The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“We’re doing pretty well,” I tell Keiran as I wrench the blade free. The soldier’s blood is everywhere. My hands are sticky with it and the handle of the knife twists in my grip when I try to get a better hold. Keiran draws a new knife—a beautiful, quick little thing that catches the light—and tosses it to me. “Behind you,” he warns.

I drop into a crouch. I wish I could see the soldier’s face when they realize what I’ve done. All they’ll be able to see is Keiran, face covered in dirt and blood, his axe drawn back and swinging forward with the strength of a lightning strike. Wet droplets rain down on my head when he tears his axe free and exhilaration explodes through my veins. This is a fair fight, one with purpose. It’s a battle that won’t leave behind shades to haunt me and there’s comfort in that.

The world disappears. All I know is the pull of Keiran’s body, the raw elegance of his movements as he dances between our enemies, protecting me and giving me openings to follow in his wake to land precise strikes. This is where we are at our best, a united front on the battlefield.

We move together, an unstoppable tide, axe flashing, knives drawn and used and discarded, soldiers falling around us. I don’t spare a thought to our men; our Hunt is legendary and we’ve never fallen in battle before. I have no fear for my own life, not as long as Keiran is by my side.

There comes a lull in the fighting, a natural break where our nearest foes are slain and we have a second to breathe and think. A quick glance confirms the Hunt is alive and well. Drest covers us with his bow, holding off the next wave of attackers. Cybel and Armel stand with sword and shield. The blood spattered over their faces does nothing to detract from the joy in their smiles. But there’s one person I can’t see.

“Where’s Roark?” I ask Keiran. He’s taller. He can see over the battlefield faster than I can.

He doesn’t point. Instead, he starts running. “Hurry,” is all he says.

I sprint after him, a strange sense of dread growing behind my ribs. The rest of the Hunt follows us, knowing without words that something is wrong. Ahead of us, a mass of Seelie soldiers circle. They move like a murmuration, swirling and twisting, and in the gaps I finally catch sight of their prey. My brother, his rapier drawn, fights off the overwhelming numbers. Spears of ice shoot from the ground around him, buying him space, but it’s not enough. There’s too many.

I should have tried to find him earlier. I should have remembered he was out here with us, fighting with us. His strangeness in the stables, his focus on finding Sláine as quickly as possible, even at the risk of overextending himself on the field... I should have known it would lead to a situation like this.

I should have known because now I’ll be forced to face the consequences of my distraction. With this many soldiers, I can guess how it will play out. Roark will let one Seelie past his guard. A sword will bite past his light armor—armor I didn’t urge him enough to change—and his dark blood will spill. My brother will die before my eyes. A childhood of laughter and quiet jokes, of silent support when I had to stand before Mother in Court, of careful manipulations when he thought no one else would notice, wiped out in an instant.

Close the distance. Reach him. Keiran’s bulk is beside me, then gone. Dimly, I hear him yell something at me, but it doesn’t register. Not when my fear comes to vivid life.

A wounded Seelie soldier, sword arm broken by one of Roark’s attacks, draws a dagger from his belt with his other hand. He waits for Roark to be distracted. The dagger glints, digs in under Roark’s shoulder. He and I scream in unison. His head tilts back, his magick bursts in a jagged explosion, and then I’m at his side.

Help Roark. Keep him safe. I get an arm around his back, take his weight, and brandish my knife to keep our attackers at bay. Keiran will be here. I just have to keep the Seelie away from Roark until then.

A hot line of pain slides across my back, enough to cut through my fear, my panic. Enough that I cry out for Keiran.

There’s an answering bellow that transforms into a true roar.

Despite the blood running down my back, I smile. The Seelie have no idea what they’ve unleashed.

Keiran

The worst fight Lugh and I ever had was when he wanted to go out into the Wylds without an armed escort. I was a few months into my stay at the sídhe after Lugh rescued me, healed from my wounds, terrified that Queen Mab would exile me as she kept threatening, and utterly alone. One night, after an awkward dinner, Lugh grabbed my hand, dragged me to his room, and asked me to go aboveground for the evening. I refused. I pulled my hand away, called it a child’s foolish idea, and abandoned him.

Later, I lay in bed and couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know Lugh well; we weren’t friends yet, despite all his best efforts to convince me to let him into my confidence. Even then, I knew him enough to understand his acceptance of my refusal was too easy and too clean. I went back to his room and discovered an empty bed. There was no time to raise an alarm. I took his short sword with me and abandoned the sídhe in a desperate effort to reach the woods in time.

I barely made it. The sound of the battle ahead clamored all the way up to the stars. In the shadowed silver of the moon’s light, I saw a juvenile lindworm had pinned Lugh to the ground. Its muscular body writhed and twisted as he fought it, but it was too powerful for such a young boy. Lugh turned his head as its body wrapped around his chest and squeezed, and I found myself held rapt by his expression. No rage or doubt or fear was on those childish features, nothing but stubborn denial giving way to disgruntled acceptance of being bested by a stronger foe. My father had worn that expression in battle, as had my brother. I once dreamed I would too.

Then Lugh’s gaze caught mine. Held. He called out my name and it landed against me like a spell. I would do anything to save him, do anything to have a small share in his fearlessness. I flung myself into battle.

That battle panic never left me even as Lugh grew and claimed his title within the Winter Court. It still digs tingling fingers into my spine and tries to steal my breath, but it’s an old friend and a pale imitation of what I felt that day. When I fought the lindworm, I had no hope of survival and no weapon but a child’s practice sword with dulled edges. Yet I returned to the sídhe, bloodied and exhausted, with a bruised and embarrassed Lugh in tow. The queen, to the surprise of all her subjects, rewarded me for my bravery and appointed me Lugh’s keeper.

Me, an orphan who was utterly, and unremarkably, human.

She knew our enemies would assume that. She counted on them to underestimate me. And she made me something more. Something strong enough to protect the man I follow. The man who has disappeared behind a wall of Seelie soldiers intent on killing both Unseelie princes.

At Lugh’s pained cry, the bearskin belt at my waist thrums with the echo of Queen Mab’s power, a response to my heightened adrenaline and fear. There will be consequences for using the belt now. There’s always a cost to such magick. But Lugh will be alive. I give in to the transformation.

The pale edges of the world flex, brightening with scent and color. Strength courses through me, adds weight to my limbs, height to my back when I drop into

a crouch. I shake my belt and weapons free, and they drop to the ground. A step forward with a human hand. Step again and my paw hits the earth, long claws digging in as I burst into a run.

Thoughts fly away. All that’s left is the battalion of enemies between me and Lugh.

Swords whistle through the air as they slice at my pelt. A single swipe of my paw breaks the spines of three fae. Another Seelie is too close and his throat crumples in my teeth. His blood is hot and salty and I need more, need to gorge on death until I know Lugh’s safe. Their futile defenses mean nothing to me. I give in to instinct and let the bear rule.

When it’s over and the bits and pieces of our enemies lie scattered on the surrounding ground, I look to him. Lugh holds his injured brother up. His other hand, the one holding my knife, drops to his side. He grins cheekily at me, always unafraid of my monstrous form, and says, “Don’t you dare wipe your face on my cloak.”