38. Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was officially the night of the ball.
Aine’s daughters were already waiting, bright-eyed.
They ushered me straight to the bath, with lavender steam curling around my face, then dressed me in a gown somehow even softer than the last. Midnight silk flowed with every step.
The bodice was tight around my curves, and embroidery glimmered at the seams. My hair cascaded into heavy waves, half-pinned with gold so it framed my face.
Ball-ready.
The thought sat strange in my mind. Feasts, music, laughter—these belonged to those with divinity coursing through their veins. My duty had always been temples and tomes, silence and vision. Yet here I stood, wrapped in silks meant for royalty.
Scáthae’s words shadowed every gleam of gold: I was a weapon. War stirred. The King of Ash moved his pawns. And Tairngire would return tonight.
My pulse betrayed me as the last clasp was fastened. I drew a breath. Whatever waited in that ballroom, it would not find me weak.
The soft rustle of skirts announced Mairenn before her knock. She swept in with her ever-present smirk, golden thread shining. “You’re ready,” she said with satisfaction, eyes flicking over gown and hair. “Perfect.”
I tried to summon confidence, but my palms were already damp.
As we walked and conversed, Mairenn’s voice softened. “Listen, Aurenya. Not every half-born looks at the Seer with reverence. Those in Goibniu’s house can be cruel, namely the women. They’ll test you tonight.”
Great. I remembered what Ciaran had said of them, something about being born with hammers in hand…
Her teasing transformed into that hardened warrior exterior once more. “Keep your fire contained. Lose control of your temper, and you lose control of your Sight. And that, you cannot afford, not in front of them.”
The truth stung. My visions had always been closely related to strong emotions. One slip could expose me. I swallowed. “I’ll manage.”
Her grin returned, thoroughly wicked. “Good. Because when Goibniu’s women bare their teeth, I’d hate to see that precious gown ruined.” She winked. “Let’s see how you dance with wolves, Aurenya.”
The ballroom doors groaned open. Light, strings, and laughter spilled out.
My feet froze until Mairenn let out an uncharacteristic, dreamy sigh.
“Ah, the harp. I nearly died learning it as a child. While some mortals can play it with ease in Morhaven,” she finished with a hint of annoyance in her tone.
“You play music as mortals do?” I questioned, startled by her admission. The thought of seeing a half-born warrior with any sort of instrument was humorous, to say the least.
“Well, yes. Though not well.”
Was Mairenn…blushing?
“Aíne loves music, namely strings, and my mother has always strived to impress her. Aoife teaches more than just dance, you know. We aren’t all artistically constipated around here. Besides, an instrument is its own kind of weapon. One that can coax even the cruelest warrior into a foxtrot.”
I couldn’t stifle my laugh as I imagined it. Mairenn punched my shoulder with a playful look on her face.
A hundred candles blazed inside. Ceilings soared, banners draped, and tables gleamed with goblets and gold. Stares greeted me with appraisal. I tried my best to put my awareness elsewhere, but I could feel the hair at the back of my neck stand on end.
Then I saw it—the divide. On one side, the familiar faces of Scáthae’s brood, girls I had both sparred and danced beside. I couldn’t help but smile as Sorcha, Eilis, and Fionnuala hurried over, their playful chatter rising above the low timbre of strings.
Across the room, Goibniu’s line stood apart with their shoulders squared, faces hard. Their discipline was steel-forged like their armor. Where Scáthae’s sired carried restless fire, Goibniu’s were sharp weapons honed for a singular purpose.
War.
My gaze lifted to the dais. King Caedmon was lounged back lazily as always, jovial despite his stillness.
But beside him was another king. He sat tall.
Every line of muscle earned from one of his infamous battles, the one that crowned him the King of Iron.
Son of the Forge-Born god. Legend had it that he once chopped off the head of Lugh, the God of Light; grandson to none other than Balor—King of the Fomorians.
The King of Iron doomed Lugh to Dorchadas for using the gift of divine light to reincarnate his fallen lover from Karthmor.
Necromancy was an unforgivable act in the eyes of the Godhead, and the punishment had always been servitude to the Shadow Realm.
Lugh was chained to Sliabh an larainn—the Mountain of Iron.
There, he would suffer the worst fate a god could endure—an eternity of being unmade and remade, repeatedly, inside the Citadel of the Tainted.
The King of Iron was the only half-born who had ever felled a god, and by the way he assessed everyone from his iron throne, he thought himself above everyone here. Even the king sitting next to him.
“King Domhnall.” Sorcha breathed. “Lugh-Slayer.”
Eilis smirked. “And every bit as unbending as the Forge God he was sired from.”
Fionnuala giggled, carefree, as if her and Eilis weren’t just casually discussing the physique of the only king who ever dared to defy the damned gods. “I wouldn’t mind seeing what those strong hands are capable of…well, aside from smithing divine weapons, of course.”
Eilis elbowed Fionnuala in the side with a snicker on her face that suggested she whole-heartedly agreed. I covered my mouth, hiding a laugh. I simply couldn’t help it, it didn't matter how much of her blood ran through their veins, Scáthae’s daughters were ruthless.
Meanwhile, Goibniu’s descendants’ eyes lingered on me, differently from those of the war-goddess’s.
Caedmon rose, his laughter boomed like thunder. He clapped his hands, silencing the hall. “God’s Breath! What is this disaster? Scáthae’s brood on one wall. Goibniu’s on the other? Bah! You think alliances are forged by glaring at each other across a dance floor?”
Nervous laughter spread across the ballroom.
“Go! Converse. Dance. Trip over yourselves if you must, but by the Fates, mix! You dishonor your sires if you cower at the sight of your own kin.”
At Caedmon’s command, Scáthae’s blood shoved each other forward first, with laughter breaking the tension. Hesitant, Goibniu’s offspring finally peeled themselves from the wall, albeit somewhat reluctantly.
“This ought to be entertaining.” Fionnuala whispered.
The musicians struck their strings once more as the first brave half-born pairs ventured toward one another. Tentative notes swelled into a proper tune.
The air stilled when three fierce-looking women crossed the floor. Their gowns were cut like armor—dark slate and deep burgundy, skirts moving with soldiers’ precision. They looked less like dancers than warriors on parade.
At their head, the tallest strode forward.
Muscular arms, hair plaited tight, no softness swayed in her gown, only steel cinched to her frame.
The two woman flanking her mirrored that same severity, but in different ways.
One was all sharp cheekbones and flint eyes.
The other was deceptively pretty until her smile curled into a sneer, distorting her elegant features.
They stopped before me. The leader folded her arms, silk groaning under muscle.
“Well, well,” she said, voice smooth but steeped in venom. “The Seer of the Seven realms. I thought you were a story told to frighten half-born children. But here you stand, dressed like a doll for our amusement.”
The other two snickered. Their laughter was brittle and cruel. Their eyes roved over me as though I were prey dressed for slaughter.
Branwyn flashed in my mind—her wicked grin, the way she’d cut barbed swords sharper than the edges of broken glass. Gods, I missed her. My tongue stalled where hers would’ve struck.
Before I could bite, a smooth voice cut in behind me.
“Careful, Ailbhe,” Ciaran drawled, stepping to my side.
He clasped his hands behind his back in a relaxed stance, bowing shallow enough to mock courtesy.
His smile was faint, but his eyes were hard.
“Last I checked, insulting a guest of King Caedmon in his own hall earns you stables duty. And how ever shall I explain to Goibniu why his chosen daughter was chastised for being petty?”
Ailbhe’s chin lifted. “Petty? Forgive me if I find it strange the Fates chose a mortal for such a burden. Strange—and dangerous. Perhaps I simply wonder how long before she bends under the pressure.”
Ciaran stopped a server with a plate of goblets, grabbed two and handed me one, never taking his eyes off of Goibniu’s daughters.
The sneering beauty beside Ailbhe chimed in, smirking at me. “Or breaks.”
Ciaran’s smile thinned before taking a sip of wine. “Then you’ll forgive me if I find it stranger still that Goibniu’s daughters—meant to embody steel—spend their time snapping at someone who outranks them by fate itself.”
The words were a harsh blow, I had to hold back a giggle. Ailbhe tensed. She didn’t step back, but her glare was icy. Her gaze slid from me to Ciaran, until she finally sniffed and broke eye contact.
For now.
Tension still crackled between them, though. Ailbhe’s eyes smoldering, Ciaran’s cool demeanor unshaken. I barely regained my footing when the air shifted. No, the bond shifted. My skin prickled with that unmistakable pull…
He was here.
I didn’t need to turn. My bones knew him before my eyes did. When I finally dared look, my eyes blew wide.
Tairngire wasn’t alone.
Branwyn stood beside him—my Branwyn. The Crone who once smuggled me into taverns, who laughed with me beneath the stars of the Seventh Realm. She gleamed in scarlet silk and jewels. Her hair was tamed into golden waves, every inch a queen.
Her eyes found me instantly, soft with the same warmth I remembered as I saw her mouth, Aurenya.