Page 117 of The Forever Queen

“Are you nervous, Aisling?” Niamh asked, arching her brows. “Is that why you’re asking all these questions?” The softness in her voice was unfamiliar, yet Aisling found she starved for it.

The blood in Aisling’s face vanished, her expression hardening to stone. The sorceress opened her mouth to speak, but she was stopped short. The door at the end of the corridor creaked open by a phantom wind and the land beyond crashed into their quiet moment like a stampede of drums, trumpets, fiddles, chanting voices, and idle chatter.

Aisling swallowed, her hands going numb.

“Whatever is meant to be, will be, Aisling,” Niamh said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Perhaps you will die. Perhaps all of us will perish and sail into the Other. Or, perhaps you’ll be our salvation. Only time will tell the will of Fate and who its chosen to align with.”

Aisling glanced at her over her shoulder, watching as the Seelie queen disappeared into the shadows of the hallway. The door shut behind Aisling. A threshold she could no longer cross back.

CHAPTER XLIX

AISLING

Blood red, Aisling’s bare feet crushed fallen berries as she danced. The music floated through the air like the herb-dense smoke from a toad’s pipe, feverish in its intensity. Every Sidhe, every forge-born beast, guzzled sparkling wines, ciders, and meads, eyelids falling as they celebrated Aisling and the eve of the war’s finality.

Each of the Sidhe sovereigns were in attendance too. Tara spun with the music’s rhythm, mushrooms sprouting where her ankles graced the floors. Dagda, Nuada, and Lottie lounged on thick beds of moss-like cushions, whispering and laughing between sips of punch. Katari, Percy, and Mac Cuill took turns knocking an apple from atop a tortoise’s head, lending a bow and arrow from a nearby fox swimming in the central pond, spilling over the edge and off the side of Castle Yillen. The stained-glass dome far above their heads shielded them from Niamh’s rains, now coupled with the stars in celebration. Arcs of color brightening the spectacle as Aisling danced.

Galad, Peitho, and Gilrel were there too, lost between the folds of gaiety. Aisling met their eyes on several occasions, something silent passing between them.

The sorceress wore a three-headed wolf headdress, her gown, white as snow. She clasped the hands of badgers, of weasels, of raccoons, of rabbits, and of the Sidhe, spinning in circles that made the air dense with magic.

Aisling ignored the pains in her joints, the tears in her muscles, or the aches in her heart.

Nevertheless, tonight, she’d enjoy the Sidhe world the way she had the first time, watching their unruly, savage celebrations through the eyes of a mortal girl accustomed to stone and iron. So she drank the pints of Leshy’s tears Gilrel had offered her, pinched her nose, and fell into the festivities without a second thought.

“As soon as this is over, you may visit me in Oighir,” Fionn said, dancing beside her. His silver hair was loose around his shoulders and his robes untied at the chest. He was a chip of ivory in a mosaic of emeralds, the contrast jarring to behold. “If it still stands.”

“Oighir?” Aisling asked, entranced.

“Aye, Oighir. My kingdom at the edge of the world,” Fionn said.

Aisling stumbled on several large stones. Fionn reached for her, grabbing her elbow and steadying her.

Aisling hadn’t yet considered what her life would be like if they survived this war. After she’d obtained and won everything she’d ever wanted.What then?she asked herself.

Fionn twirled her beneath his arm, eyes drifting to the Sidhe sovereigns watching their intimacy from the periphery of the celebration.

“You could still be my queen of fire and ice,” Fionn continued. “All of Fjallnorr and the North will be yours to rule and lead.”

Anduril didn’t buzz or hum with heat. Instead, the belt was calm, peacefully settled on her hips.

Aisling imagined herself in Oighir—in Fionn’s world of glistering ice and blizzards, where beasts slumbered and the forest was powdered by the cold. She’d don robes, gowns, and armor embroidered with battle-ready bears, ornate snowflakes, and silver trims. She’d govern a land both frostbitten and far from all else. At the edge of the world.

Aisling’s feet stopped dancing.

“Is something wrong?” Fionn asked.

Aisling searched his face.

Aisling shook her head. Her mind was swathed with voices—with memories that shifted and morphed like gnarled trees growing too quickly for their size. She’d known the Sidhe king of the greenwood, Lir, had bewitched her somehow. Had plagued her with a lust she could scarcely deny.

Aisling felt a bubble of panic rise up her throat. She’d trusted the son of Winter and this Gods Forsaken belt and now, she felt the first ice-thin cracks spider through her heart. Anduril was corrupting her, taking her body as its own.

Was she imagining it? Was the weight of prophecy, skewing her mind? Or was there truth in what she felt?

“Aisling,” a voice sounded, tearing Aisling from her thoughts.

The sorceress turned to find Galad and Gilrel approaching her side, narrowed eyes considering Fionn closely.

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