16. Chapter Fifteen #2
Branwyn vanished into the press of the crowd, leaving me alone. I sank deeper into my seat, hood tight around my face, letting my eyes adjust. Threads sparked faintly into view, weaving through the smoke like veins of fire.
A table of half-born near the hearth roared with laughter. Golden threads glinted around their wrists—the mark of the sire bond, tethered to the god that created them. These men were war god spawn, no doubt—loud and throwing coins around, never going hungry.
But looking into the farthest corner, I held my breath.
A couple sat there, radiant. Their fingers entwined, violet thread glowing steadily between their palms. The Amorous bond.
Chosen. A bond that both parties asked the Fates to grant—only earned through a series of trials to “prove their love”. Whatever in the realms that meant.
I tore my gaze away and fought the stinging in my eyes.
The heat of my own truth pressed in. The uncomfortable feeling curled hot and invisible around my ribs.
This bond wasn't chosen, it was forced upon me. Duty, not devotion. I could feel Tairngire’s life-force at all times, no matter where he was.
And it was currently strong and steady.
The worst part of it all was that I didn't even want it.
What a damn shame.
My throat burned like the Weave itself mocked me. Reminding me that I would never have any real freedom. I wanted to scream. The walls of the dingy tavern suddenly felt too tight. I could feel the familiar undercurrents of rage tingling in my limbs, at the tips of my fingers. Everywhere.
Branwyn reappeared, triumph glinting in her eyes as she slid a cup toward me. “Quit sitting there feeling sorry for yourself and drink,” she said, already sipping hers.
I hesitated for a moment, then tipped it back. One swallow turned to another until I drained the whole thing, then slammed the cup down on the table with a hollow thud.
The threads around us continued to torment me, and only I could see them. Fury still pressed in my chest at the injustice, but at least the wine dulled its edge.
Gods, Branwyn was right. I really had been spending a lot of time feeling sorry for myself these days. I could normally brush off the unwanted feelings, but that was becoming increasingly difficult with every new chain the Old Gods cuffed me with.
Branwyn’s grin bloomed. “Well, well. The sacred Seer finally learns to drink like a sellsword.
Careful, Lyra. People might mistake you for a good time—" she gasped suddenly, dramatically draping a hand over her brow.
"But that would mean we'd have to switch places!
Then I would have to be the perpetually crabby one in our dynamic duo, and frowning causes wrinkles.
Oh gods, you know what? I'm not interested, I need you to scowl again. Quickly."
I shot her a glare sharp enough to cut through steel.
"Yup. There she is," she winked and tipped her cup toward me in a mock toast.
The air suddenly shifted with a familiar presence. My stomach tightened before my eyes followed.
Davorin Kesh stood there. Angled face, dark hair slicked back, coat swallowing the light as if he belonged in darkness. He leaned against a post, teeth bared in a nauseating smile.
“Well, well,” he drawled, voice edged with smoke. “Didn’t think I’d see the sisters again. Or should I say…Scáthae’s chosen?” His eyes dragged over us, unhurried. “Though I’d wager coin your names aren’t Eleanora and Maeve tonight, are they?”
My spine stiffened, Branwyn’s glamour held, I looked at her and didn’t even see a flicker of her golden curls and dark bronze skin. She was all fierce and road worn. But his certainty remained. Which meant he knew. He could see past our disguise.
And as far as I knew, only one type of being could.
This was ridiculous. I wasn’t sure if it was the wine, or my growing anger with no healthy outlet to place it, but I’d had enough. Enough games, riddles, and divine men who smirked like they were owed the entire universe.
My voice came out low, filled with murderous intent. “You want to keep circling with your nonsense, or do you actually have something worth saying this time?”
Branwyn’s mouth pulled into a rare frown, her glamour flickering as Davorin’s eyes locked on us. “Oh, shit,” she whispered, bemused and uncharacteristic. “He can see through my glamour, too?”
My pulse skipped a beat. Davorin was a god. He had to be if he could see through Branwyn's glamours. He was hiding his divinity, just as Tairngire had. Hiding his name, too. Which meant he was dangerously close to knowing who I was—what I was. And that was very, very bad.
Branwyn continued to pout, shoving her half-filled cup into my hand. “I’ll fetch more wine. Try not to antagonize the strange man while I’m gone.” She slipped off, chestnut locks swishing down her back, flashing the tavern keep a seductive smile.
Then it was just Davorin and I.
He didn’t sit. But he leaned in close, one hand braced on the table, large frame falling over me. His gaze deadlocked on mine. “Masks,” he said, humor in his tone. “You wear yours better than most. But no mask holds forever.”
I forced a shrug, tracing a finger around the rim of Branwyn’s discarded cup. “Depends on who’s looking.”
“Depends on who’s hiding.”
I met his gaze, lips twitching into the faintest smirk. My stomach had twisted into knots, but I couldn’t let it show. “You sound like a bastard who enjoys his own riddles.”
“And you,” he countered, pulling out the chair across from me and plopping down onto it, “sound like someone who doesn’t want me to know what she really is.”
Shit. I arched a brow, forcing steel into my voice. “Or maybe I’m just a woman who's bored of men who speak because they like the sound of their own voices.”
He raised his hand to his chin, and stroked it as if deep in thought, as if I’d confirmed what he suspected. Frustration edged him, too. I felt him reaching, and then his inability to fully pierce the glamour’s shield. Good, he knew it was there but couldn’t get through.
“Interesting,” he murmured, drumming the table with his fingers before clearing his throat. “Very interesting.”
I lifted my chin, my attitude begging to be unleashed. “If you want something, then ask for it.”
Silence stretched taut, near breaking, and still he didn’t let it. He just sat there watching me with an inscrutable expression.
Branwyn swept back like a storm in silk, two cups of wine balanced in her hands, that irrepressible spark in her eyes. She slid into the chair next to Davorin as if she hadn’t just left me alone with a wolf.
“Well,” she purred, a pout forming on her mouth, “looks like I missed all the fun.”
I loved Branwyn, but sometimes I was tempted to strangle her. I gave her a look that suggested as much, but she just gave me a smug smile and a wink. Typical.
Davorin’s stare lingered on her, weighted but not unkind and laced with something...heated?
Gross.
His eyes narrowed. “You choose curious company, witch.”
Branwyn didn't even flinch at the word. She only tipped her cup in an exaggerated toast. “Says the man cloaking himself in shadows.”
Leave it to Branwyn to poke at the big, scary man. I gave her another warning look, which of course, she didn’t heed.
With one dark brow lifting, Davorin shifted in his chair, leaned back and relaxed. “Cloaking, hmm? And what makes you so certain it’s a cloak, and not my truth?”
I nearly choked on my wine.
Branwyn only laughed, light and melodical. “Because the only thing that can see through one of my glamours is a divine. And you, darling, saw straight through it.”
I resisted the urge to groan and bang my head against the table. This was not subtle whatsoever. Usually, I was the one pushing the limit, but Branwyn was the one making foolish remarks this time.
Davorin tilted his head, something almost like a smile playing at his lips. “Hmm, maybe. Or perhaps you give yourself too much credit."
“Perhaps,” Branwyn echoed sweetly, shrugging—totally unfazed. She sipped her wine, eyes glittering over the rim.
I sat across from them, fingers tightening around my cup, wishing that I could disappear. I knew coming out tonight had been a bad idea.
I rose, muttering something about needing the washroom. But I needed air more than anything. As I stepped past, Davorin’s hand closed lightly around my wrist.
The tavern vanished.
I stood beneath skies too bright for the Seventh Realm, too clear. Rivers of molten honey split across rolling emerald hills, light catching on wings—pixie-like creatures flitted about, laughing, shimmering as they dipped through wildflowers taller than me. The air was dense and sweet, alive.
Aeos Sítheann.
The truth ripped through me. My Sight had pulled me into his threadless core. It wasn’t mortal, half-born, or even demigod. It was Fae.
The scene twisted. Shadows coiled, honey rivers bled black. The pixies scattered, their laughter broke into screams. Beauty scoured, jagged, ruined. My chest seized…
And then I was left with darkness.
Gods above and below, he carried both the light and ruin of the realm.
The vision snapped, leaving me gasping. Davorin's hard grip was gone from my wrist but his eyes were alight with knowing. I chanced a glance toward his ears, but they were perfectly rounded. Not pointy. And though I’d never seen a Fae before, all the legends said that their ears were what differentiated them from mortals, or even the Tuatha blessed divines.
Was he hiding those, too?
“Well.” His eyes widened, dangerous and surprised. “Intriguing.” He leaned back as though he hadn’t just shattered the ground beneath me. “Very eye-opening, little wolf.”
My pulse thundered. Was that all he could say? Did he know? Did he see me for what I truly was to the Old Gods? Had I betrayed myself by failing to mask the vision clinging to my skin?
And then there was that strange nickname again…little wolf. Why was he calling me that? It seemed too deliberate to be a coincidence…