Ellie Darling's Blog

The sound of metal scraping on concrete jarred Morrigan awake. Above her head, close to the low stone ceiling, a thin ray of sunshine fell through a small window. She rested her eyes on it, trying to orientate herself. Her body was heavy, desiccated. It was like the hunger one felt after being deprived of food for days, only it went deeper. Moving her head, she noted the bars blocking her point of exit: she was in a small cell. Was she in a prison, or in the bowels of a castle? How had she come to be there? 

With no ready answers at her disposal, the goddess reached out to her power, trying to amass the awen into her bones so that she might rise and turn the bars of her cage into sand, but nothing happened. She tried once more and was again rewarded by hollow nothingness.

Panic flooded her, waves of it crashing over her as she searched deep within, urging the core of her being to purport the magic that was her birthright. Again, nothing answered her back. Nothing at all. It was as though where before there had been a glowing hearth, now there was only a blackened hollow. How could this be?

Then her eyes caught on how the light through the window refracted off the back wall of her cell. Within what she had at first seen as nothing but quarried stone, she now registered a subtle twinkle…Black Quartz. They had built the whole back wall of the prison cells with the magic syphoning stone.

Morrigan shook her head, wincing as pain radiated down her neck, into her spine. Coming to terms with her surroundings meant she could feel the Quarts leaching the magic from her body. A slow pull making itself known, like blood draining out. It made her lightheaded, and she leaned it back against the wall again, the weight too much for her neck to hold upright. 

Without her magic, her black hair had reverted to its original auburn, crossing over her vision in a silken sheet. She was sure if she were to look in a mirror, her deep brown eyes would be their usual hazel in the absence of her normal glamor.  

“Well, that took longer than usual,” a male voice purred from somewhere beyond the bars.

Morrigan’s eyes snapped open, turning to the voice. In a cell across from hers, a man looked back at her, a smirk pulling at one corner of his lips. He had a sheet of dirty white hair that fell over his broad shoulders. The fabric of his shirt had once been a soft white muslin, but the dirt clinging to what was left of the thread bare material had long sense turned brown. It hung limply on his frame. His blood-red eyes were disconcerting in the dimness of the cells as he watched her. Even disheveled, Morrigan blinked blankly at his beautiful face.  

She ran her eyes over his strong chiseled jaw and smirking soft lips, his features as perfect as if they’d been carved from stone.

“Who in the underworld—?” she started.

The man held up a hand, cutting her off. He rolled his eyes, underlining of his exacerbation. “They have to stop messing with your brain up there. It’s making this so fucking tedious,” he declared. “I’m Arawn, brother to the Fomorian king, Balor.”

Morrigan eyed the man, her nose scrunching. 

At the expression Arawn sighed, saying, “Yes, yes, you didn’t know the great warrior king had a brother. I was a weakling, my mummy didn’t love me, and the grand stories will never remember me. Blah, blah, blah. Seriously, they are scrambling your brain with all the mind games. And given you are the only other being down here to talk to until Lilith gets back, you need to hold it together better.”

“By the gods, what are you talking about?” 

Arawn cocked his head, his red eyes considering her for a moment. “You don’t remember anything do you?”

Morrigan furrowed her brows, impatience flaring dangerously in her chest. She wasn’t in the habit of being spoken to as though she were a child.

“Just speak plainly,” she said. The words were slow and flat, the growing fatigue weighing her body down.

 “Well, love, since you asked so sweetly.” He swept his arms in a grand gesture. “These luxurious accommodations are the prison we’ve been relegated to ever since Nero attacked the barbarian tribes of the Naydrao, and waged war on all forms of magic in the cursed world of those damned mortals.”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed at the term Naydrao. Her mind reached for it, tried to capture the memory she could sense it should invoke, but her past was shrouded in fog and all her memories with it. Each was still there, but just beyond her grasp; taunting her with their impermanence. Shadows, sounds, and sensations dancing over her skin, but like smoke disappearing as soon as Morrigan tried to seize them. 

“How long?” she asked. 

Arawn made a show of ticking off time with his fingers before giving her a sheepish grin. “At my last count, roughly fifteen hundred years.” 

The time-span made a name surface from the recesses of her mind. It tasted like burned logs, like fields on fire, like war and death.

“Is this Nero’s doing?” she asked.

Arawn laughed coldly. “That fat sod? No. He just helped acquire the magical sidhe still left behind.”

Her agitation was spiking. The awen coursing through her blood was being leached out by the Quartz, making her eyes heavy and her skin burn. She scooted away from the walls, positioning herself in the middle of the floor to limit the purchase that the crystals had on her. It did little good. Whoever her captors were, they had not designed the cells with her comfort in mind. 

“Are we still in Naydrao?” she asked.

“Not likely. This place feels different from the mortal realms. There’s magic outside of these walls.”

Morrigan thought of something and fell quiet for a moment, studying Arawn while she chewed on her musings.

“How is it you still have your memories, and I don’t? Why do they keep ‘playing mind games’ with me, as you so delicately put it?” 

He smirked again. A dark-looking thing, more menacing than comforting. “Because I agreed to help them and didn’t give them a hard time. You, on the other hand, have given them nothing but trouble from the moment you got here.” He moved his legs, bending them to rest his arms on his knees, those red eyes observing her keenly. “You know how they train aggressive dogs?”

Morrigan glared at him and said nothing. This seemed to please him. As though he had hoped he would get to elaborate. “They blindfold it,” he said. “Keep it disoriented. They isolate it from all its senses. Keeps it from biting most of the time. That way, when they let the hood off and let it go, they simply have to point it in the right direction.” 

Morrigan let out an involuntary snarl, and this made Arawn laugh. 

“I’m not a dog,” she said.

“No, you certainly aren’t. But you would definitely bite off their heads if given the opportunity.”

The cells fell silent for a time.

“Are they like us? Magic wielders, I mean?” she finally asked.

“Well, they certainly aren’t mortal, that I know for sure. But otherwise, I don’t know what they are or aren’t,” he said.

Again, silence fell as Morrigan digested this information. In the silence, one memory slipped through the fog. It came to her out of focus, but with a swirling flame at its center. The red hair of her daughter. 

“I had a child. She had children. What happened to them?” Her voice was barely audible.

“I do not know their fate while they lived, but seeing as how they were mortal, you know as well as I that their bones will be dust by now.” He had the grace to look regretful as he said the words.

It did not surprise her, given what he was, that he would phrase it so cruelly. And yet she wished that there had been some morsel of compassion in him, something to stave off his honesty. Perhaps she should be grateful to him. She wondered how many times she must had asked him these same questions. The relentlessness of tedious repetition would bring out the cruelty in anyone. Still, for her this was the first, and her head fell forward into her hands to cut off the pained mewling sound rising in her throat.

“But I know how to bring them back,” Arawn said.

His tone was so casual it took a moment for the words to break through her grief. When they did, her head snapped up.

“Surely you of all people know souls aren’t lost, they just… go onto other plains. Of course, if someone like myself doesn’t eat them, that is. Theoretically, I can bring them back.” He shrugged. “I mean yes, it would require a great deal of awen, but it can be done.”

His words caught her, and she glared at him, growing suspicious. “Why would you tell me this when we’re stuck in a place stealing our awen right out of us? I cannot connect with the source. Can you?”

“No,” he admitted. “But…”

He leaned forward, spying through the bars of his cell for someone, listening for any sound. When all remained still, he rose to his feet, walking to the back of his cell to dig something out from beneath a loose stone in the floor. When he turned around, she could see it was a small vial of glowing blue liquid. He approached the bars again, glowing red eyes competing with the blue stirring within its confinement. It was moving. 

She knew what it was. Of course, she knew. 

Awen.

Clean and undiluted life force. The root of all magic. Somehow extracted straight from the river source that flowed between all things and all realms. 

Arawn reached through the bars of his cell, tossing the glass bottle toward Morrigan.

“Catch,” he said.

She did. Moving like a sand cat, her stiff fingers snatching the vial from the air before it could hit the bars of the cell or the hard stone floor. The force of the movement sent a whisper of her former self rushing through her limbs, reminding her of the power that for millennia had been but a breath away. The blessing of gods that had always flowed freely in her blood. Her captors had found out her weakness, had pressed on it, imprisoned her in it. Oh, how she wished to tear the walls down with her bare hands and crush every last crystal into oblivion! 

“Drink it, then we will talk,” Arawn encouraged. “And fair warning, you better swallow fast—it likes to fight back.”

She narrowed her eyes. That did not sound natural.

“How was it extracted?” she asked.

Arawn raised his eyebrows. “Do you truly wish to know, goddess? Or would you rather view it as a mere means to an end?”

If she swallowed corrupted awen, there was no telling what it might do to her. 

If she did not, she would be stuck in this cell. There was no telling for how many more thousands of years. Nor had she any way of knowing what her continuously drained power was being used for. And if she did not cooperate with the soul-eater, she would never see her daughter again. She knew he would hold sway over the realms where the souls rested. If anyone could rouse her Boudica, it was he. 

Could she trust him?

It seemed she had no choice.

“Has it been extracted from the dead?” she asked.

“No,” he replied, a little surprised that she had still chosen insight over willful ignorance. “But against the will of the soul.”

That was hardly better, but desecrating the dead was something even the gods did not do. Awen, stolen from an unwilling soul, was something she could contend with. As a means to an end, at least.

She tilted her head back, doing as he instructed. She had to fight the overwhelming urge to vomit as the awen continued to fight against its new host all the way down into her chest. It settled there, making her queasy. Then, in an instant, her whole body grabbed onto it, starved of it, and warmth shot through her. She pitched forward when the warmth intensified to a burning fire raging over every nerve ending. It was ecstasy and torture all at once. Memories blasted through her brain and with them came pain like the blow of an ax trying to rip her skull apart.

She closed her eyes, let the memories claim her.

The blue sky waned into night, the sunset painting a bright, burning tapestry of reds and oranges so deep it looked like the gods themselves had brushed over it with blood, leaving a scorched banner of bloodshed to glisten over the hills. An announcement of what had befallen the day. 

Her knees gave way as all her strength sapped from her body, all warmth draining out of her as though she were slipping, inch by inch, into a bath of ice water. She should have fallen to the ground, but did not. Instead, she was kept on her feet by an invisible cord wrapping itself around her ribs. It kept her standing, kept her from moving, and it tightened its grip as a figure loomed over her, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

Holding the gate open so her people could escape this world had drained her awen, but thanks to her, they had fled the magical cleansing that was coming.

Only her heroics had left her defenseless. 

And Nero knew it.

He was a slight man, with more chin than neck. His rusty blonde beard crawled down his throat in a patchwork of fur, reminding Morrigan of a mange-riddled lion. His blue-gray eyes were lifeless as his gaze bore into her. 

She noted that he’d woven extra padding into his armor to make himself look bigger and wondered how a man so slight and shapeless had ever commanded the respect of a military so vast as the Roman army. 

Nepotism is a bitch, she thought, disgust rolling over her tongue like the thick bitter dregs of skunk weed tea. It coated her mouth, making bile rise in her throat.  

“You were on our side,” she ground out, her lungs assailed by the pressure on her ribcage. “You executed the disciple.” 

The shapeless face broke out in a rueful smile. The emperor threw his head back and laughed. The veracity and volume should have signaled great joy, but underneath the guffaw, the sound was as hollow as Nero’s soul. Gooseflesh crawled over Morrigan’s skin at the unease settling over her. He leaned down, his pale face close to hers, reaching out clammy fingers to bring one of her curling black locks behind her ear. Morrigan shuddered as his skin brushed over hers, torrents of revulsion running over every nerve ending, tightening her stomach. 

“Darling,” he purred, “I thought you would have understood by now. I’m only ever on my side.” 

A string of curses flew from Morrigan as Nero’s betrayal settled over her. 

A hand fell hard across her cheek, stars swimming in her vision. She fell silent, but when she looked up at him, her seething anger didn’t need words put to it—the mounting fury turned the hazel depths of her eyes into pools of liquefied metal. 

He scowled back, his pudgy lips pulling up in disgust, his brows drawing down over the protruding ridge of his forehead as he looked at her with naked disapproval. 

“Civility,” Nero said.

He turned away from her and called out the name of his general, “Take the girl and her daughters to the exchange point. Our generous patron has agreed to house them for the time being.” As he spoke, he rolled his hand in a dismissive motion, drawing Morrigan’s eyes towards a pile of tangled hair and limbs lying limply in the grass. 

It took only moments for her to understand, and the moment she did a sound was ripped from her. The sound of a wounded animal, wild and desperate. She fought against her restraints, rage burning over her skin, set alight by shame, watching as Boudica and her two young girls were hauled to their feet. 

“You will BURN! I will make sure of it!” Morrigan spat at Nero, but choked as the invisible restraints tightened ever more, making breathing impossible.

She groaned, feeling like the pressure would cleave her in half as Nero drew closer, his lips placing butterfly kisses on her ear before he softly said, “We will all burn. But not you. Not yet, my pet. Not yet.”

Power ripped through Morrigan’s blood, setting it alight. Arms spread wide, she greeted it like a long-lost lover. Where before she had been disconnected, now she could sense the air stir around Arawn’s face with each exhale, make out every speck of dust beneath the soles of her feet, embraced by every pulse of awen through her blood. 

And she could hear. 

Every last sound.

She was the granddaughter of the goddess Danu and her body remembered its power as though it had awakened from a thousand-year slumber.

She settled within herself and opened her eyes to rest them on Arawn’s. Darkest brown meeting glowing red.

“Where do we go?” Morrigan asked, eyeing him shrewdly. Whatever cleverness it was that had brought him the opportunity to steal that vial. Whatever plan he had made while she was in her slumber, she was ready to play her part in setting it into motion.

“To Daearen. To your people. They need you.”

“What do you mean?” Morrigan asked. 

Images of children clutching their mothers in terror as the Roman army pressed in on them swam in her memory. A baby clasped to its mother’s breast, their older siblings hanging onto her skirts, their knuckles white from terror as Morrigan ushered them through the gate to Daearen. 

“It would seem like the darkness that was killing them in the mortal realm followed them through that gate,” Arawn said in a hushed voice. “I hear it’s destroying Daearen and stealing their magic.”

Morrigan growled, a sound low and fierce. She did not lose her freedom and her family to have the dark shadows of her enemies follow her people. 

The Black Quarts was tugging again, searching for those tendrils of awen that it could pull on, but she would not remain idle. Not this time.

I am the fecking goddess of war and battle. The granddaughter of the mother goddess, her mind hissed. I’ll be damned if I’m going to rot in this shit hole and let my people die while I still draw breath. 

She turned to face the wall opposite her, reaching out to the source river. Morrigan could hear it now. She looked at Arawn; the power pumping through her veins, making her feel high. When he offered her a small, knowing smile, she returned it. 

He would have her gratitude for this.

With a flick of her mind, she made the wall crack in two. She focused on the crystals and, with little effort, she began the work of shattering them into nothingness. Their power over her was contingent on a continued depletion within her. With each that was destroyed, the intrusive tugging eased, and with each one, she rose off the floor. The air was responding to her again, the elements at her fingertips. 

She turned her focus on the bars as the final crystals shattered around her; the iron crumbling, silently sifting onto the floor. The bars on Arawn’s cell had done the same.

“Which direction?” she asked.

He nodded down a corridor to their right and followed her when she took the lead.

Keena rested her head back on one folded arm. The rock and creak of the wagon as the horses pulled it over the uneven ground lulled her into a state of sleepiness, but the occasional jerk of a rock or divot kept her from falling into the full oblivion of her fatigue. The sky was growing dark as day bled into night, turning from crisp blue to a blooming of reds and purples and oranges. The colors reminded Keena of the wildflowers that would be blooming soon in the meadow by her village. Her heart contracted with the homesickness and anticipation brought by their snail-paced arrival back to Mina.

For most of the year, all the younglings in her community would make a pilgrimage to Themiskyra, a village on the island of Dia, in the realm of Olympia, to train with the Amazonian warriors to become soldiers. The Amazon society was matriarchal, and their everyday routine consisted of women warriors training other women to join their ranks. Though their numbers were plenty, very few men were ever allowed to stand beside them. However, due to the urgent need in Daearen to have strong and able-bodied fighters to join the resistance, the Amazonian leaders had agreed to make an exception. This meant that they also trained the boys of Mina from a young age. As such, the caravan, slowly bringing the younglings back home to Mina, was made up of all genders.

It was at the end of winter and the fields were thawing in Abya Yula—the northwestern continent of Daearen—which meant the younglings were traveling back for the growing season. They would help their parents plant and care for the next year’s crop and reap the harvest before the next frost. When the air grew cold again, they would make the pilgrimage to the gate and return to Themiskyra.

This was Keena’s sixth return since she turned twelve. 

Keena closed her eyes to the colors of the sky above, deciding she would rather keep them shut than look at the surrounding landscape. Once they drew nearer to Mina, its protective spells meant the trees stood lush, and the grass remained green, but where the caravan was currently traveling, everything was gray, the bark sluffing off its branches like the skin of a corpse. 

She fisted her hands, the ache of her body just another reminder of the weaning of awen. It was getting worse, and it was happening faster for each season that passed. When Keena was little, her world hadn’t looked like this. Her world had been a vibrant, inviting, joyous place.

Now, her world was dying. 

The awen was bleeding out and without access to magic, the still free peoples of Daearen were bleeding out with it.

Not that long ago there had been innumerable gates between realms and the peoples had been free to move between them, but ever since Morrigan began her war on Daearen, Zeus and the gods of other realms had stopped all easy journeying to and from Daearen. Now there were veils of magic hindering any unwarranted visits and alerting the ancient guardians of any intrusions. It protected the river source of magic, keeping the other realms from being drained of awen in the way Daearen was. This meant that in the realm of Olympia, and on the island of Dia, the awen flowed like water from a roaring river. It was partly why training with the Amazonians was so effective. The younglings all got to explore the full extent of their magical abilities, unencumbered by the shadow cast by the Dark Queen. 

Where the awen tapped into the river source without impediment in Themiskyra, here the sickness of the land grabbed at her magic, like desert sand grabbing drops of water, leaving her off-kilter and sick to her stomach. 

At least she was safe with those who loved her. 

Keena closed her eyes, fisting her hands with the pain of everything that weighed on her mind, her heart. She hated leaving her village, hated leaving her parents and the people of Mina. But it was the duty of every child born to their community, which had been cobbled together from the scattered peoples of Daearen over the two decades that the war had spilled into the continent of Abya Yula. It was the honored obligation of every youngling to go to Themiskyra and train in order to help save their people. Anything else was unthinkable.

The thought made her body feel heavy, like lead poured into her veins. Keena didn’t want to be a warrior. She wanted to be a healer. She wanted to stay in this world with the plants and the herbs and the dirt and ensure that life grew wild once more. 

As a lock of black hair fell into her face, she blew out a stream of air to move the unruly strand. She crinkled her nose as the bothersome thing shifted, but came back to tickle her nose. Impatiently, she ran a hand through the disheveled mass of raven hair to push it out of her face. She suppressed a curse as the hair seethed and clung to her hand disobediently.

“Defiant bloody bastard,” she muttered, pushing it out of her face again.

Ren, one of Keena’s best friends, leaned forward, arching a silvery lavender eyebrow at Keena. “Are you talking to your hair again?”

Ren’s face was angled and foxish, the shape of it making the almond slanting of her eyes stand out. She watched Keena with amusement, lighting up her lavender irises from within. She shifted, making the fine curtain of silvery lavender hair fall over one shoulder like water. Keena eyed the sleek strands with naked jealousy.

A male voice spoke, deep and familiar, as it said, “I wouldn’t give her too much guff. I’m convinced that curly black shit is alive.” 

Keena’s hand motioned to Adriel, the other third of their group of friends, her eyebrows raised at Ren as if to say, see? Turning her focus on Adriel, she tried not to notice how his arctic blue eyes glittered, or how suppressed laughter made the corners of his lips tip up. He’d braided his long black hair back away from his face, but baby hairs escaped to frame his handsome features, the movement of the wagon making them caress his sun-tanned, russet skin.

Keena’s eyes widened when he reached out to capture a curl rising toward him. Taken off guard, her surprise sent a jolt of light energy down the strand, snapping against his fingers with a shock of lightning. Adriel flinched and pulled his hand back.

Keena gave a sheepish smile. “Careful—it bites.”

He sucked on his finger, his expression flat and brooding. “No shit.”

Ren snickered, scooting closer to Keena and sitting back against the wagon next to her. “So, who is looking forward to Enid’s fried sweet cakes?”

All three’s expressions changed into a mix of longing and unbridled hunger as they imagined the sweet cakes fried in oil and then drizzled with honey. Keena’s taste buds contracted painfully at the thought. 

Keena leaned her head back. “I’m excited to just have time to sleep in for once.”

Adriel let out a soft snort. “You said the same thing last year and then complained the rest of the season you couldn’t sleep past sunrise.”

“Yeah, and the first time she could was the day before—” 

Ren cut herself off suddenly. Keena looked up at her but realized she would have to sit in order to follow her friend’s gaze. She did, reluctantly, forgetting the dying landscape as her eyes landed on Bly, Adriel’s older brother, headed toward them on horseback. Kenna’s brows furrowed, and she glanced at Ren, trying to keep the ominous feeling from spreading through her limbs.

Please, not me, not me, not me. Her mind screamed in panic. 

Bly’s sandy blonde hair caught the sunlight and shimmered softly, the breeze shifting the unruly shoulder-length locks over his face. He looked stricken, his deep brown skin ashen, his golden brown eyes locked on Ren.

Keena’s breath lodged in her throat. The expression on Bly’s face wasn’t new. Keena had seen it many times before. The hesitant glance that didn’t quite make eye contact, the soft furrow between the brows, the bitter pull of a mouth that had words to speak but would rather not utter. But never had this expression been directed at her or her friends before. 

Not me, not me, not me. 

Maeve, Ren’s aunt, who had been resting toward the back of the wagon, must have sensed something as well as she sat upright.

Bly drew his horse alongside their wagon, his features pulled taut as he looked at Ren, and then at her aunt. He opened his mouth, but nothing came. Bly looked to Keena and Adriel for help. Keena slipped an arm around Ren, feeling the fine tremor of her body and the chorded stiffness of the Kitsune’s muscles.

“Ren…” Bly said.

“What happened?” Maeve asked. Her voice was sharp, like the crack of a whip. The sound of it made Bly’s jaw tighten, his teeth clenching.

Then he said, “They… They were caught in the raid.” 

The words were slow, like he had to slog through the mud to get them out.

“They were captured?” Maeve asked, tinges of hope they might be alive coloring her words.

Bly’s lips pulled tight, and Keena could see the slight tremor he was trying to hide. How the muscle in his chin quivered before he shook his head. 

Silence.

A sinking sensation, like lead in every vein. Keena knew they were all experiencing it. The shock of it. Relief and guilt swirled around Keena, making her lightheaded. 

Her eyes snapped to Ren as the Kitsune went loose in her arms. No sound escaped her, but she sagged against Keena and from one breath to the next, she transformed from human into her fox form. Small and silver, the Kitsune slipped through Keena’s arms and slunk to the back of the wagon, where she crawled under a low bench placed there. Keena watched as Ren pulled in around herself until she became a tiny silver ball of fur.  

Keena hesitated for a moment.

She could use her sight to reach her friend. If she could get eye contact and maintain it, then she could bridge the gap between them and enter her mind. She could stir up happier memories, push some of the shock away, and possibly help Ren deal with the pain she must be experiencing. Keena was experiencing a morsel of the loss and it was enough to make her wish she could fold in on herself the way Ren was. 

But Ren was entitled to privacy in her grief.

And so, Keena left it.

All she and Adriel could do for their friend was move over to the spot she had hidden and gently pet her back in slow soft circles. She accepted their touch, which at least was a good sign. 

For the rest of the ride back to Mina, the caravan kept a respectful silence, leaving room for Maeve’s soft sobs to be the only noise heard. As they approached their community, the grass, even in the darkness, showed signs of life, shifting from a dull, mute black to a muted dark green. Waving and winking in the low breeze. The trees bore birdsong, while the croak of frogs from the nearby stream and the chirp of crickets broke up the silence.

 The fist that had been pressing into Keena’s stomach since they left the gate behind eased a little as here the protective spells around Mina meant the awen was more readily available and it flowed more freely into her body again. 

Their wagon teetered precariously into potholes as the horses pulling it slowed. Keena looked to the front of the caravan, where the horses had already stopped completely. They were in front of the wall of Mina. Only all that lay before them was a meadow, stretching into a field. Tall grass and flowers were blowing softly in the breeze. 

It was one of Keena’s favorite moments: waiting for the reveal.

Then the air rippled softly, and she smiled at the sight. There was a shimmer like a mirage. The muted sound of horns blowing in a jovial chorus sounded in the otherwise silent night. Glittering golden light shifted like a curtain being pulled back, revealing a sliver of what was behind.

The Obscurion Caelum stood atop the gate, backs erect and eyes alert. They were fairies that could use their gift with the air to create barriers in order to obscure complete cities from sight. They had been key to the founding of Mina as they provided the means for the community to be kept out of sight and earshot of anyone who might try to seek those hiding from Morrigan and her forces.

The main entrance was manned by no less than two Obscurion and one witch at all times. This was the combination that made for the defenses that had kept their sanctuary safe over the last twenty years.

Tall thick timbers driven into the ground peaked from the corners of the shifted illusion, merging into an equally sound gate. Each trunk that made up the gate was the circumference of three men standing arm to arm. The timbers moaned, pulled from the other side as they shifted and opened slowly. As they parted, Keena saw the first glances of the village behind the walls. She was finally home.

***

Keena pulled at a particularly stubborn flower. Its stem wouldn’t snap. She wished she’d brought a knife. It would make the task she’d set for herself that much easier. She was gathering flowers for Ren. She knew it would brighten the Kitsune’s room, bring some color into it. Keena hoped it would remind Ren that there were still some things worth fighting for. Flowers had always signaled freedom to them, ever since they were children. The freedom of rolling down the hill as the tall grass blew all around them. It was what they wanted for themselves. For their children. It was why they had committed themselves to training. What Ren’s parents had died for.

Keena stayed her hand at the thought, the agony at the truth of it almost too much to bear. 

All parents were fighting for their children. 

Perhaps flowers were a silly idea. What if they only deepened Ren’s grief?

The grass blew around Keena in a musical symphony; the plants whispering secrets only an Earth fairy could understand. As Keena was a Light fairy, there was no answer to be gotten there. Still, the sound of life all around her helped focus her. She combed her fingers through the grass, pulling peace from the awen that flowed through the soil beneath. 

She let the thoughts she’d been avoiding crowd her mind. How would she have handled it if it had been her parents? Allowing herself to recognize what she’d been avoiding ever since she spotted Bly: the knowledge that it could have been her parents. Guilt hammered her again, the words in her mind like blows. 

Not me, not me, not me. 

They had been present during the raid, Keena’s parents. It would have been just as likely that Bly had been riding to deliver the news of her loss. The thought made pain lance through her. With each breath, she could feel the violence of Morrigan pushing closer to her tiny village, pressing down on them all until there was no air left. 

Frustration chorded through her limbs like ropes of metal, making them stiff and unyielding. In a breath, anger was seething in her chest like a brewing storm. She could feel the leaching of the awen even here, in her place of reprieve. The long poisonous fingers of Morrigan’s influence slowly pulling the magic from the land. 

For one bitter moment, Keena wondered if Danu—the Creator—would be disappointed in Morrigan, seeing how Morrigan was her granddaughter. Not to mention that they had known her for millennia as the Savior of the Sidhe. Before she turned murderer. Would Danu have anger or pity for her granddaughter? Some believed that Danu and the earth were the same. The natives of Abya Yula called Danu ‘the mother’. The word chosen for her by Keena’s people had a similar meaning. 

For all the peoples of Daearen, the realm of Daearen would be impossible without the presence of Danu within it. The grand goddess was the tender of the river source, the stones within it, and the waters themselves. She was the life bringer. And she was dying. Slowly and painfully, her essence was being leached away. And no prayers or rituals offered by her people could stop it. By draining the awen, Morrigan wasn’t merely attacking the peoples of Daearen—she was wounding her own grandmother in the process. Some thought fatally. That Morrigan would not stop until all was as ashen as her heart.

Keena had never understood why Morrigan would want to kill what she had saved. It remained the greatest mystery of all.

Unable to keep still any longer, Keena collected a large armful of the flowers she had picked for Ren. Tomorrow would be the start of the funeral rite. Mina was a melting pot of magical races. Each had their way of mourning their dead. Years ago, the governing council had combined these traditions, allowing all of their people to pay homage to their comrades and friends.

Keena was already exhausted at the thought. It would be days of tribes dancing, people bringing trinkets and gifts to accompany the dead on their journey into their next life. In her culture, they mourned and celebrated life and death equally, believing when a child was born, it was because of the death of someone in a world outside of theirs. And likewise, when someone died in their realm, their soul would pass on to another realm to be born anew. She closed her eyes, praying that wherever Ren’s parents found themselves next, it would be a place where there would be no more fighting. That they would find peace.

She crested over a tall hill and paused, looking out at the patchwork of homes scattered before her. Cabins peppered the small valley. Shabby lean-tos housing the ever influx of refugees mixed with the wood cabins with their bleached wood walls and simple thatched roofs and the traditional wooden homes of Abya Yula. It was quaint and completely at home amongst the backdrop of mountains and thick forest.

She looked over to where her house sat nestled among the rest, unsurprised that it was as dark and quiet as she had left it, with no smoke happily curling from its chimney. Her parents wouldn’t be back yet. They were part of the raiding party, which meant they would bring those fallen in the raid back home with them. It would slow their progress as they formed a grieving procession. Her older sister was still on the road, part of the freshly graduated soldiers in charge of getting the youngest from the gate between realms and to Mina. 

The vacant air of her home settled over her heavily, making her hair prickle with uneasiness. The last few days back had reminded her of death’s permanency, the quiet like a vacuum.

She headed down the gentle slope, bringing her onto the road leading into the main square and further to Ren’s house. For the time being they were staying at Ren’s, but Maeve opened the door with red eyes, letting Keena know Ren was refusing to see anyone. 

“Here,” Keena said, handing over the bouquet. “It’s from our spot. Let her know I’ll come back every day until she sees me. She’ll be okay, Maeve.”

Maeve nodded, fresh tears in her eyes. 

“Thanks, Keena,” Maeve said. “And thank you for these,” she added.

Keena turned from the door as Maeve closed it, her hands clenching, but no matter how she tried to stave it off, this time the anger exploded through her in a way that was impossible to contain. The fury at the unfairness swirling and biting at her. 

A pain started at the base of her skull, reminding her of why she’d been drawn to healing in the first place. If she could heal others, maybe she could heal the broken pieces inside of herself that made the anger so overwhelming. But she’d never found the peace she sought in the plants. Not really. People were dying, and no amount of healing magic or plants would bring them back. There was no poultice that Keena could apply to broken hearts that would soothe their pain. 

Keena’s Amazonian mentor Polly’s voice chimed in her mind, saying, Come on, girl, you know where to turn that anger. 

Back in Themiskyra, noting Keena’s clenched fists and the pained expression she always wore when the headaches got really bad, Polly had quickly formed the habit of directing the storm inside her young apprentice towards her training. If Polly had been there now, she would’ve thrown Keena in an enchanted practice ring and let her beat something until she was too tired to move. The outlet for the rage and the release of energy it offered always eased the headaches, bringing back control. 

Keena knew where she needed to go, even though she shouldn’t go there alone.

Typically, a prospect would train with a mentor or with a fellow prospect, but she didn’t have the patience to go looking for Adriel. The electricity building at the base of her spine was making her head feel like it was going to split open. Murmurs of words she couldn’t quite understand. Fragments of sentences in a voice that wasn’t hers growled in the darkness of her rage. It was like an invading body. Like she was sharing someone else’s rage with her own.

The practice rings lay to the east of the council building. Three circles of packed dirt kept the user within a specific perimeter. Should they venture outside it, whatever course they were currently taking would stop until they reoriented themselves. They had chosen the location for the practice rings for its position right within a steady stream of awen from the river source. Keena could sense it all around her as she walked into the ring, a promise that it was there should she have need of it.

It took only a moment of standing at the center of the largest circle for a roughly put together timber fence to flicker into view, a rack of weapons at the opposite end of the packed dirt floor under her feet. Hay covered it, and soon the scent was in her nostrils. She wasn’t familiar with this training course. Judging by the weapons on display, it was for seasoned soldiers only. If her parents or sister were around, they wouldn’t even allow her to consider it. 

Her hands tightened as pain laced through her skull again. It was a risk she was willing to take. She couldn’t sit with this pressure, this rage. Fear of what could happen if she allowed her light to take her over completely nagged at the back of her mind like a pecking bird. The last time she had nearly hurt Polly, and her fingers had been burned for a week from the charge of lightning that had coursed through her veins.

So, she left the awen alone, rather than connect with it. It would enhance her ability to defeat whatever threat she was about to face, but it would also enhance her connection with her light. Make it that much more difficult to subdue. Even though she was alone, she didn’t want to risk hurting herself. All she wanted was the outlet, and she could have that without the awen’s magical currents running through her veins.

However, she didn’t shy away from the pain at the base of her skull. She embraced it. 

With brisk steps, she crossed the practice ring to the stocked weapons rack; she chose the bo staff with a snap of her arm. She turned the stick a few times, testing its weight, sticking one end into the earth, the wood vibrating as it hit the ground, the energy traveling back into her hand. A wicked smile crept over her face as her body moved. The awen might not be coursing through her body, but its presence in this place still meant she had a tool to use. Especially once the pain ebbed.

And it was ebbing. 

She slammed a foot on the first pressure plate, activating the enchanted opponents to spring from the earth. Enid had spelled the course to make the enemy look exactly like the sluagh soldiers that made up most of Morrigan’s army. Souls, trapped and damned by the gods, caught between passing worlds, appearing as rotting corpses with flesh hanging off bones and vacant eyes that saw nothing. The sheer numbers Morrigan had sent as her first wave of attack had covered the land  like a dark shadow. 

A stickler for details, aren’t you, Enid? Keena mused. You even got Morrigan’s sigil down to the crow in the center of the sun.

The corpse started forward, and Keena grinned. This was a level one ring, the most complex course, and her body hummed in anticipation. She would get the chance to flex her muscles. Themiskyra’s practice rings maxed out at level three. With her mentor’s relentless training, Keena had beaten that course a year ago. Keena dodged artfully. Surprised when the sluagh shifted with her, swinging its wooden sword down on her. She cursed and blocked it; the sword grazing her cheek. 

Keena pivoted her body. The sudden loss of opposing pressure made the sluagh fall forward. She took her staff and smacked it across her opponent’s back, sending it forward to land face first in the dirt. When it looked back at her over its shoulder, the heat from her rage crawled through her limbs at the lifeless expression of her opponent. 

How many had died with this abomination as the last thing they ever saw?

Ren’s dad sat across a makeshift table he’d fashioned out of a stump. Sheets of wood laid overtop were at such odds with the delicate miniature tea set atop the table. Hand-painted flowers adorned the bright white porcelain teapot, matching flowers gilding the tiny teacups. Truthfully, the large blonde-haired male was as equally out of place, a tiny teacup nestled in his large hand.

“Terribly sorry,” he said with a soft inflection. “Me hair was all over the shop and cunna do a thing with it,” Finn said, shifting the flower crown on his head.

Keena’s dad, his tone equally prim, a too-small hat sitting on his black curls, ribbons circling his chin to keep it in place. “Mr. Nettlesworth.” He lifted his teacup in salute to Finn, taking a delicate sip.

Both girls smiled broadly at their fathers, Ren’s father reaching for a biscuit and looking quizzically between the biscuit and the teacup, analyzing how to dip it in his cup, glowering when Keena’s father picked up a biscuit, snapped a piece off and dipped it in his cup unceremoniously.

Finn, feigning a gasp, placed a hand over his chest. “Bad manners, Mr. Rufflebottom.”

Keena and Ren’s eyes shone with adoration at the two men. 

The memory of Finn with his golden hair shining in the sun and his amber eyes twinkling with humor made Keena give a scream of objection at his absence. Fury reached inside of her chest, taking hold of her heart, and squeezing so tightly she thought it might stop beating. The rage coursed through her blood, making her skin burn like coals resting right beneath her. 

She needed to make it dissipate. 

She rounded her staff on the sluagh and slammed it into her opponent’s face. As Enid had spelled each opponent to expire at a fatal blow, the sluagh erupted into a cascade of glittering dust. 

Witnessing it, knowing that she was the cause, brought a sense of calm. Like a drug working on her overheated bloodstream, as addictive as the fury itself. She would drive the anger out and let the calm take over. Just how Polly had taught her.

As the dust settled, Keena turned to see three more opponents rising from the surrounding ground. 

She ran at a fence post, slammed a foot against it, vaulting herself into the air. The sluagh nearest her reached and grabbed her shoulder with its skeletal hands. Its grip was like steel as it clutched her shirt and pulled her to the ground, slamming her into the dirt.

The impact of her fall expelled the oxygen from her lungs, making her gasp to recover it. She forced herself to stay present and breathe. She saw a sword swing down towards her, and she shifted to her stomach just in time, making the tip of the sword collide with the earth a fraction of an inch from her face. 

Keena braced herself, kicking at the nearest soldier, knocking it back when her foot collided with its chest, cracking a rib. Her foot pushing into its abdomen and bone-crunching behind the force of her foot made a smile creep over her lips. 

Enid, did it really need to be so… specific?

Unfortunately, it now meant that Keena’s foot was caught in her opponent’s chest and it wouldn’t come free, even as she shook her leg. Luckily, the sluagh stepping backward to get away from her meant it pulled to her free foot so she could brace herself and swing her leg again, knocking the one stuck on her foot into another attacker. 

The second sluagh reached out in surprise, grabbing its comrade. Keena smiled again. 

Good boy, she thought as she used the chance to pull her foot free. She slammed her staff under the first sluagh’s ribcage and into the next. 

Both exploded in another violent burst of glittering dust. 

She rounded on the remaining opponent, seeing six more rise from around the ring. Her heart sank. She was in trouble. Especially since she realized too late that a further three had emerged from the ground right behind her, leaving herself wide open for the pell sword that was slammed into her back.

She cried out; the air knocked from her lungs. 

Before she could react to protect herself, another hit followed. 

Again and again and again, the pell sword smashed into her body. 

She could see the six she’d been staring down also descending on her when another blow landed across her cheek, her eyes blurring. Panic slammed through her veins at the realness of her situation. She could feel her breath shortening, her vision growing dim as the panic took her over. As more and more blows landed over her body, she had to admit that she only had two options: to forfeit or use her light to defeat the sluagh. 

She should give up.

But the anger still licked through her, those menacing faces of her attackers leering, and the hatred was absolute.

She didn’t care if her light would claim her this time. Her power had been a mystery to her ever since it manifested. It was associated with uncertainty and secrecy, and she was so tired of it. No one knew her. She sometimes felt like she didn’t even know herself. 

She closed her eyes and reached out to the surrounding awen.

She let it wrap itself around her, the energy coursing through the earth, pulsing at her feet. For the first few moments, she knew it would enhance the pain, making it white-hot as it fired through her brain. But she also knew this meant that the exchange of awen had begun and she was connecting fully with the river source. Her body drinking it in like cold, fresh water, closing the loop of energy. 

To use the awen, whether to create or destroy, the wielder had to channel it. To do that, the wielder had to pull it in through their feet like the roots of a plant extracting nourishment from the soil and draw it through the body, connect it with their soul—their life force, the stabilizing element of the magic—and then extend it outward.  

Another blow, this time splitting Keena’s lip open. The taste of blood on her tongue made her open her eyes, and she watched as though she were a passenger in her body as her wrist flicked, light unraveling from her fingertips. It reached out to the three opponents surrounding her and grabbed them, energy shooting up their legs, freezing them in place. 

A moment as she stared at them.

She knew what was about to happen. Keena feel it vibrate itself through her because it was what she wanted to happen. Some part of her was commanding her light to make it so.

Another moment and they fell in a pile of dust around her. 

Her vision was clear, the world around her sharpened as though her inner light was revealing its most basic components to her. 

She pushed to her feet, looking at the six who were now only a few feet away.

She was dizzy and unsteady on her feet. Again, her body reacted, a snap of her wrist, light uncurling from her hand like a whip. She repeated the motion, and the bolt came to life, curling up and coiling around the throat of the nearest sluagh. Her opponent dropped his sword and lifted its hands to its throat in panic. It didn’t take much at all to make it cascade into glittering dust at her feet. 

As her rage grew, the terror she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge built inside her. It was too late now. There were no protests, no fear, no remorse that could hand her back control. She was a passenger to the part of her that seemed to crave this violence.

The light came to life again in her hand, swirling on the ground like a cat’s tail. Keena lifted it and brought it down on the approaching sluaghs with a howl. She caught all but one, tightening until they too exploded into nothing. 

The remaining soldier dodged and rushed at her. Adrenaline shot through Keena, making her blood run thick and hot as the sluagh screeched at her. She lifted her other hand; the light curling out of her fingers and extending to wrap around the corpse’s throat. It ducked and rolled out of the way, snapping to its feet, continuing its rush at her. She braced herself, ready to swing her staff and knock the sluagh back, surprised when something collided with the back of her head, knocking her to her knees. More sluaghs had appeared behind her. They were reaching their bony fingers for her, grasping at her, pinning her down.

She shook her head, fire shooting through her body. The burning in the base of her skull suddenly unleashed itself and took her over. The fire in her veins returning with a vengeance, the calm going up in smoke. 

A growl filled her throat as she roared and turned to see a new opponent bringing its pell sword back down again. 

She didn’t wait. Digging her fingers into the ground, she unleashed the ripping electricity in her body, letting it travel down her limbs, pooling it into the earth. Her body felt as though it was getting torn apart, her muscles and tendons threatening to be yanked from her bones. It made her tilt her head back in a scream.

Lightning wrapped around the sluaghs’ legs and crawled up their bodies. The corpses twitched and seized; the lightning growing as it surged over the dirt, shooting up through the crowns of the sluagh’s heads.  

As the pain once more took her over, the darkness edged its way inside. She wanted to be rid of it once and for all. If it killed her, so be it. 

It will not kill you.

The conviction was sweet, even as she felt she was becoming nothing more than awen. She stuck her other hand into the dirt, sending a swell over the ground, activating the other pressure plates, forcing the remaining enchanted sluagh corpses out from the ground. 

A vicious smile crept over her lips, a white film placing itself over her line of sight, and yet it was only a filter. It made her realize that her sight was present, and she could see into every last sluagh. Not just those before her, but those in Morrigan’s battle fields. Those that had come before and those that remained. They were all empty. There should be no guilt. They had none, nor did they have the capacity to show mercy.  

She sent another pulse over the earth, capturing the others trying to rush forward. Keena watched with dark delight as they stopped cold, caught in a surge of electricity. Their limbs jerking and twitching as the energy fried them from the inside out. 

She was draining. She could feel it, and yet she could not stop herself.

She wanted to kill them all.

More erupted from the ground and rushed her. This time, she could not fight them off when they overtook her. One brought the butt of a sword down on her cheek.

Then there was only quiet before the darkened form of a tall man leaned over her, his braided black hair blowing in the wind and his fuming ice-blue eyes coming closer as he bent to pick her up from the ground.

A deep male growl rumbled close to her ear. “Idiot.”

Keena had nothing to counter with, and safe in his arms she let unconsciousness claim her.

Keena gasped and her eyes flew open, rewarding her with white-hot, vision-blinding pain. Her whole body hurt. Each muscle felt like someone had pounded it with a meat tenderizer and then again for good measure. A sharp stinging sensation on her lip made her touch the spot gingerly. The memory of her fight in the practice ring filtered back to her in pieces. 

She groaned, shielding her eyes with one arm. “Ugh.”

She was lying flat on her back on the unyielding wooden surface of a table, its hard edges digging into the bruises on her back. The cabin was owned by Adriel and his family. She could tell by the scent of flowers perpetually drying in hanging bunches from the ceiling.

“Welcome back, sleepyhead,” Adriel’s deep voice said.

Keena moved her arm an inch to peek cautiously at him. He’d tied his long black braids out of his face with a piece of leather he kept tied around one wrist for that very purpose. Concern colored the ice-blue of his eyes, the emotion drawing his perfectly shaped eyebrows together into a frown. The expression told her he wasn’t entirely impressed with her antics. 

“‘Welcome’ might be too strong a word?” Keena said, trying a small smile. Her voice sounded like a croak from the grogginess still blanketing her. 

“Yeah, that sluagh smacked you hard. How’s your head feel?” he asked.

“Like I got hit with a stick,” she grumbled.

Adriel laughed softly, his warm breath brushing over her neck as he reached out with one hand, his lean fingers slipping behind her head. They gently probed their way through her hair, finding the bump and avoiding it as he skillfully kneaded her scalp. It was deeply relaxing and made her want to push her head into his touch to encourage him to keep going. 

But then a tingle shot up her spine, one that brought a different sort of longing into her limbs. For him to slide his fingers down, for him to lean a little closer than he already was. The urge to pull him to her startled her enough to make her turn her head sharply, the self-consciousness too sudden to control. 

He mustn’t be able to tell. And he knew all her tells. 

Worse than that, with his wolf senses, he’d be able to smell her tells. The thought was making her heart quicken, but at least the pain lacing through her as she’d moved too fast proved a helpful distraction. Especially as her groan in protest put an alarmed expression on that handsome face of his. It made his cheekbones more pronounced, and she could see the tiny muscle flex along his jaw.

He pulled his hands away, moving back from her and ending up standing awkwardly by the side of the table. She told herself firmly that it was better he stood there than sat next to her. A few strands of loose black hair shifted, kissing his face when he tilted his head. His blue eyes were lit with an inner glow as he studied her, she was losing herself in his gaze. What was on his mind?

Then he arched an eyebrow at her. “What were you even thinking?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, still stuck on what he might be thinking.

A glower creased his brow. “That was a level one ring.”

She looked away from him, replacing her arm over her eyes. She didn’t want to think about it. The way that her light had taken her over like the rage was swallowing her whole. It wasn’t like this in Themiskyra—the anger. Here it was concentrated and thick. She had forgotten herself. Forgotten how potent the anger was once she passed through the gate. But she couldn’t express that to Adriel. She didn’t want him to see the truth of the ugliness that lurked within her. That had been one of the many reasons she’d always downplayed the extent of her light, so that no one saw the shadows that the gift of her light cast. Only Polly had seen them.

“I passed level three a long time ago. I thought I could handle it.”

“Right,” he muttered, seeing through the lie. He might not know all her shadows, but he had an unsettling knack for noticing when something was weighing on her. He reached out and pulled her arm away from her face, making her look at him. “You could have gotten seriously hurt.”

She smiled brightly. “Thanks for the news flash.”

One corner of his lips kicked up in that way she enjoyed, and he turned away from her. When he turned back, he held a cup under her nose. A glittering golden stream of steam curled up from its brim.

“It’s Pallida tea,” he said.

Her favorite.

She was going to accept it from him, about to reach her hands up, when he took her by surprise by slipping an arm under her. She’d been about to scoot herself into a seated position to accept the cup from him and instead, here he was, propping her up.

He watched her as though she were some fragile thing. It was irritatingly nice. “Can you hold the cup?”

She could. Taking it, her mouth was unexpectedly going dry, his heat slipping over her back, brushing over nerves, bringing them to full alert.

Stand down, she told herself for the hundredth time. It’s just Adriel.

But then the arm around her shoulders made her tilt forward so that he could slip into the space behind her. It was all done in one fluid motion and she felt him settle, his legs cradling her on either side of her hips. He had the audacity to get her resting her back against his chest as though she couldn’t have sat upright on her own, but then she had to admit that she probably would have failed had she tried. 

She focused her attention on every minor detail of the wooden walls of the cabin, noting the places where the mud between logs needed to be touched up and the soft cloth curtains that blew in the breeze above the kitchen window. She focused everywhere but on the heat emanating from Adriel’s chest, or how the heat from his legs warmed the outside of her thighs.

A year ago, Adriel acting as Keena’s own cozy backrest would have been as natural as breathing, but lately there had been these reactions in her. She couldn’t put words to them because she didn’t even understand them herself. All she knew was the two of them had become awkward around one another. Or maybe it was just Keena who had gone from comfortable and amicable towards Adriel, to awkward and intensely aware of his presence. An awareness that was foreign and uncomfortable, and she resented it with every fiber of her being. 

A secret part of her longed to lock her eyes with his, tap into her sight and bore into his mind to find out just where he stood, but she would never invade the secret thoughts of someone she cared about. Not without their consent. That was a rule Keena had established for herself from the minute her gift had presented itself and it had grown into a boundary she would not let herself cross. No matter how curious she was for answers.

Keena was grateful for the tea. At least it was something to occupy herself with. She sipped it, grimacing as the bitter taste spread over her tongue.

“No honey?” she asked, clicking her tongue at the tartness.

Adriel cursed under his breath. “I forgot. I’ll get it.”

Automatically, Keena laid a hand on his leg to stop him from getting up. His body became still, like the slight pressure of her hand was anchoring him in place, rendering him unable to move.

“Don’t worry about it. I was just teasing. It’s fine. It still tastes good,” she said, using the fact that he couldn’t see her face to hide her grimace as she took another sip.

“You sure? I-I can get you some.”

“It’s fine, Adriel. My head is already feeling better.” She took another sip. Once she was sure she wasn’t scowling at the bitterness, she tilted her face up towards him with her brightest smile. His eyes met hers and she couldn’t look away. It seemed neither could he, and they were both locked in each other’s gaze, unmoving.

Keena’s heart was beating slow and steady in her chest, but every breath was heavy with anticipation. She forced herself not to glance at Adriel’s mouth, his lips shapely and full. And so very close to hers.

A stream of curses made them both jump. A moment later, Adriel’s older brother, Bly, came stomping through the front door. His exclamations cut off as he noticed Adriel and Keena. A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face as he took in the position the two were currently in. Adriel with one leg hanging off the table, Keena cradled in his lap, one of her hands still resting on his upper thigh.

“Oh. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” Bly’s voice dripped in innuendo, making Keena’s cheeks flush automatically. 

Adriel scoffed. “Shut up, Bly. Keena hurt her head.”

Bly was the opposite of Adriel in almost every way a brother could be. 

Though Bly had the same striking and beautiful features as his younger brother, he had dirty blonde hair and deep golden-brown eyes that reminded Keena of a doe. 

Where Adriel was light-hearted when he wanted to be, he still respected his place within Mina and the responsibility the titles of his parents had placed on his shoulders. His father Prince Sentos, son of the Fae King Bres, and his mother Jikonsaseh, the Wenronian Alpha, were prominent members of Mina’s leadership and Adriel acted accordingly. 

Bly didn’t have the patience for the formalities attached to the responsibility he had been born to. The closer he got to the trials and the end of his trips to Themiskyra, the more he seemed to be on a mission to find out how many things he could do before he inevitably needed to grow up and fall in line. Keena suspected in the next twelve weeks Bly planned on drinking, fighting, and fucking his way to oblivion.

Adriel’s words temporarily sobered Bly. A concerned look knitted his brows together as he came to stand next to Keena, his eyes scanning over her face.

His voice was rough as he studied her face. “Where’d you get hit?”

She didn’t like Bly, but even she wasn’t immune to the older male’s closeness as he studied her with those doe brown eyes. Not trusting her voice, she put her hand on the back of her head. Gods, what was wrong with her? She’d never been one to get flustered by the nearness of a male like this, yet here she was all tongue-tied when yet another of the Stormwing brothers stood too close.

She tensed as his fingers slid into her hair. His touch was clinical as he probed around the back of her head, finding, and then slowly pressing on the bump. She let out a hiss as the pain shot through her again. His eyes returned to hers and his unflinching examination made Keena’s cheeks grow warm. His gaze searched her face intently, eyes squinting in the dim light of the cabin. Without a word, he left her side for the nearby kitchen counter, rummaging through a drawer before coming back.

He held something in his hand, fiddling with it for a moment. It was long and silver with a tiny bulb of glass at the end. Keena knew it was something called a flashlight. 

A few years ago, before Zeus closed most of the gates, a special team of rebel soldiers had gone through the Veil to the human realm to gather supplies. This had come after an exceptionally bad growing season, so devastating even the Naturae Fae hadn’t been able to protect the crops.

Along with large quantities of food, the team of soldiers had come back with medical supplies and medicines that weren’t available in Daearen. Keena could still remember how perplexed and awed the children had been by some items the soldiers had scavenged, like this flashlight. They were told it was a human form of magic, allowing those who didn’t have access to another source of light to still see in dark spaces. 

Bly pressed the button that got the light flooding out through the glass bulb and held it up to Keena’s face, his lips a breath away as he watched her pupils intently. He had learned to search for signs of concussion at an early age because Adriel kept climbing trees and falling out of them. For a few months, he’d been determined that he was going to learn how to fly. Like Keena. 

Keena held her breath as the overwhelming smell of liquor on Bly’s breath burned her nostrils. He whistled softly and pulled away. Keena watched as Adriel’s fingers tightened on his leg.

“Well?” Adriel asked impatiently.

Bly didn’t respond right away. He put the flashlight back in the drawer, his movements unhurried, before he turned back to them. “Those green eyes of yours sure are magnificent.”

Adriel growled at his brother in a warning. She noticed his hand shift around her and wondered if it was out of protectiveness—Bly got carried away with the flirting once he got started—or possessiveness. The mere implication made her skin heat up again. 

Adriel was too focused on his brother to notice. Or at least she hoped so.

“Don’t even go there,” Adriel warned.

Bly smirked. “Relax. She got knocked pretty good, but I don’t see any sign of concussion.” He took a swig of Keena’s tea and grimaced. “Gods, Adriel. Didn’t you put any honey or lemon in this piss?”

Keena could hear Adriel grind his teeth. Calmly she reached up and took the cup from Bly, taking a deep bitter gulp of the tea, not taking her eyes off Adriel’s brother, schooling her features into an even expression. When she finished, she put the cup down and tilted her head to the side, resisting the urge to flinch as pain shot up her neck and into the base of her skull.

She gave Bly a smug look. “Tastes fine to me.”

Bly frowned. “Maybe you did knock something loose.” He reached to examine the back of Keena’s head again.

Adriel smacked his brother’s hand away, the tension rising in the room as both stared at each other. Bly broke first, a toothy broad grin breaking out across his face that made Keena wonder exactly why Bly was so adamantly flirting with her. It seemed to her as though he was trying to get a rise out of Adriel on purpose. Like he was teasing him.

Keena’s heart sped up, unsure of how to process the implications of it. Did Adriel not want Bly flirting with her because he didn’t want her to fall for his brother’s antics and get herself hurt, or because he didn’t want her to fall for anyone’s antics period? Was it a friend looking out for a friend, or could it be jealousy? Her heart did a flip in her chest.

Why had she finished the tea?

She looked for the cup, thinking she should ask for a refill to break whatever standoff was happening between the two brothers, but Bly broke it for her.

 “Message received,” he said. “I’m going to bed.” Bly’s words were light, but as he turned away Keena saw him frown, a distant look on his face. “You know,” he added, stopping to turn back to them. “Nova should be back with the next batch of younglings anytime now. You better not let her catch you two like that, or she’ll turn you into barbequed dog meat, Adriel.” 

Bly gave his brother a meaningful smile and disappeared into a room in the back of the cabin.

Keena had to bite back her protest when Adriel took his brother’s warning to heart and shifted away from her, his hands hovering to make sure she’d be steady on her own. Despite being unhappy about losing her comfortable spot nestled against him, Bly wasn’t wrong. Nova was incredibly protective of her younger sister. She’d been chasing away boys that so much as dared to bat an eyelash at Keena for years. 

Not that it had ever been necessary. Keena wasn’t interested. Something about living in hiding and Morrigan’s dogged pursuit of the people opposed to her rule didn’t exactly whisper “romantic” to Keena. She had no desire to settle down and have a litter of children, only to ship them off to a different realm so they too could learn to become fighters. The thought made her nauseous.

“You okay?” Adriel asked. The disruption in her musings brought her back to his concerned face.

“Yeah, why?”

“You looked like you were getting sick.”

“I think I just drank the tea too fast.” She held up a finger, stopping the apology before it could leave his lips. “It’s fine,” she insisted.

He slumped back, relieved, fiddling with the cup Keena had set on the table, careful not to meet her gaze. “I went to see Ren.”

“Me too. Maeve wouldn’t let me in.”

“Me neither,” Adriel said.

Keena nodded slowly, grateful that it didn’t make her head hurt quite as badly as a minute ago. “I left some flowers,” she offered. Adriel cocked an eyebrow and Keena smiled. “I picked them in mine and Ren’s spot. You know the place.” A smile quirked his mouth and she couldn’t keep her smile from widening. “Shut up. I can be sentimental when I want to be.”

“Interesting,” he said slowly, placing a hand by his chin as though he were trying to discern some deeper meaning. She didn’t do innuendo, he knew that.

She slapped him on the arm and finally he laughed, breaking that odd tension that kept cording itself through her limbs.

Adriel grew serious, saying, “Maeve told me Ren hasn’t come out of fox form. And Maeve was hoping you’d stop by again. Maybe talk to her. I think she regretted not letting you in earlier. She doesn’t think Ren should go to the… funeral rite in that state because it might make people...”

“What? Uncomfortable?” Keena asked.

“It’s Maeve’s words, not mine,” Adriel defended, but Keena got off the table with a soft huff of annoyance.

“I think she should go in whatever form is more comfortable for her. It requires no magical effort for her to maintain her fox state. It does, however, require a great deal of effort for her to maintain her other form. Gods! Doesn’t that matter to Maeve?” Keena snapped.

Adriel’s voice was calm as he dipped his head to look at Keena. “I think it just unnerves her. It signals to her that Ren isn’t quite herself.”

 “Of course she isn’t! So, should it even be about Maeve’s feelings at this point? I mean, if we’re going to talk about nerves, let’s talk about what kind of nerve it takes to think you have the right to—” Long warm fingers spreading over her hand cut Keena’s rant off. She looked down, Adriel’s fingers splaying over hers, lacing their hands together for a moment and then squeezing.

“Keena, she lost her twin brother. She’s carrying her own grief as well as Ren’s and you know she puts Ren first. It’s not that she doesn’t think Ren should express her grief in whatever way is best for her. It’s that she wants Ren to be okay, or at least have some sliver of hope that she will be. Right now… Ren seems lost to her.” His tone was soft, sliding along Keena’s raw nerves, easing some of the anger etched in them. She looked at Adriel, who was smiling softly at her. She let out a sigh. He was right.

“You’re cute when you get all worked up,” he said, then sucked on his lips, like he hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

The swirl of feelings that rushed through Keena was both heady and infuriating. The warmth spread over her won out and she could feel herself deflate slowly. She hated when he did that, but it was those sweet, unintentional confessions that had an effect on her that was like taking the wind out of a sail, rendering her anger dead in the water.

“Madra duhb, black dog,” Keena hissed in Gaelic.

Adriel knew there was no heat in her tone. “Mac Tíre duhb, Black wolf, actually.”

His smile sent her heart scattering like horse hooves over smooth ground, rubbing her nerves raw. She needed to get out of here before she said something stupid.

Keena laughed, hiding her wince as her body protested in pain. “Alright, let’s go see Ren. I will not encourage her to transform back, but I will at least try to get her to eat something. Maybe we can stop by Enid’s and see if she has any of her tamales. Ren can never turn them down.”

“Mhm, with some of that cornbread cake she makes,” Adriel said.

Keena snickered. She was sure if he were in his wolf form, his tail would be wagging furiously. Adriel was always hungry. At the rate he was growing, she wasn’t surprised.

 “Come on, you bottomless pit, let’s go get her some food. We know she can’t resist.”

Adriel was out the door before she could finish her sentence. 

Figures, she thought, closing the door to the cabin.

*

The market was small, with tiny little booths set up all along the square with several more neatly set up inside the perimeter, creating tidy, narrow aisles for passers-by to walk through. Dwarves standing in front of a booth with their metal goods called out to anyone passing by, holding up jewelry and weapons alike to showcase their skill. Elves, laying out extraordinary fabrics and garments, light as air but as warm as animal fur to ward off the chill of winter clinging to the tails of spring. The aromas of herbs and hearty, warm foods lifting on the wind and filled the market, blanketing it and Mina’s citizens with a warm comforting hug.

Some of the coven witches sat behind the counter of their booth, the line reaching back and wrapping around the market as people came from all over the village to get things like healing poultice and potions for themselves. 

Outside of celestial beings, witches were the only magic wielders Keena knew of who could use magic as they needed, as long as they stayed within the confines of the natural order. This was why the witches always had an abundance of totems, runes, spells, and potions at their disposal. These tools allowed them to be unrestricted in their magic work. As long as they respected the magic they wielded, their contract to Danu would forever allow them this freedom.

Keena’s heart contracted. Longing shooting through her as she eyed the herbs and poultices displayed with care on the stand. Racks of dried herbs hung neatly behind the witches like a curtain. She’d spent years at Enid’s hip, learning the name of each plant, of their medicinal purpose, potency, and dose. A familiar tug of war played inside of Keena. The longing to be a healer and the duty that called her to be a warrior instead. 

Brenna, one of Enid’s most talented coven members, looked stern as a customer leaned over the booth. Keena had known the talented witch since she was old enough to sneak away from her mother’s watchful gaze to explore all the ingredients and ready-mixed medicinals in the coven’s apothecary. 

The customer was Kishi—one of a mere handful of hyena shifters that had settled in Mina—and his voice was growing in pitch. Keena’s brows furrowed, but when Adriel took a step forward to intervene, she placed a hand on his arm and stopped him. 

“Go get our food,” she said. “I’ll be there in a second.” She didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the booth.

“You’re still sore,” he remarked.

“Mind over muscle, my friend,” she replied, waving him on dismissively. 

If it came to blows, she could tell the Kishi would be an easy match. But she could also tell that it most likely wouldn’t go that far since the man had the shape and cut of a coward. She edged closer to the booth, straining to pick up the conversation. She couldn’t hear the words being exchanged, but the body language was shouting out the growing tension between the two. Brenna pushed her tightly braided hair away from her face, her black skin gleaming in the afternoon sun. Her green and brown hazel eyes fixed on the man leaning over her without flinching.

Finally, Keena was close enough to hear.

“I know for a fact you lot have a spell for that,” the man said. His lips pulled back in an annoyed snarl as he leaned over the booth’s table. 

“Sir. You’ve been here every day for a week now and every day I’ve told you the same thing. We don’t make love potions.” Brenna’s voice was calm, but Keena could tell she was unsettled. The witch had the means to defend herself but would lose the covens booth in the market if she resorted to violence. She was painted into a corner.

The man’s face contorted, his skin turning pink. “You said you don’t—not that you can’t.”

When Brenna smiled, the expression was cold, her white teeth flashing against her skin, her eyes flickering, “Correct,” she said.

“And I’m telling you to make it.” The man slammed his hands on the booth.

“Oy,” Keena finally interrupted, smiling when the man looked up at her, startled. “I believe she already gave you an answer.”

“Mind your business.” The man pushed his stringy gray hair out of his face, a contemptuous leer in his orange-red eyes.

“No,” Keena said simply, rewarded when he looked at her, surprised.

The man’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing at her. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you it’s rude to butt into other people’s business?”

Keena’s smile broadened. “Sure did. They also taught me it’s repulsive and deplorable for a grown man to bully a young woman when he doesn’t get his way. I’d rather be rude than repulsive and deplorable.” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Why you little—” The man raised his arm to strike, but Keena met the strike, catching his wrist in a hold that told him she had no booth to lose and the training to make him look like the arse that he was.

She fought the surge of adrenaline that kicked through her veins, urging her blood to slow.

“Gee, it’s a wonder why whichever lady you’ve been interested in doesn’t seem to return the sentiment,” Keena said, rolling the man’s hand to the side.

He growled at her, and she saw him clench his fist. She didn’t mean to but for, just a second, her mind linked with his and she could see exactly how he planned on using that fist on her, how he would then shift into hyena form, expecting to get the upper hand that way. If he shifted in the market, he would go before the Council and yet he didn’t seem to care. She saw the broken pieces within, the fear he still carried after his flight from the Mother Tree, his relief at finding a place in Mina. His loneliness.

He didn’t need a love potion—he needed comfort. But he had to realize it for himself.

Her gaze hardened in warning. “I was about to let you go with only a few choice words, but if you follow through on what you’re currently planning, I will knock you on your wrinkly old butt without hesitation.”

She let go of his wrist as the man gaped at her, flexing his hand until it fell slackly at his side. She reached for one of the small linen bags sitting on the table, smelling it briefly before handing it to him.

“This is arrowroot,” she said. “It will help calm those nightmares.”

He stared at her, accepting the bag as she handed the small satchel of coins that he’d already left on the table over to Brenna. Keena didn’t need the man to ask how she knew he was having nightmares or how she had predicted what he was planning, but she needn’t have worried. He was speechless, still gaping as he stepped away from her.

“And maybe stop harassing women before the Council gets wind of it?” Keena called after him as he walked away. When he turned to look at her over his shoulder, she waved and smiled. “Have a nice day.”

“Thanks,” Brenna said, a relieved smile brightening her hazel eyes. 

Keena returned it.

“You should report him,” Keena said. “Just to be on the safe side.”

“I have,” Brenna assured. “To Enid. I’m sure she’ll pay him a visit.”

Keena chuckled. “I almost feel sorry for him.”

Brenna cocked an eyebrow, and both women laughed as there was a gleeful acknowledgement of exactly the type of stern talking to the Kishi was about to receive from the head witch of Brenna’s coven. Enid was a phenomenal cook but when she wasn’t doling out portions of mouth-watering treats, she was just as effective at serving dire warnings and keeping the entire community in check.

“Where is Enid anyway?” Keena asked.

“She rode out to meet the raiding party,” Brenna said. “In case there is anyone following them, or they run into any more trouble on the way back. After what happened… She was concerned. She thought they might welcome the backup.”

Keena swallowed, only able to nod her agreement. 

Adriel was waiting patiently in line for their food, his eyes watching her across the market with a quiet burning intensity. To the outside observer, his posture looked relaxed, but Keena could see the muscle in his jaw twitching when she got near and the way his muscles were chorded tightly as though poised for a fight.

Keena left Brenna to walk over to him, putting a hand on the young wolf’s arm once she reached him. “I had it.”

His brows knit together when he looked at her, but she could feel the tension seep from his muscles as they relaxed under her fingers.

 His tone was husky as he looked at her. “You know, for someone who doesn’t enjoy fighting, I can’t help but notice a pattern.”

“I may not enjoy fighting, but I enjoy bullying even less,” Keena said.

Adriel’s one eyebrow arched as he studied her. “What did he want?” Adriel asked.

Keena snorted. “A love potion.”

A smile broke free of Adriel’s control. “You’re joking.”

“Not even remotely.”

Adriel let out a laugh that started in his belly and traveled up his chest. The sound was rich, calling from Keena an accompanying laugh. The sound was musical and filled the market, making the people around them smile in return.

With food in hand, the pair turned down the street, working their way towards Ren’s house.

Her smile vanished, the reality around them wiping her light mood away.

She felt bad for laughing, smiling in the market with Adriel. It felt… wrong to find joy in these small moments with him. How could she find joy in anything when her friend was in so much pain? Guilt settled over her like fog, weighing down her body, slowing her pace. 

A loud blare from one of the large animal horns fixed to the entrance gate cut through the air, making the pair turn towards it. It wasn’t the warning horn, nor was it the normal blaring sound of greeting that usually accompanied the returning raiders. This was a special horn. One that signaled another kind of return. 

A smile split Keena’s face despite her previous guilt. She handed her food over to Adriel before she reached out to the air and wind to lift her off the ground. The following moment she was careening through the air towards the gates, swift and light, eager to greet her elder sister and welcome her back home.

Helmer expounded a pained exhale as the heat of a foot connecting with his chest exploded between his ribs. His older brother Andre’s kick had been delivered unexpectedly, and too swiftly, for Helmer to avoid it. Slowly, his vision cleared, and he looked up at Andre, careful to keep the contempt he felt off his face.

They were in the large storeroom in the basement of their father’s mansion, sunlight breaking through a row of small windows along the ceiling, falling across sacks of flour and dried food, deceptively peacefully. Tidy shelves lined the wooden walls, which were decorated with veins of black creeping up the timber beams. The plaster that laid between them cracked and peeling as the Mother Tree of Keinuka had begun to decay and rot from the inside. 

Andre’s lips pulled back in a contemptuous snarl. “Get up, you worthless pile of shit.” 

Helmer hated Andre. He was a contemptuous peacock and the carbon copy of their father—from his smug grin down to the core of his black soul. The second son of Cruor Borrowmag, Andre embodied everything their father thought a Kishi should be. Helmer didn’t believe that the Kishi were inherently evil, that was just the specific brand of psychotic his father prescribed to. Helmer didn’t believe it because he was Kishi, and he knew he wasn’t evil. Andre…

Andre was a Morrigan fanatic. Where their father had fought by her side in the days of the Uprisings because he had believed it to be the only way to save Daearen from itself, Andre followed her because they could all see what she really was: a reckoning for anyone who opposed them. Helmer scoffed internally. That lady was a few ingredients short of a full spell. And so was his elder brother.

His eyes took in the cracking of the wood ceiling and almost snorted. He could feel the same dry wood beneath his makeshift bed on the ground, chunks breaking free, rising, digging into his back through his thin bedding. The state of the Mother Tree was a great example of how well the queen’s plan was going. If you believed the quiet whispers of the Wenronian slaves, the Mother Tree had only started the long, drawn-out process of death because the raven queen had arrived.

Helmer caught Andre’s foot before it landed on him again. He fought the urge to give a hard jerk. It would be satisfying to watch Andre flail and fall flat on his ass, but Helmer knew that would only bring a flogging. Andre was relentless and excessive with the flogger with his worthless, magicless youngest brother. Helmer’s back was still healing from their last tangle.

Andre growled and leaned forward, his dark brown skin melting away slowly to reveal his true face. His mouth gave way to sharp snapping jaws covered in softly spotted brown and tawny-colored fur. The Kishi were shifters. To the public, they wore a mask so beautiful that it could rival the gods themselves. But when they no longer needed to keep up the pretense of beauty, their masks would melt away to reveal the face of a hyena. Gnashing teeth, snapping and deadly. This true face was the last thing their prey ever saw.

“Enough,” a voice said coolly from the doorway, the single word clipped with icy control. There was no anger in it, but the command was unquestionable. 

Helmer turned his head to see Barret, his oldest brother, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms loosely crossed. There was no emotion on his face as he looked at Andre. He looked bored, but his eyes glimmered like orange, blood-red beacons, daring Andre to challenge him. His dark brown skin glittered in the sun like someone had dipped him in gold dust.

“I said to get him up. I didn’t say to eat him,” Barrett remarked, keeping his tone light.

Andre stood, dusting off his trousers. “I was just reminding him of the pecking order. A worthless hollow piece of garbage like him can’t forget his place. Maybe he’ll remember to get up and have breakfast ready if I take a bite or two out of him.”

Barret’s retort was delicate like the first frost as he eyed down his younger brother. “I think you’ve proven over the years that you know better than to cause any lasting marks. Stop making empty threats. It’s pathetic.” Andre tensed as though wanting to retort, but Barret took his eyes out of his to inspect the cuff of his clean, pressed shirt as he finished, “You ought to go wash for breakfast. I can smell you from here.”

Andre’s mouth had fallen open with the unexpressed argument, but when Andre didn’t follow Barret’s instructions, he once more locked eyes with the second son. There were no words exchanged, but Andre’s mouth closed with an audible click. He stalked toward the door, half-obscured by Barret’s broad frame, and was about to push past his brother when Barret’s arm shot out, stopping him. Andre looked at him, his eyes widening.

“If you hunt in the city walls again, I will kill you myself. Father had to pay off the guards after the stunt you pulled last night,” Barret said. His tone was even more dangerous for its soft nature.

Andre ground his teeth, disliking the humiliation of being told off, but nodded as acknowledgement of how he had fucked up most seriously. Ducking under Barret’s arm, he left the room in thickening silence.

The beatings were getting worse. There had been a time when Andre would only attack once or twice a year, then perhaps a handful of instances would occur where Barrett had to intervene, but now it was weekly. There was a frustration in Andre that he seemed to have no other outlet for, as though Helmer breathing the same air was an affront to him. Andre blamed his violence on the fact that Helmer was a hollow, but Helmer had always wondered if it was as simple as that. If there wasn’t some deeper reason that neither Helmer nor Barrett, and perhaps not even Andre, could get at. 

There was no point dwelling on it. Helmer had enough to deal with, nursing the bruises Andre kept giving him. He pushed to a sit. Watching as Barret let out a slow breath. As the oldest son, it was his job to keep all thirty of their father’s sons in line. If Andre had been reckless enough to feed inside the city last night, that would not look good on the family.

Helmer frowned as he scented a faint trace of blood on the air, Barret’s gaze meeting his. Helmer sighed. Of course, their father would have lashed Barret for Andre’s transgressions. Morrigan was here for her biannual inspection, which meant that anything the sons did while the city was under her watchful eye would reflect poorly on the family. And their father. Though Helmer didn’t care that this dishonor could mean the depletion of the senior Borrowmag’s power within Morrigan’s army, of which he was the general, Helmer cared that any loss of power might result in deadly repercussions for the Borrowmag clan as a whole. Morrigan valued the life of the Sidhe she ruled, but only as far as their loyalty lay. Breaking her laws signaled a lack of loyalty that she had rarely shown mercy for.

Helmer had seen the brands on the cheeks of the Wenronian’s that had not escaped Morrigan. Witnessed how the other citizens treated them. A cold shudder ran down his spine. There were dogs in Keinuka that were treated kinder than those Morrigan branded traitors to her cause. Death would surely be the more desirable outcome. 

Helmer got to his feet. “Come on.”

Barret looked at him with narrowed eyes.

He gave Barret a tentative glance. “At this rate, you’re going to bleed through your perfectly pressed shirt. How many lashings?” he asked.

Barret paused, weighing something. “Thirty. One for each of his no-good sons,” he finally admonished.

Helmer huffed a sardonic laugh. “Oh, what mercy.”

Barret chuckled. “That’s our father alright—the master of mercy.”

Helmer grunted in answer. 

Tucked in one corner of the large storage space was a decent-sized pantry. He headed for it as Barret stepped into the room. The pantry was where Helmer slept, his blanket rolled up and tucked to the side to keep anyone from tripping over it during the hectic pace of the day. He’d hidden a first-aid kit behind the bags of flour since he’d been in need of it lately and he liked to keep it where he knew Andre wouldn’t even think to search for it. 

He said nothing as he helped Barret out of his shirt, careful not to bump the red angry gashes that covered the man’s back. The fact that Cruor had turned the flesh into a canvas of ground beef did not faze him. It was the normal way of things in the house of Borrowmag.

Still, once Helmer completely removed Barret’s shirt and he could survey the full extent of the damage, he let out a soft whistle. “Realms. He did a number on you this time.”

Barret laughed. It was a humorless sound. He scrubbed a hand over his bald head as he let his fatigue show.

Barret’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, he was in particularly fine form today. I guess one of Morrigan’s witches was in the pub yesterday. He had her cast stones, to see about the newest addition to his ‘army’.” 

Barret’s shoulders flexed involuntarily as Helmer set to washing off Barret’s mutilated back, the elder letting out a soft hissing breath.

Helmer flinched, stopping his movements. “Sorry.” Barret shook his head. There was no need for apologies. Helmer got back to the task at hand, slowing his movements as he squeezed water over the wounds. “I’m assuming the casting didn’t turn out the way he wanted. Let me guess, the witch said all he’d get for his pet project was another magicless hollow like me,” Helmer said dryly.

Barret’s voice was thick with emotion. “No, I think at this point he’d take that instead. He’s half tempted to kill Anita now and save himself the trouble of waiting.”

Helmer froze at this revelation. 

Their newest stepmother, Anita, was heavily pregnant and due any day with the thirty-second member of the Borrowmag clan. Their father had dubbed the line of living sons the army a few years back, and Helmer held little doubt that their father wouldn’t hesitate to use his sons as just that if fortunes ever turned in his favor. For now, however, Cruor had to contend with the fact that a son hadn’t been born to him in seventeen years. seventeen years where he had gone through as many wives bearing him nothing but the one thing worse than a hollow: a daughter. 

Helmer had only witnessed it once in all the pregnancies that had followed his own birth, what Cruor Borrowmag did with daughters born living to his line, and the memory had haunted his every waking moment since.

Helmer had held the small child for only a second, but it branded her beautiful eyes and dark brown skin in his memory. Every detail, every eyelash, absolutely perfect down to the fat little fingers waving in furious fists in the air, would remain with him for the rest of his life. She had grasped his finger just moments before Cruor had grabbed her from Helmer’s arms.

Helmer closed his eyes, willing the memory of what came next from his mind. The pain was still fresh, like acid being poured over his skin and having his heart ripped out of his chest all at the same time. Most days he willed himself not to think about it, but when he fell asleep, even now it would visit him in his nightmares.

“A girl.” The word whooshed out of him like a blow.

His older brother nodded.

Barret growled, the sound low and vicious. “He’s such a bastard.” 

Helmer’s hands stilled in the process of grabbing a little pot of salve from his kit. He’d never heard the exalted first son say something so harsh about their father out loud. Amongst the sons, love was not the bond that kept their clan tied together, but no one ever spoke about it. Helmer could sense the tension running through Barret like he was a string pulled tight, his loathing for their father vibrating off him like a low, dulcet note. 

Helmer wasn’t sure whether he should make a comment of his own. This was unfamiliar territory, and he didn’t want to overstep. He decided it was better to keep quiet, patting the salve onto Barret’s back gingerly.

After he’d bandaged the wounds, Helmer fished out an extra shirt from a stash he had hidden behind the racks of food towards the back of the room. He gave it a stiff shake and handed it to Barret. His older brother nodded at him, a crooked smile on his mouth.

“Thanks,” Barret said.

“No problem. Will you come with me to the kitchens and tell Marissa why I’ve just lost about an hour’s worth of work?” Helmer asked, though Barret could tell the question wasn’t in earnest.

Marissa would never scold Helmer, no matter what he did. She had expressed on more than one occasion how she felt he didn’t deserve to be relegated to the serving staff simply because he had no magic. He was still a son of the house and Cruor should rot for treating him as anything less than that. Helmer had always calmed her, told her there was nowhere he would rather spend time than in the kitchen with her as a teacher. He could make an atole that was almost as tasty as hers.

He liked Marissa. Closer to Barret’s age, she was fun to work with her quick humor and a sharp tongue. She’d taught him everything he knew about dressing wounds. He also found her fascinating.

She was a Naturea Fae, an earth fairy. Most of the Naturea that couldn’t flee Keinuka when Morrigan defeated the Wenronian army had been reassigned as healers, kitchen staff, or farmers. That was, unless the awen scan revealed them as particularly powerful. They sent those Fae to the farms. The ultimate selfless sacrifice, according to Morrigan.

His fondest memory from his childhood was watching her strawberry blonde hair shimmer in the light that cascaded in from the kitchen window as she flitted around like a butterfly. He’d itched to sketch her. Wanting nothing more than to capture how the light played on her hair and shimmered as she moved. But drawing wasn’t a manly way to occupy one’s time in the Borrowmag household. So, he never did.

He guessed it’s a good thing no one ever looked under his bedroll in the storeroom where a rough bound book filled with drawings of the world around him hid. That would earn him a hell of a beating, for sure.

Helmer shared a smile with his brother, but as he was about to head for the door, Barret caught his shoulder, anchoring him in place. Helmer’s eyes widened at his older brother’s intense expression, a dark streak in his golden eyes Helmer had never seen before.

“Be ready,” Barret instructed cryptically.

Saying no more, he turned, fastening the last button on his collar as he walked out of the storeroom. What the hell did he mean to be ready? Ready for what? Anxiety slammed through him like loose rocks as he tried to dissect the statement.

He got no more time than it took to walk from the storeroom to the kitchen before plates of food were shoved into his hands.

Marissa took him off guard by being in a foul mood, affording him a glare as she scolded him, saying, “Took you long enough.” 

“What’s this? Breakfast is long over,” he said, trying to keep his stomach from growling at the smell of fried gristle and peckwing eggs. 

“Apparently, Anita had a rough morning. They postponed breakfast due to it,” Marissa said. “Virgil is out with the pecking birds and the rest are scouring the place from roof to basement today, so serving their lordships is entirely on you. You okay?”

The irritation lingered, the stress with it, and yet she wanted to make sure his lateness didn’t have to do with any harm coming to him. It was so typical of her that the care somewhat made up for the bruises left by his brother’s boot.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

“Aye? Then don’t be late again,” she said, but a smile crept over her face. “Now hop to it before your father comes in here barking at me again.”

Helmer didn’t need to be told twice. He left the kitchen, walking through the hallway to the dining room, balancing several steaming trays of food on his thick forearms. 

At seventeen, Helmer had built most of his bulk from taking on the more demanding tasks of acting as a house servant. This meant that his academy-raised and lean-muscled brothers looked like house pets next to him. Their father often encouraged the violence that occurred between his sons, believing that this would make capable men out of them. Aside from Andre and Israh, the third son in line, Helmer’s imposing size had kept the rest of his older brothers at bay more than once. 

Today, the clan was on their best behavior in front of their newest stepmother. Since Helmer’s birth, Cruor had taken on upwards of five wives at once and still his line of sons did not grow. 

Cursed the whispers around the house had said. No living son would be born to Cruor Borrowmag, they would say. 

It didn’t matter whether Anita gave birth to a son or a daughter, her outcome would be the same as the other wives, regardless.

As soon as the child passed from her body, Cruor Borrowmag would devour her. 

She would never even lay eyes on her child. 

Her screams would mix with the screeching yowls of her child’s first breaths. This tradition had grown even more gruesome over the last few years as the gap grew between Helmer and any other male children born to Cruor.

Their father had only ever failed to keep this tradition twice. His own failure was also his greatest explanation of why Helmer was such a soft and useless specimen of his line. A stain on the Borrowmag name. Helmer had been born while Cruor was away on a campaign to secure the west coast of Abya Yula. His mother had fled the city before she’d gone into labor, evading capture for nearly a year.

That was, of course, until Cruor had returned to the Mother Tree. 

Helmer didn’t even want to think about the lashing that Barret must have gotten after he failed to recapture the fanciful woman who had birthed Cruor’s youngest into this world, not to mention how he had also failed to bring said youngest back to the castle.

Helmer didn’t remember his mother, but sometimes when the house was quiet, he imagined he heard her voice, crooning to him tucked safely in her arms. He wondered what that had felt like. To be loved so much that she had risked her life to protect him.

Barret was the only other son who’d not taken his first breaths as his mother took her last. The rumor was that their father had been in love with Barret’s mother. He’d snuck away with the girl and started a life in the wild northern regions above Dione Mait, the Fae realm of the east. Cruor’s father had hunted them down and taken care of the embarrassing spectacle.

That day, three people had died. Barret’s mother, Cruor’s father, and the soul of the patriarch, that now sat at the head of the family table. Barret had never talked about it. Helmer had mistakenly asked his older brother about it once when he was just a child. The oldest Borrowmag son had held a blade against Helmer’s tiny throat and told him he’d slit him from ear to ear if he ever asked about it again. Helmer had never repeated the mistake.

Helmer placed his father’s plate down in front of the man, being careful not to look into his eyes.

“So, Anita, have you decided on a name yet?” Israh asked.

Helmer’s third oldest brother was tall and thin. Unlike Helmer and Barret, Israh’s eyes were a brilliant blue, his skin several shades lighter than most of his brothers’. Full lips pulled back in a toothy grin that transformed his face. To anyone casually looking at the third son, they would have found the smile warm and gentle. He wasn’t as loud as many of the brothers, but despite the softness of his voice, it lifted clearly above the noise of the unruly group of boys.

She glanced at him briefly; her face turning pink. “I thought Talon would be a nice name.” 

She refused to look Israh in the eye, her cheeks flushing. 

The sons could not take mates, but that didn’t mean that Cruor didn’t use his sons to lure young women into his clutches. Israh had done just that when he’d convinced an ignorant young Anita back to their home a year ago. The moment she set foot in the mansion, their father had sprung the trap, taking the young girl for his own. After the women were pregnant, Cruor didn’t care what his sons did with her as long as no harm came to his seed. 

Helmer felt sick. Anita didn’t stay for their father, she stayed for Israh. 

Someone probably convinced her that Israh, that soul-sucking bottom feeder, would take her away from there any day. She had to, otherwise what else would explain why she hadn’t run?

None of the people in Keinuka knew exactly what happened to the wives, but it took little speculation. Women would come in and never leave. Babies were born, and yet no mothers or children emerged from the birthing bed. Because of Cruor’s standing in the community—the Borrowmags was one of the oldest families in Keinuka—and because of his affiliation with Morrigan, everyone turned a blind eye.

Helmer didn’t wait around to hear the rest of the conversation. Without a sound, he bowed out, turning back to the kitchen to get more food.

***

Just as quickly as Helmer had served the meal, he was returning to scoop empty plates up to take back to the kitchen. He leaned to grab his father’s plate, only to have the Senior Borrowmag grab him with fingers of steel. Helmer looked up at his father with wide eyes.

“What do you say, Helmer?” 

Helmer fought the panic rising in his chest. “About what, sir? I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t listening to your conversation.”

His throat tightened around the words. They were automatic and well-practiced, but saying them always brought a bout of nausea.

Cruor grinned. “That a’ boy. Finally, learning.” 

Cruor leaned back in his chair, taking a bone off the plate Helmer still held in front of him, using the thinner end to pick scraps of meat from between his teeth.

Cruor was older in appearance than his sons, but his dark chocolate skin and brilliant eyes, thick muscular build, and tall stature made him look like a bronzed god. Hyena spots peppered his temples, fading into the clean skin of his scalp like tattoos.

Cruor’s tone was so casual he could have been discussing the weather. “We were deliberating over what we should do if the little screamer she’s carrying is a girl.”

“I-I don’t k-know, sir,” Helmer ground out, throat swelling around his words.

Blood drained from his face as he stole a look at Anita. Her bright blue eyes looked desperate, massive, as she looked at his father.

Anita’s voice pitched in panic. “No! Cruor, no! I’m sure the baby is a boy!” 

His smile was sickly sweet and terrifying as anger seethed behind their golden orange depths. It would not surprise Helmer if his head started spinning in a full circle by the way he turned it to his wife.

“Is that so? How can you be so sure, wife?” he asked, lips wrapping around the last word like a snake around its prey.

She swept her gaze to her lap where her hands folded protectively together so tight her knuckles went white. “The child is strong, not feeble like us females.” 

As though to illustrate her point, her swollen belly gave a heave as the life inside it bucked and kicked against Anita’s skin. She looked up at Cruor with a shaky smile, trying to mask the lingering desperation. She must have thought she would be different. Perhaps even that she was under Israh’s protection.

Anita caressed the mound of her stomach. “See? He agrees.” 

“We shall see,” Cruor said. His crooning tone fooled no one, his body was chorded tight, ever the predator getting ready to spring. He turned his attention back to Helmer. “Out.”

Gladly, Helmer thought as he hastened back to the kitchen. 

Entering through the swinging doors, he ran smack dab into Andre’s back and, though he backed up quickly, he caught sight of Marissa cowering on the other side of his menace of a brother, trapped between Andre and the counter.

Helmer let out a growl before he could think better of it. “You think that’s smart?” 

Andre whistled, turning around. “Oh-hoo, look who grew a pair.” 

Helmer wasn’t happy about having to draw his brother’s attention, but there was satisfaction in seeing Marissa moving out of Andre’s reach. Helmer didn’t look at her, eyes locked on Andre’s. They were the same height and breadth, but where Helmer would usually cower since, despite what Andre thought, he knew his place and was well aware of how easily Cruor would turn him away if he didn’t adhere to it, this time he stood his ground.

“I mean, is it smart?” he heard himself say. “Sounded to me like you’re on a tight leash after whatever stunt you pulled in the streets. Did you actually go hunting?” He tutted, shaking his head to punctuate his point. 

He didn’t see his brother move, but he knew it was coming as the older man swung on him. Pain erupted over Helmer’s face as Andre’s hand collided with his cheek, making stars explode in his vision.

“Self-righteous little prick.” Andre stalked out of the kitchen.

“That was stupid,” Marissa said.

“Yeah, made him leave, though.” 

Helmer rubbed his jaw. His smile was wry, the welt left behind puckering his skin, a bruise already forming where Andre had hit him. It wouldn’t last ten minutes. He might not have magic, but at least Kishi were blessed with quick healing.

“You’re lucky that’s all he did,” Marissa said. “Thanks, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.”

Helmer’s eyes narrowed. “No, I suppose I didn’t,” he said nonchalantly, though of course there had been no other choice to be made. He knew she could read it in the tone of his voice, making a smile light up her eyes with her gratitude.

She didn’t know all he suffered from Andre, but she knew enough.

After cleaning up from breakfast, and once Helmer could be confident Andre wasn’t coming back, he took the shopping list from Marissa. Accepting the small satchel of coins she held out for him, he headed out the back door, turning towards the market. 

Suddenly there was a sharp pain in the back of his skull, rough hands wrapping around his arms.

“Where do you want to take him?” 

Israh’s voice. Then Andre was leaning down to look Helmer in the eye, replying, “Down the alley, we wouldn’t want to get blood anywhere Father or Barret can see. Like this little meat sack pointed out, they won’t put up with any of my antics today.”

Israh groaned. “Gods, we feed him too much.” 

“Yeah, maybe I’ll break your jaw, so you have to eat through a straw for a while.”

Helmer, too dazed to respond, the pain in the back of his head throbbing with every heartbeat. Good thing is, at least I know it’s still beating. That blessing would twist into a curse after Andre got ahold of him..