Page 61 of The Forever Queen

Nemed’s eyes flickered with hesitation. His nose twitched strangely, but it was the reddening of the scar across his face that alluded to any emotion at all.

“There will be no victory without the fae witch bent before an iron blade—without the mortals’ birthright cut from her chest.”

Had Aisling been more the spirit in the wind, her body would’ve drained of all blood. She would’ve bitten fury and fear between her fangs and lunged at the fire hand with ravenous claws. She would’ve summoned her magic like a body from the grave, bones snapping into place as she crawled for him. As she dragged him under and killed him slowly. Slowly.

Slowly.

* * *

AISLING

Flame was no stranger to rebirth. A story as old as time, a fire collapsed only to be born from the same bed of ash in which it perished. And so, when Aisling woke to the familiar dance of violet flames surrounding her, she knew something was wrong.

Aisling lurched awake.

She straightened like a ghoul in a crypt, heaving air into its lungs after centuries of sleep. Around her, white fungus and rot shriveled to dust, squirming and screaming for mercy. Aisling gave none, devouring every mushroom and insect with herdraiocht. Anduril burned angrily at her hips, ringing and shaking the last bits of disease from her body.

But once the flames shed their original fury, Aisling focused, blinking till the world regained clarity.

The fae king sat before her, leaning back and propped up by his arms. He looked as if he’d been flung off her, his leathers scorched and his armor blackened by her influence. But it was his face that captured Aisling’s attention: eyes ringed with horror and his complexion pale as the bone that lay beneath.

They stared at one another, a silent conversation passing between them. The taste of dawn and him on her lips and tongue.

“Geld,” Lir said at last. The name falling from his mouth half-broken.

Immediately, Aisling’s gaze darted to the stag. He was still buried and drowning in the fungus.

Aisling summoned herdraiochtand allowed her flames to crawl up the edges of the stag’s body, careful not to singe a single hair on its pelt. Only the rot, she reminded herdraiochtas it made quick work of every maggot, beetle, and mushroom. Conscious now, she could destroy that which asleep she could not.

Silence followed the chaos while Aisling and Lir fell to their knees beside Geld. Without discussion, the sorceress and the fae king mended the wounds the fungus had wrought on the stag—wounds Aisling and Lir could heal on their own bodies in a few forge-blessed breaths, but the stag could not. They wrapped gauze around his legs, wiped the rust-colored blood from beneath his nostrils, and brushed the withered bodies of insects from his rump.

Perhaps it was a distraction. A means of biding their time as they worked at a glacial pace, accompanied only by the quiet. For the walnut that’d shaded their rest was dead, black, and consumed by the rot that would’ve otherwise devoured Aisling and Geld whole.

“My father is coming,” Aisling said, unable to avoid the inevitable any longer. The nearer they drew to Aisling and the Other—the nearer they approached to achieving their ends, the more the veil between the mortal plane and the Other thinned. Fate eager for a conclusion.

The fae king exhaled, but his expression didn’t light with surprise. He knew it too.

While Aisling had allowed exhaustion to gently lower her head beneath the surface of consciousness, the Lady had seized the opportunity, grabbing her legs and yanking her into the depths of somewherein between. A dream she chronicled to Lir, piece by piece.

Aisling stood shakily, swaying on wobbling knees. The grin had sucked the energy from her body and the Lady’s intrusion had left her mind swimming in shadows and fog. Even Anduril hung limply from the sorceress, glowing dimly.

“Ash,” Lir said, standing and catching her before she fell. He held her gently, an arm beneath her arms and one behind her knees.

“I can walk,” Aisling said. “They’re coming. We must continue. We don’t have much time.” It was true. Aisling’s dreams hadn’t been mere fantasy or nightmare—the Lady was teasing her, haunting her, proving to the sorceress that she was still in control even if Aisling couldn’t see her.

Lir, who’d listened to every detail of her dream, hid his anxiety well. He nodded as she spoke, listening intently but never interrupting. Aisling watched for a long while as the fae king turned her words over in his mind.

“You must rest,” Lir said, holding her with both the strength and grace of an oak. “The grin sapped from the marrow of your soul and left you drained, scarcely alive. If it hadn’t been for Cara’s elixirs?—”

“Or you,” Aisling added, interrupting the fae king. She wasn’t certain why she said it or why her heart jolted when he fixed his eyes on hers. Anduril protested weakly, as feeble and defeated as the sorceress felt.

Aisling felt the quick beating of Lir’s heart against her cheek as he held her. His eyes swam with torment, with the green of greatest affliction. It was the look of a man who feared that looked back. It was terror and horror and fascination all at once.

He despises you, you and your mortal-muddied blood, Anduril said, but the voice sounded like Aisling’s in her mind. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it wasn’t. This time, Aisling truly couldn’t tell the difference.He hates you. Anduril laughed, but it came out broken and clipped by exhaustion.Did you really think the nightmare king of the forest would like you when your own túath did not?Hefearsyou.

Aisling swallowed before the rock in her throat formed. He was a stranger. A weed that’d blossomed in the gardens of her memories and disguised itself as a flower that’d been there all along. He wasn’t real and neither was the burning of her lips as his eyes flicked toward them.

“They’re coming,” Aisling repeated like a mad woman. Weakly, she shuffled out of the fae king’s arms, but he didn’t protest, allowing her to slip from his embrace. “We must find Eogi.”

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