Page 8 of The Forever Queen

Hagre scoffed, stabbing the table with his knife. “And you speak not as a knight but as a coward.”

“Enough,” Lir said, his voice commanding silence. “Caution. Bravery. Our approach will vary in result, but most important is our harmony as we lead together. Don’t let them divide us.”

The room exchanged glances, the quiet buzzing in each of their pointed ears.

“Let my brother speak,” Lir commanded, and the room thickened with alarm.

Aisling turned to Lir, surprised herself by the fae king’s words despite knowing the depths of Lir’s hatred for Fionn. She herself wished her elder brothers would meet some semblance of justice as well. Even if said justice was a bloody one, dealt by Aisling’s hands. Her clann, her túath, had taken her life, given it away, and attempted to reclaim it once more for their own mortal ends. Now, it was Aisling’s turn to reap all that’d been stolen from her.

Lir and Fionn, on the other hand, bore a different dynamic. One where Fionn, the eldest child of Bres and Ina, felt Lir had taken all that was rightfully his: Annwyn, Racat, and now Aisling.

Two armored forge-born bears nodded their heavy heads in response to their sovereign before exiting the throne room, off to retrieve the Sidhe king of Winter and his bestial hound, Frigg, from Annwyn’s dungeons, deep below the mountain.

The rest of the chamber, including Lir’s knights, Peitho, and Gilrel, continued to stew in silence.

“More wine,” Lir said, tipping back yet another chalice. Aisling had barely touched her own considering this vat of fae wine was more potent than most, the berries having been harvested by brownies in the depths of Annwyn’s eldest brambles.

“Is that wise,mo Damh Bán?” Filverel asked, arching a brow.

Lir ignored him, raising his glass to be filled once more.

A rabbit scurried over with a pitcher, eagerly pouring more of the sticky syrup into Lir’s goblet while they awaited Fionn and Frigg’s entrance. But they waited not long, for the great doors at the end of the throne room creaked open and the son of Winter entered.

Immediately, a chill possessed everyone present. The crackling of ice spidering from Fionn’s boots with each step made the hairs on the nape of Aisling’s neck stand straight. For despite Lir’s magic-dulling spells, the cold was Fionn’s nature, and one couldn’t strip breath from body quite so simply.

Frigg followed shortly behind him, the fur of his haunches spiked with malice as he struggled against the thorny muzzle.

“Is this the thanks Annwyn bestows upon its heroes?” Fionn spoke first, his wrists bound in the same knot of thorns as Frigg’s muzzle.

The corners of Lir’s lips curled slightly, his eyes flashing a brighter shade of green. “Most self-proclaimed heroes journey to Annwyn on their iron-hoofed steeds to die. And you, Fionn, will be no exception.”

“Always so barbaric, brother. You’re in no position to be turning away offers of peace and good faith truces.”

Lir laughed, leaning back slightly and setting a murder of silver-eyed ravens loose in Aisling’s belly. The surrounding trees swayed with similar excitement. Lir rarely laughed, but when he did, the world felt it: either overgrown and wild with joy, lush, velvety, and dark with amusement, or a ghostly growl laced with bloodlust. Right now, it was all amusement, enjoying the invisible noose he was tightening around Fionn’s throat with every passing breath.

“Go on. Humor me with your eleventh-hour attempts at self-preservation.”

Fionn tipped his head back. “Very well, I’ll start with a more lighthearted approach then: a spar.” Fionn’s eyes darted toward Aisling. Lir followed his line of sight, a muscle flickering across his jaw the moment his eyes also arrived at Aisling, heart pounding in her chest. Resisting the frigid claws Fionn dug into herdraiochteven from where he stood. “Would the queen of Annwyn accept a simple duel?”

The attention of the room darted toward Aisling and lingered.

Filverel rolled his eyes. “This is nonsense. Let Aisling burn his tongue for wastingmo Damh Bán’stime.”

Lir set his glass down, but before he could grant Filverel’s request, Aisling spoke first.

“You mean to challenge me to a fight?” she asked, her curiosity taking hold. She steeled herself against the otherworldly freeze he wove, refusing to wilt beneath the weight of his ancient, arcane magic that tasted of wintertide spells.

“Indeed,” he said. “Yet, I’ll need full use of myhands to stand a chance,” Fionn said, gesturing toward his bound wrists. Frigg lifted his muzzle, demonstrating he, too, wished to be freed from his thorny shackles.

“Are you mad?!” Aedh piped, standing from his seat with an abrupt screech of wood sliding against marble. Cathan and Tyr stood too, their tattooed hands wandering toward the hafts of their weapons.

Lir only smiled. He glanced at Aisling: an invitation for her to decide whether Lir should unbind Fionn and allow him full range of his magic. A risk, one that could cost them greatly. Aisling wasn’t ignorant to Fionn’s mischief, his games, or his tricks. However, one glance around the room and it was obvious. Fionn was outnumbered and outmanned despite his icy gifts.

Nevertheless, the image of Fionn’s smile just before he extinguished her fires atImbolcwas a promise in Aisling’s eyes. A gesture of goodwill from the moment his presence in Annwyn was made known. And now a debt Aisling was bound to repay. Not to mention, Aisling hated the thought of refusing a duel, especially if the challenge came from the son of Winter’s lips.

“As you wish,” Aisling said.

Many of the knights and Gilrel audibly growled, looking to Lir and even Filverel for a rebuttal. For someone—anyone to stop what was unraveling.

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