38. Chapter Thirty-Six #2
Before I could blink, she was running toward me. Relief clawed up my throat. I started forward, the bond flaring hot, burning.
But Tairngire’s gaze wasn’t on me.
It was on Ciaran.
The half-born lingered close at my side, his posture easy, but Tairngire’s stare was lethal. His emerald eyes blazed, runes beneath his leathers pulsing with light that could ignite any second. A warning and a promise wrapped together.
The ball seemed to fall silent beneath it.
Mairenn muffled a laugh beside me. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
My heart hammered for all the wrong reasons. But before I could think about any of them, Branwyn collided with me. Her embrace was warm, grounding, with no vision tugging at me. Just her. Just us.
She leaned close, whispering against my ear, “Tairngire told me you’ve learned to better control your Sight. That it’s safe to hug you. Gods, Aurenya, do you know how long I’ve waited to embrace you?”
Tears prickled my eyes, but my awareness was still elsewhere—on the bond that felt like it was lit with fire in my chest.
Tairngire strode toward us.
He cut through the crowd with the kind of presence that stole air from lungs, every step deliberate. The daughters of Goibniu all but swooned, eyes wide as if he’d hung the moon.
I rolled mine so hard it nearly hurt.
Ciaran stiffened beside me, dipping into a bow. But Tairngire’s gaze wasn’t on him anymore. Now it was on me, glowing, piercing, daring me to look away first.
He didn’t greet me. His voice cut low through the hall.
“The Seer doesn’t need you to fight her battles, half-born. She is more than capable of her own fire.”
Ciaran’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to it.
I rolled my eyes again. Tairngire still couldn’t find it within himself to call me by my name, even when acting territorial.
Wait…why was he acting territorial? I narrowed my eyes at him, but he was busy glaring daggers at Ciaran once more.
Branwyn giggled, shoulders shaking like she’d just been handed the best jest in all Seven Realms. “Oh, goddess, this is delicious. I should’ve come sooner.”
I let out along exhale. Between Branwyn’s joy, Ciaran’s silence, and Tairngire’s infuriating dominance, I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh, scream, or throw my goblet.
Ciaran lifted his head just enough to meet the god’s gaze, still bowed, but steady. “With respect, my lord,” he said evenly, “no one doubts the Seer’s fire. But even fire must be shielded from ash winds when they grow too strong. We wouldn’t want any unnecessary damage, would we?”
The ballroom stilled at his words. Half-born heads bowed, eyes straining. Few dared speak so plainly to a god. Tairngire’s eyes flashed once, scorching. He didn’t move, but the bond between us burned so hot I nearly doubled over. I’d never felt it so intensely.
Before the tension could snap, King Caedmon’s booming laugh cracked through the hall. “Look who returns!” he roared, rising to his feet. “Our Forest God, and he brings with him the Morrígan’s chosen daughter!”
Laughter followed, chatter swelling as enchanted strings resumed.
Caedmon’s grin swept the hall, then dropped to Tairngire. “The Awakener does not want you to bow. Raise your heads and see who stands among us!”
The half-born obeyed, reverence flickering across their faces. My pulse still thudded, Ciaran steady at my side. Tairngire’s stare still burning holes through him. But then his gaze slid to Ailbhe and her sisters. That smirk—gods that smirk—took form, like he was about to play a game.
“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice was somehow laced with both mockery and allure. “The daughters of Goibniu, still as hard as your father’s steel…though I imagine not half as unyielding.”
Then he winked. Gods.
The words landed hard, insult and praise wrapped together. And damn him, whatever he was trying to do worked. Ailbhe's jaw flexed, glare smoldering even as her chin lifted, her pride pricked. One of her sisters faltered, lashes fluttering.
Warriors, hardened by the forge, and yet under the Forest God’s stare, they softened.
These girls were entirely abhorrent. My gaze focused on Ailbhe—wait, was she preening?
How fucking convenient.
Two weeks of silence, two weeks of bleeding myself raw to train—and he returned only to snap at Ciaran, then throw his signature smirk at Goibniu’s bitchy daughters?
The red thread between us pulsed, and I felt an edge of smugness tainting it. He knew exactly what he was doing, and was enjoying every godsdamned second of it.
His voice cut low and commanding, leaving no room for argument. “Seer. Mairenn. Daughter of the Morrígan.” His chin dipped toward Branwyn. “With me. Now.”
I let a snort slip out. Of course, only Tairngire would show up after disappearing for weeks and start ordering people around.
But despite myself, my feet obeyed. Drawn by the invisible tug of the bond.
Both kings rose at his signal, their thrones abandoned, falling into stride with their heads raised and their wills bowing to divinity.
Tairngire’s eyes cut back, a flicker of reluctance crossing his expression.
“You too, Ard-Connacht.”
Ciaran stiffened but then dipped his head with grace and joined us.
Mairenn leaned close. “Ciaran is the Ard-Connacht of Scáthae’s armies. The First Sword. The king’s shield.” Her whisper was hinted with a brush of wine.
I heard the pride in her tone. Ciaran wasn’t just gifted with divine blood. He was Caedmon’s steel, his chosen first. I would have never guessed, with his easy nature and kind eyes.
I sighed. More questions stormed through me with every step. Where had Tairngire been? Why was Branwyn here, draped in red silk like the Morrígan’s envoy? And why drag us from the ballroom now?
The damn thing had barely even started!
Not that I was particularly enthralled by the idea of being in the presence of Attitude Ailbhe and her little entourage.
Mairenn strode ahead as if the castle bent to her. Branwyn’s golden hair swayed beside me. Her warmth was a balm that only deepened my confusion. And Tairngire? Oh, he said nothing. Silence was his favorite weapon, sharper than my new and improved dagger.
By the time the great doors swung wide, my pulse was a wild thing.
We entered the war room. I’d read of such places in stolen scrolls but never seen one. War didn’t happen in the Seventh Realm, so they didn’t exist there.
Stone walls loomed, with banners of both houses hanging heavy. A massive table stretched the length of the chamber, strewn with maps, tokens, and various blades to the likes of which I'd never seen before.
At the far end Scáthae waited, regal, her presence fierce.
Beside her, another god stood. He had dark hair streaked with a strip of steel gray on the left side.
His arms were corded with the strength of forges, his eyes burning bright red.
He was at least twice the size of Tairngire.
Not in height, but in width. I had never seen so much muscle in my life.
“That would be Goibniu.” Mairenn whispered in my ear.
Both kings moved to their seats, flanking their sires, and a realization hit me.
This really was war. And perhaps, I would get some real answers.
Finally.
The scrape of a chair against stone floors was loud in the vast room. Tairngire pulled it out with courtly mockery, leaning close enough for his lips to graze my ear like he had just read my mind. “You’re about to get those answers you’ve been begging for, Little Seer.”
I was about to snap at him, but he was gone before I could, sliding into this own chair at the head of the gods. Scáthae at his right, Goibniu at his left. He looked entirely at ease there, bored even. Then he winked at me.
Fucking winked.
Branwyn, Mairenn, Ciaran, and I faced them across the table, the weight of pure divinity pressing against our skin like a storm.
Unlike Tairngire and Scáthae, Goibniu dimmed nothing of his divinity.
A red glow seemed to bleed around him constantly.
The runes along his chest and arms burned like rivers of lava, even through his armor.
This was a god who knew his power—and flaunted every drop of it. It was…unsettling, to say the least.
Well…fuck.