Page 7 of The Forever Queen

“You’re injured yourself, sire,” Filverel said, moving to help Aisling off Flaithri once more.

Without hesitation, Lir reacted, his anger anddraiochtflaring. Yet, his magic manifested differently. Together, he and Aisling lit with dazzling fire. Flame that threw Flaithri back in a panic and sent the surrounding forge-born scurrying for the edges of the courtyard. Even the Sidhe took several steps back, their king swathed in flames they believed, not long ago, belonged only to the mortals. He and his witch queen, tangled by fury, by magic, and by power.

All the courtyard turned to witness the spectacle. Their eyes bulged red and wet, lips parting with terror.

“Easca, Lir,” Filverel scolded, holding his arms before his face to shield his eyes from their violet light.

“I will not relent,” Lir said. “None shall touch her save for I.” His voice echoed as if all the forest spoke from his lips simultaneously.

“Look at yourself,” Filverel pushed. “Look at the ruin you both reap! If you do not relent, you will destroy all that you’ve sought to protect.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air.

Lir swallowed hard. Aisling sat quiet in his embrace, but her eyes glowed with the strength of his magic pulsing through her as well.

“Look what they’ve done,” Lir said, his voice thundering through the courtyard. “They’ve come withscull draiochtbetween their teeth. They’ve ripped my forests with their iron. I will not hesitate to react.”

Filverel swallowed.

“And so, you’ve seen their newfound strength,” Filverel said. “You’ve now witnessed what they’re capable of as well as the influence of yours and Aisling’s magic combined. Neither will ensure the survival of the Sidhe. They will condemn it.”

Lir’s expression hardened and their flames grew larger, but he did not speak a word. He clenched his jaw tightly.

“What do you suggest?” Lir asked, his voice void of warmth. Enough to make Aisling shudder with fear herself.

Filverel shook his head, wiping blood and sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. They all exchanged glances, but not a word was uttered. Not an answer given. Only the ghost of war howled and Annwyn cried.

* * *

“Bring him in,” Aisling commanded, her ivory, satin sleeves dragging across the marble floor as she raised her arm in gesture. Wincing, Aisling had forgotten her still-tender arrow wound. For although she healed more quickly now, with Sidhe blood racing in her veins, Gilrel had insisted she gulp down pints of Leshy’s tears to quicken her recovery. Especially after having expended so muchdraiochtatImbolc.

“He isn’t welcome here regardless of his aid atImbolc,” Filverel cautioned from the bottom step of the dais in the throne room.

“Filverel is right,” Rian said, one of Lir’s closest and most trusted Sidhe knights standing before both Aisling and Lir in the throne room. “Any favor Fionn grants is always followed by a debt.”

“Then it’s a debt we must pay,” Aisling said, half surprising herself. For Aisling wasn’t ignorant to the truth ofImbolc’s tragedy; perhaps the Sidhe would’ve survived and slayed the mortals despite their ambush had she not intervened with such irresponsible magic—magic magnified by their consummation.Draiochtthat she didn’t know how to wield just yet. And had it not been for Fionn, one of hers and Lir’s most despised adversaries, perhaps they’d all be nothing more than ash beneath Huriel.

Lir’s jaw tightened, but he said not a word. In his great, antlered throne, Lir was larger than life. Terrifying and beautiful, king of the greenwood. And today, the morning afterImbolc, Aisling felt the same black guilt making sticky his every breath as it did her own.

“Both Fionn and Frigg have agreed to allow Lir to shackle their magic whilst inside Castle Annwyn,” Tyr said, another one of Lir’s knights. “Without theirdraiocht, there is no danger in hearing what Fionn has to say.”

“Words are no blunt blade.” Galad set down his pint and crossed his arms. “At times, they are more cutting, more insidious, more dangerous than any sword, leaving behind wounds even Leshy’s tears cannot heal.”

Lir’s closest knights—Yevhen, Aedh, Tyr, Hagre, Einri, Rian, Cathan, and Galad—sat along the length of a thin, live edge table, their expressions carrying the weight ofImbolc’s tragedy. Peitho and Gilrel were in attendance too, braiding glowing flower bulbs around the branches of the surrounding trees that framed the interior of the throne room. Every bulb commemorated a forge-born death, either Seelie or Unseelie, and shone white: the Sidhe color for death and mourning.

“Fionn will stop at nothing to dethrone Lir,” Peitho piped. “Any ‘favors’ or acts of compliance should be seen as nothing more than a mask for his trickery and deception.”

“Are we so afraid of the son of Winter that we deign not to let him speak?” Hagre asked.

“In times like these,” Filverel said, “after we were taken off guard by a mortal advance and nearly bested, it’s best to practice the utmost caution. Our enemies are multiplying: Danu and the Lady have been silent, meaning the moment they decide to launch an assault of their own, we must be prepared. Not drunk on mortal blood and wine as we so carelessly chose to celebrateImbolcduring wartime. Nemed and the mortals at large will see this ‘almost victory’ as a beacon of hope for further destruction. We’ve gifted them confidence at the cost of our arrogance. And what’s more, they’ve come with new power.”

“Yet, we cannot subject Annwyn to constant paranoia,” Galad said. “We cannot forget to live the lives we fight for, to act boldly in the name of the Forge, and not behave simply out of fear.”

“Out ofcaution,” Filverel corrected.

Aedh shook his head. “Caution is the bane of the brave. We are Sidhe—warriors of the Forge and the gods.”

“You speak with the same arrogance Filverel warns against,” Rian said.

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