The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

Lugh

Dawn arrives too soon. Keiran and I wake early and join the huscarls around one of the fires. Resnik shuffles to make more room for us, and Voll smiles and serves up two mugs of her spiced tea for us. “Armel said you received royal visitors last night.”

“I did,” Keiran agrees.

Jokinen watches him from across the flames. “We heard

they agreed to your terms.”

Keiran’s hands are steady when he lifts the mug to take a sip of the tea. His calm does nothing to lessen the tension of the moment. “They did,” he says at last, after a slow look around the fire at our compatriots.

“Were the terms good?” Voll asks.

I hold my breath.

“Better than I dreamed,” Keiran says. “If we win, our people will be recognized by all of Faerie and beyond.”

The huscarls are struck silent. Even I don’t have words. My brothers’ promises are binding. For Keiran to have won this from them...for him to have faced them down last night and for them to have blinked first is legendary.

“By the gods,” Kermode whispers.

Resnik reaches up to wipe tears from his eyes. “I thought I’d be dead before this day came,” he says hoarsely. He reaches for Keiran’s hand and clasps it tightly.

Keiran’s lips press together tightly and I know he’s battling down his own emotions when Resnik continues, “If only our children knew this. Would it be enough to make them lay down their arms and abandon Goodfellow?”

Jensson wraps an arm around Resnik’s shoulder. His own eyes are wet. “They wouldn’t believe us now, not when we fight at Mab’s side. But maybe later, after this is over...” He trails off, overcome. He clears his throat and says quietly, “Thank you, Thegn. Aage will greet you with pride when your time comes.”

That grief remains, breathes with us as we finish our tea. By the time our mugs are empty, we’re ready to set our mourning aside and face the day with a new calm. Our people—hundreds of warriors bound by a common purpose—have begun preparing. Facing battle is part of life in the Wylds. There’s no room left for nervousness around camp this morning, only resolution.

Even Smith’s arrival with the revised plans can’t disrupt our focus, though it does force us to gather together once more. Smith carries his tension openly as he walks through camp behind one of Resnik’s men. He’s pale and drawn, dressed in simple fabrics rather than his armor. He doesn’t bat an eye when Keiran, the Hunt, and I settle in near a fire with the huscarls.

“No armor?” I ask him, holding out a strip of venison.

He gives me a wan smile and shakes his head against my offering. “It’s easier to sneak out and avoid notice. The plate’s a fucking nightmare. So noisy.”

We all nod and I suggest, “You should try chain instead. Why did you have to sneak out?”

He hands the rolled parchments to Keiran as he answers me. “Goodfellow’s forces are still on the beaches, but they’re awake. It won’t be long now until they start their march.” When I don’t press him further, he glances toward Keiran, who’s already unrolling the documents and inspecting them. Voll and Resnik huddle behind his shoulders, examining Roark’s precise handwriting with growing stoicism. “Is this all you need? Roark said he thought it would be, but I wanted to check. Once I go back to the sídhe, I’ll be needed at Mab’s side until it’s over.”

“You’re staying behind the sealing?” Keiran asks.

Smith nods. “For as long as it will hold. Goodfellow has too many troops for us to give up our best defense. And with all the iron...” He trails off and exchanges a knowing look with Keiran. They’re human and, like the Sluagh, immune to the iron’s effects. Me, the Hunt, my family, the rest of our Winter Court... It takes so little to destroy us.

Keiran frowns. “How do you intend to counter that?”

“Armor. The smiths started preparing before Samhain. And if that doesn’t hold, I’ll defend him alone if necessary. I managed to burn iron out once, but I’d prefer to not do it again. How about you?”

“We fight together. Always have. Always will.”

Smith gives him a faint grin. “And if you’re separated?”

Keiran shrugs. “Armor.”

Wait. This conversation has nothing to do with the battle plans. They’re talking about me and Roark. Listening to them commiserate over their plans to prevent our deaths, I learn how much that deep-seated, shared fear of loss has shaped their outlook on the war. I can’t let Keiran go into this battle distracted with worries about my safety.

“You know I can hold my own in a fight,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”

Keiran doesn’t respond. He gives Smith another look instead and is rewarded with Smith’s sigh and rolled eyes. “Yeah, now I see it. Definitely brothers.” He pretends not to hear my indignant complaint and gestures to the plans. “Anything else?”