Page 22 of The Forever Queen

Lir and each of his knights had organized the gems across the map to identify a pattern. Something—anything––to give insight into the mortals’ minds. And yet, Lir couldn’t decipher their movements. Thus far, Annwyn was the only kingdom that had been directly attacked…but for how long? The question weighed heavily on Lir’s mind. He’d assigned all the bears and wolves to guard Annwyn’s borders whilst every fox camped in the canopies, reeds at the ready for another assault. But the mortals remained silent, fleeing back to their iron bastions and naval fleets to prepare for more bloodshed, Lir imagined.

Lir leaned back for the first time in hours, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. The rest of his knights had retired long ago and now, only Lir remained.

“Staring at this map will not grant insight into the fire hand’s mind,” Filverel had said when he’d clapped a hand to Lir’s shoulder before taking his leave. This much, Lir knew. And still, Annwyn needed his strength, his cunning, his protection. Lest what occurred atImbolcrepeat itself.

Lir stepped back from the table. From the corner of his eye, beyond the arched windows, a flock of strawberry finches burst from their nests down below and shot into the sky. Lir felt their alarm as they took flight and their relief as they beat their wings against a starry sky—at last, to safety.

Heart racing, the Sidhe king approached the windows and looked down.

From where Lir stood, he could just see the stained glass bridge that connected the base of Castle Annwyn’s mountain to the forest, nestled over an angry, foaming river. And inside the bridge, was the shadowy silhouette of a maiden.

Lir took another step closer to the window, narrowing his eyes to better make sense of the vision. From what Lir could tell, she was beautiful. Artfully, she moved the feminine lines of her body like a willow in a storm. And, despite the weight of her blade, she stepped with all the grace of Lir’s swordmaidens, the tenacity of his woodland vipers, and the bite of his wolves. Lir took another step closer, hisdraiochtthrashing inside inexplicably. He hummed the beast inside into acquiescence and still the spells of enchantment this maiden cast with the arch of her blade did not break. This stranger, brandishing a sword as well, if not better, as any of his knights.

Light-footed, Lir tore through Castle Annwyn till he reached the dank depths of the mountain. Here, the moisture from the surrounding rivers, the rain, and the inside of the mountain curled his hair and dressed the walls with moss. Lir’s and Aisling’s chambers were in the tallest tower and so, Lir rarely ventured this deep into his castle, nor cared to. Nevertheless, his boots—seemingly bewitched—led him nimbly to the stained-glass bridge that veiled the maiden’s identity.

Like a shadow, Lir leaped onto the bridge’s landing. The constant roar of the river would’ve masked a mortal’s footsteps and so, a Sidhe king was practically invisible to any knight—Sidhe or not. And this swordmaiden was deep in concentration, facing the mouth of the bridge that led into the feywilds, her back turned as Lir came into sight.

Lir froze.

Moonlight spilled through the panes of stained glass, coloring the inside of the bridge in blood reds, royal blues, forest greens, and treasure yellows. Still, Lir recognized the maiden at first glance. Felt the rhythm of her heart, beating against his own before he laid eyes on her. Understood the pace of her breath even despite the colors that masked the signature ink of her tresses or the violet of her eyes.

Aisling moved like a creature loyal to the order of the moon; always shifting with the shadows, elegant, lovely, and bitingly attractive reflective eyes seducing those weak-willed enough to venture into her keep. And although Lir’s will was far from weak, Aisling’s presence rendered the lord of the greenwood’s character inconsistent.

Lir forgot himself. He stood like an oak on a windless day, watching her practice with a gleeful Sarwen. Every step was made with the wisdom of a knight who’d battled for centuries and yet, only yesterday, Aisling had struggled to lift Sarwen from her scabbard.

Without thinking, Lir stepped closer. And as though he’d snapped a branch in a quiet wood, Aisling turned, her body going rigid. She shouldn’t have been able to hear him, but perhaps their bond signaled his proximity the way it did him.

“Ellwyn,” Lir said, his gaze softening in greeting. Aisling’s lips bent strangely, her eyes studying him with Sarwen still poised in her unyielding grip.

Aisling glared at Lir like a fox considers the hunter—a foreign intruder whose presence was wholly unwelcome. As if she considered locking her jaws around his throat or scurrying into the forest. Without recognition.

The belt—Anduril held her body, but Lugh watched the Sidhe king through Aisling’s eyes, staring down the grooves of the blade.

“Ash,” Lir said again, hoping it would burst the spell Anduril had woven. And yet, the light of recognition Lir hoped would shine in her eyes instead came from Anduril hanging at her hips, flashing as if its own name had been spoken.

An unfamiliar dread filled Lir to the bone. Something dark and sticky growing beneath his skin. This was more than Lugh’s spirit merely joining Aisling’s own.

The Sidhe king shifted, and it was the first mistake of many.

Aisling lunged for him.

The tip of Sarwen aimed for Lir’s heart, so the Sidhe king stepped to the side. Aisling turned on her heel without hesitation, catching Lir off guard. She swung her elbow back hard, aiming for Lir’s jaw before turning the opposite direction with her blade. Lir leaned back, narrowly missing the blunt of her elbow before angling himself away from Sarwen’s edge once more.

“Ash,” he said, and Anduril glowed brighter. Aisling raised Sarwen and jabbed, forcing Lir’s axes from their bandolier and into his hands. The Sidhe king blocked the strike, blade upon blade ringing through the bridge and into the forest.

“Ash, what are you doing?” he asked as they stood nose to nose, an axe and a sword between them. Aisling’s eyes flared a brighter shade of violet. Her cheeks flushed red, and her lips parted the way they always did when she wanted to kiss him. Lir shuddered, transfixed by the supple curve of her ruby frown the angrier she became. She was feral. The heat of her magic crawled up his boots, his legs, his chest until it gripped him and held him—invisible to the eye yet scalding to the soul.

Lir leaned forward, starving to feel her mouth on his own. His second mistake.

Aisling shoved him away, spun low, and struck him in the legs with the head of Sarwen’s pommel.

Lir lost his balance, staggering backward.

“Aisling,” he said, almost breathless—in shock. He lowered his axes.

“Who are you?!” she shouted at last. “Why do you speak my name?!” Her voice was animalistic, wild.

Lir inhaled sharply. He searched her expression, desperate for a sign of recognition, for a symptom of trickery or mischief. But only Anduril spoke, shining brightly as if freshly pulled from the molten fires of the Forge. The Sidhe king swallowed, his tongue almost turned to ash. That tar-black, sticky dread, bleeding him from the inside.

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