what they are, that you know well. But with what you have not yet seen. What no mortal priest will tell you, for they were never permitted to know.”
It leaned closer, the faint scent of rain-washed stone clinging to its feathers.
“First—you must understand this. Each realm casts a shadow onto another. Nothing exists alone.”
The Elder’s silver eyes dimmed to burnished bronze, as if drawing on its own true Sight.
“Caerthannas. The Godhead.”
Its voice rolled like the air before a storm.
“You have been told Caerthannas is a place—a pinnacle above all others, where the gods dwell in their true forms. That is only a shadow of truth. Caerthannas is not somewhere you go, rather…a state you endure.”
My brow furrowed. “A state?"
Bronze-tipped feathers rippled along its neck. “In the Common Tongue, your word is ‘union’. Not of flesh, but will. Every soul within Caerthannas is drawn into its lattice—the weave of memory and knowledge. It is not a council. It is a single vast mind, still composed of many.”
It paced along the desk, talons whispering against the wood. “The gods you think you know…” It paused dramatically, as if choosing its next words carefully. “When they stand in Caerthannas, they are not separate. They are the same breath, inhaled and exhaled through a thousand mouths at once.”
I’d always imagined Caerthannas as a citadel of blinding light, where gods and demigods convened. Not this. Not a merging.
“Then how…”
“How can they act apart?” The Elder’s head snapped toward me, its eyes molten silver once more. “They cannot. And so, they descend only when they wish to move alone. However, every choice outside carries a price. For the Godhead resents what leaves it.”
Its claw traced a slow arc across the gold lettering of the tome. “This is why Caerthannas rarely interferes in the realms below. Why it sends its counterparts, An Chéadchumtha and Na hArdaithe. It is not distance that stays their hand—it is the cost of becoming singular again.”
The Elder lowered its gaze, something close to sorrow flickering there. “And remember this, Seer. Caerthannas does not forgive. There is always a cost for leaving.”
Its talon stilled on the next page. “Aeos Sítheann. The Bright Labyrinth. The Fae Realm.” It fluttered its wings, in excitement or warning, I couldn't tell. “Mortals believe Aeos Sítheann sits within the Godhead’s gaze, bound to the same laws. That is no longer truth.”
I frowned. The Fae bowed to the same gods as all realms…didn’t they? “No longer?”
Moonstone feathers rustled again. “After the Thread Wars, Aeos Sítheann severed itself from Caerthannas, but not without blood. They won that war, though no priests scroll says it. Their victory bought them the right to their own divinity—shaped in their image alone.”
Confusion and awe tangled in my chest. “They created their own gods?”
Its beak tilted, near a human nod. “Old whispers speak of one who fell from the Godhead. A god who claimed Aeos Sítheann and bent it to his will alone. That god still walks the labyrinth, though none outside the Fae courts have seen him in an age.”
I swallowed hard, another burning question on my tongue. “And the Fae? What are they like?”
Its eyes gleamed like oil catching flame.
“Mysterious, capricious, twisters of truth. They do not forgive trespass, and they do not think as mortals do. Aeos Sítheann is no single kingdom, but a thousand tangled forests without end, rivers coiling back on themselves, palaces vanishing with dawn. At its heart lies a maze no ruler can fully chart.”
Its voice dropped lower, a conspiratorial hint there.
“The Fae do not walk the Seventh Realm, but not out of fear. Their sovereignty required exile. Their bargain keeps them apart still. They guard their own borders fiercely. They are not fond of any living thing that does not have Fae blood running through its veins.”
I stared at the curling script in the tome, at the map of realms I once thought fixed and true. “I didn’t know,” I whispered. “I thought Aeos Sítheann was part of…everything.”
“It was,” the Elder said, closing its eyes briefly. “And now it is not.”
Its talons turned the page in a slow beat, pulling me forward. “And here…Cindraloch.”
The word landed heavy, like iron in the ear.
“A realm of banners and blood,” it said at last. “Where half-born sit crowned in conquest. Sons and daughters of divines and mortals—never made to descend into Morhaven, never made to learn humility, nor the costs of humanity.”
A chill clawed down my spine. What a terrible combination that was.
“Yes,” the Elder cut in as if it had read my mind. “Born to divinity but not to wisdom. And such creatures are…dangerous. Cindraloch is their proving ground. It is where the divine meets the untampered hungers of man. Pride without temperance. Strength without mercy. Ambition without end.”
It leaned closer, parchment musk and moonstone brushing me.
“They carve their worth into land and flesh. They raid. They conquer, they take what pleases them—drape themselves in the spoils: silks, jewels, gold from a hundred vaults. Decorated as kings and queens…but their crowns rest on tempers as volatile as stormfire.”
The Elder’s tone lowered. “Cindraloch is a place where the gods prepare for war, Seer. Their armies are honed for opportunity. They wait for the moment a border falters, the moment a god shows weakness, and then they strike. The realm is never still. It breathes like a beast in its cage, teeth bared, waiting for blood.”
I could almost hear it—the clash of steel, drums, the roar of warriors who thought themselves untouchable. “And the people there?” I asked, though I already knew.
“Proud,” the Elder said. “They believe Cindraloch is the heart of strength itself. But pride, Seer…pride is the crack in every fortress wall.”
Its claw turned the page and traced an illustration of towers and lantern-lit streets.
“Morhaven,” it said, almost fondly. “The realm of breath and bone. Here, the mortal soul descends to learn what cannot be taught in the halls of gods. Every heartbeat is a lesson, every choice a thread in the loom. A place where Fate is determined by action. No crowns for birthright—only those earned or taken by force. Then come the bloodline’s rewards. ”
I bent over the page—painted streets, the spires of stone and music echoing down its avenues. But beneath the beauty, I saw what they didn’t write: mortals betraying each other, lives bartered for crowns, blood spilled on soil for conquest. Every choice dragged through the soil like chains.
The book only painted the beauty. My Sight showed the rot.
I bit back the bitterness coiling in my throat. Of course, the Old Gods would call it holy. They always dressed cruelty as lesson, slaughter as trial.
Out loud I only said, “What’s the difference between Morhaven and Cindraloch, then? They sound—”
“Not so different as you might believe,” the Elder cut in, its gaze unreadable.
“Morhaven’s loom is still loose, still weaving.
Cindraloch’s cloth has been cut, stitched, hardened with time.
The bloodlines are chosen. However, both are shaped by hands not their own, both bear the temper of the divine once mingled with what has not yet been tested by trial. ”
It turned the page with deliberate care. “Morhaven may yet be mended. But Cindraloch…is a tapestry already stained. And some stains never wash away.”
Its feathers lingered over the seventh sphere on the next page, glinting like water in moonlight.
“Anamcroí,” I said at once. “The Binding Place.”
Its head inclined, a faint gesture of acknowledgment. “Where the descent begins, every return is weighed.”
A faint smile tugged at me, though it didn’t reach my eyes.
At last, a realm I knew for certain. “You needn’t tell me its laws.
I’ve walked the root-bridges since before I could name them.
I’ve stood before souls in their first gleam, seen the knots tied for every mortal bond marked for Morhaven.
” I tried to hide the distaste from my voice.
A soft hum rumbled in the Elder’s throat. “Then you know its weight.”
“Yes,” I said. “I carry it within me every day. It is my sacred duty.”
The words on my tongue were poison, but the Elder only watched, silent.
That was what I liked most about the strange old bird—it ignored my emotional outbursts, something neither the High Priestess nor Brannach had ever managed.
It was almost as if it understood the severity of my attitude and chose not to provoke it. Smart creature.
Light slid across the mirrored curve of its face. “And yet—”
I waited.
“It is not only Anamcroí”
My brow furrowed. “And what does that mean?”
“In the Elder tongue—one not spoken outside the oldest vaults—it is called Aedryn’s Crossing.”
The name struck like a half-remembered truth. “I’ve never heard it called that,” I said through gritted teeth, furious at my own ignorance. I tried to rack my brain for familiarity and came up blank.
The Elder’s beak curved in the closest thing its kind had to a smile. “I know.”
Gods-damned creature. It was smug about the fact it knew something I didn’t about the very realm I’d lived in my entire life—and it wanted me to feel it.
Its talon flipped a time-warn page, hovering over the shadowed sphere that pulsed like dying embers. “Karthmor,” it said, voice softening to something close to reverence.
Or warning.
“The Ash Realm,” I answered. My tone was measured, though the air between us grew heavier. “Where the King of Ash sits upon his throne.”
“Where none dare to speak his name,” the Elder agreed. “And few dare pass through willingly.”
I tipped my head, tracing the dark halo crowning the sphere’s edge. “Not all souls go there.”
“No,” it said with a slight shake of its head.
“Only those who have ascended and chosen the trials for godhood. They descend into Karthmor to prove themselves worthy of the Everwoven’s highest seat.
Some join the Godhead in Caerthannas. Some take root in the World Tree itself, weaving strength and Sight into their bloodlines. ”
“And those who are damned stay there…” I murmured.
The Elder’s mirrored face caught the dim light. “Only mortals and the gods’ chosen—the demi-born and the half-born upon death in any realm. Their souls are claimed by the king. Kept.”
Its talon tapped once. “Karthmor always remembers what the living wish to forget.”
Silence pressed in. Its talon hovered above the final sphere on the last page, as if even pointing at it demanded caution.
When it spoke, the word curled like smoke from a dying fire. “Dorchadas.”
Even the syllables sounded tainted on the tongue.
“The Shadow Realm,” it continued, voice deepening. “The truest exile of creation. The place no sun or moon has ever touched. It lies beneath the notice of the divines, for even they would rather not remember its existence.”
I felt my pulse quicken as I focused on the dilapidated structure hidden behind shadows. “And the Citadel?”
The Elder’s mirrored gaze met mine, caution within it.
“They call it the Tainted,” it said. The name landed like a death knell.
“A fortress built from the refuse of eternity—from the bones of dead realms, the ash of forgotten wars. Within its walls dwell things that were never meant to live…mistakes given shape, will, and hunger.”
I swallowed, eyes drawn to the map. I thought about the beast that I’d slain in the woods again, the vision I had where the realms collided. “What kind of hunger?”
Its reflection shimmered over me like a terrible vision. I remembered the tome’s vision, the dread it brought still clung to me.
“The kind that does not care what it eats. The kind that will taint anything it touches. Even memory.”
It traced the obsidian shape. “Its seas are black glass. Still, endless. They mirror not the sky, but the dark beneath all creation.”
A silence stretched between us before the Elder spoke again.
“Every realm has shadows, Seer—Dorchadas is where those shadows take corporeal form.”
A chill ran down my arms. “No mortal has walked there,” I said.
“None who returned,” the Elder replied. “Dorchadas does not barter. It does not yield. It simply…waits. And when the mistake is made…” The pause lingered in the air. “It devours the gods who are sent there by the Godhead. It is the closest thing to true death a divine can experience.”
I leaned back from the tome, the weight of the realms pressing against me from worlds away.