“Take me to her,” I tell him.

He blanches. “You need—”

“Take me to her!”

Lugh jerks against me, shocked by my vehemence. Smith’s lips press together tightly, but he nods. He doesn’t dare look at me when he reaches out a hand and presses it to the wall of the sídhe. The sídhe obeys, and he pushes open a newly formed door for us. I step out of Lugh’s arms, and enter the war room, leaving bloody boot prints in my wake.

Queen Mab can’t hide her shock when we appear from the door in what used to be a solid wall. Seb has his hands pressed to Prince Sláine’s and the wounds there begin to heal. Smith closes the door behind us. It vanishes a moment later and he slinks to Prince Lyne’s side. The middle son is at his mother’s shoulder, arrested mid-argument by our arrival.

“You dare use me against my own people?” I rasp, fixing my rage on Queen Mab, and Queen Mab alone. This is her doing, and she will bear the weight of this night’s tragedy.

Prince Lyne stands straighter, though he doesn’t move away from the queen.

“They are not your people,” she says. “Your people died at the hands of ljósálfar, as you should have. A human like you cannot dare to claim—”

Her cool indifference sends fire raging through my veins. For the first time since taking on the belt, I give in to my anger and slam my closed fist down on her table. The blow fills this empty space like a thunderclap and the queen’s words die in her throat.

“I am Thegn of the Iron Crown,” I growl. I rip off the belt and hurl it toward her, free at last. It hits the polished wood in front of her with a sickening splat that sprays her and Prince Lyne with fine droplets of blood.

My chest heaves, stretching the wounds on my back, which gape and weep blood onto her pristine floors. All the bear’s power dwells in me, has always dwelt in me, and I channel it now as I face her. “I am no one’s puppet.”

Shifting behind me. My Sluagh gather at my back, a weary wall of support against the royal family of the Winter Court. Six of my warriors left. Only six.

Gods, so much loss. So much waste, and there’s no trace of remorse in Queen Mab’s perfect features. This will never end.

I lift a hand and point at her. Exhaustion creeps into my voice, but I don’t let my words waver. “My warriors paid your price with their blood. There is nothing left to prove. Your promise is owed us. If you survive this war, we’ll collect.”

The temperature drops and I smile bitterly against her show of temper. She brings out the worst in me, but I am her equal now. I have no reason to hide my hatred of her any longer.

Lugh steps closer and urges quietly, “Let’s go.”

My Sluagh listen to him and start to leave. Lugh turns to go with them, until I press my fingertips against his chest. “Not you.”

I regret it immediately. Lugh’s face contorts with panic, so I drag him close and kiss his forehead. It’s an apology, an attempt to soothe him and assure him of his place at my side. “Finish this, seidhr. Tomorrow we dine together with our fallen friends in the golden hall.”

It’s all I can promise him. A grim proposal when he deserves so much better, but he understands. He laughs, a horrible, wet, choked sound, and nods. “Yes,” he whispers. “Tomorrow we will. Go ahead, Keir. I’ll be at camp soon.”

Lugh

Keiran’s offered me his heart and what’s left of his future before my family. I could never deny him. I want to kiss him, to tell him how much I love him, to mourn with him on our last night, but there’s not time. This moment can’t last. I’m surprised by who decides to interrupt us though.

Seb rises from his place at Sláine’s side and crosses to join us. “I’ll make sure they get back to the camp safely. Finny can open a door for us,” he tells me.

From his place by Roark, Smith frowns. At least he doesn’t argue with Seb, whose glamour covers Keiran and his warriors like a blanket. I want to cry in relief when I feel the Green Man’s magick working on them, on me, as it begins the healing process in earnest.

“Thank you,” I tell him, and he gives me a wan smile before leading them out of the room. Keiran doesn’t look back at me as he leaves. He doesn’t have to. We are inviolate. Nothing will separate us no

w, and he knows it.

The sound of the door scraping shut behind him reminds me of a crypt being closed. A burial of sorts. Too fitting, considering what I’m about to say. I square my shoulders and don my glamour. I weave it as tightly as I dare, focusing on using it as a protective wall against my family instead of a symbolic mask. I know the antlers are smaller, simpler than what I’ve worn in the past, and bleached white. My hood is deeper and darker than ever, offering me shelter from their prying eyes.

I turn to find my family watching me. Sláine seems surprised, Roark distressed, if Smith’s steadying hand against his back is any sign. Only Mother remains severe and aloof as always.

“Our people will not fight for you,” I declare.

My words ring around the chamber. Perhaps this is why Keiran stands in front of crowds and regales them with stories. There’s a kind of magick in the act.

It’s Mother who breaks the silence. Of course it is. She lifts a dark brow and asks, “Our?”

Tags: M.A. Grant Fantasy
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