Page 3 of The Mortal Queen

So, Aisling approached the axe on the right, a weapon whose hilt was pressed with mild indentations from ages of being gripped by the same hands.

The princess’s stomach fluttered as her eyes met the fae king’s. Despite the veil, he watched her, an invisible tether tangling between them, growing tauter the longer he stared. His eyes narrowed as she neared the axe on the right. There was a flicker of something—dread? Surprise?—flashing across his emerald eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving his expression a solid wall of ice. Nothing that revealed the nature of Aisling’s soon-to-be choice.

She swallowed, ignoring the mortal whispers clouding behind her. They knew as little as she, but they could make their own guesses. By the sound of their hushed protests, Aisling knew they believed her to be wrong. That her instinct was misguiding her. For now, she was standing before the axe on the right, her hand hovering over the pommel. The oldest, most ancient among them. Aged and certainly not fit for a king.

Aisling met the fae king’s eyes and placed her hand on the blade to the right.

Silence. His face didn’t budge from its scowl but his eyes glimmered with…something Aisling didn’t understand. The rest of the fair folk didn’t so much as twitch. It felt in that moment as if their breath was caught in their fair folk chests; the air was thick and oily with their anticipation.

“If that is your choice, Ash, then you must unstake it from the earth,” Annind elaborated from behind. His voice grated against the silence.

Aisling glanced at her clann. Clodagh, her brothers, Nemed, all patiently awaiting her decision. What wouldbecome of her if she chose wrongly? They returned her glance, exchanging a life of memories lived until now. Memories that were at times warm and friendly, laced with children’s laughter. Others were cold, distant, and lonely.

Nemed slowly met his daughter’s stare, his scar seemingly redder, deeper, as if agitated in the presence of its makers. The glazed, violet eyes only she and him shared, sparkling with grief.

The princess wrapped her fingers around the hilt and pulled. The axe didn’t budge, heavier than Aisling could’ve ever anticipated. The crowds of Aos Sí snickered, their resentment for the mortal princess now only matched by their amusement.

Aisling clenched her jaw, heat flushing her cheeks and nose.

Some legends claimed the bones of the Aos Sí were carved from the same rock the Forge built the mountains with, affording them divine strength. Aisling didn’t doubt it, for the blade she attempted to lift was immovable.

The fae king approached her then. Aisling’s stomach twisted and her heart thrashed, willing herself to hold steady as he stood behind her and knelt to his knees. Her joints stiffened and her chest tightened, growing numb from his sheer proximity. The weight of his nearness pressed through the lace, hovering above her exposed flesh.

From this position, the fae king wrapped his arms around the princess, taking hold of her hands. His fingers and palms were rough, calloused, burning where his skin grazed her own. The princess gasped. She’d never been touched by a man outside her immediate family but, of course, she needn’t remind herself that these were savages. They paid no mind to the customs of civility or propriety.

Together, they slid the blade from the grass beneath them.

Relief swept over Aisling as the king raised the axe from the ground and held it above their heads, stillgripping the axe’s haft and Aisling’s hands.

The crowd cheered and the music burst into rhythm once again. The fair folk banged their weapons against their shields, stomped their feet against the earth, and shouted words Aisling couldn’t understand. But despite their newfound fervor, their excitement, their anger still radiated their resentment, their confusion written across their ancient faces.

Aisling had chosen correctly. Selected the weapon that belonged to the fae king.

Cringing at the sudden burst of commotion, she forced herself to stand tall, to not hesitate before either the Aos Sí, her tuath, or the mortals of the North. And meanwhile, the fae king stood from where he’d kneeled behind her, releasing her hands.

Aisling, against her own volition, turned to study his reaction. His brow was furrowed but his interest in the mortal princess had piqued, regarding her as though she were a riddle breathed into human form.

But the ceremony was not yet complete.

The two riders, the ones who’d entered on either side of the fae king, approached the princess and their sovereign.

“Atrealia de mer,” the dark-haired fae said, holding his own hand before him, palm facing the night sky. Aisling looked to Annind, standing a few paces away.

“Give him your hand,” her brother instructed, more confidently than Aisling knew he felt.

Reluctantly, Aisling did as he said, extending her hand and mirroring the fae knight and king beside her, their arms distorted reflections of one another. One sleeved in crimson jewels, lace, and velvet. The other, bound by thick fae markings, armor, and leather.

The second knight handed the first a ribbon, a ribbon braided with ivory florals and owl feathers. The fae king knotted his fingers through Aisling’s own. Aisling’s toes curled at the gesture, palm to palm. Flesh to flesh.

The dark-haired knight wrapped their hands together with the ribbon. The thorns of the flowers scratched Aisling’s skin but she didn’t protest. This was why she’d come. Why her clann had offered her to the fair folk.

“De réig can bhriollú, gallian duic,” the fae king began, wrapping the ribbon one, two, three times, “an chéar ghlal eng mo chuig fola.” Four, five, six loops.

Aisling’s chest burned the longer they were bound together, something stirring wildly in her gut. She snuck a glance at the strange king, but he appeared unaffected, rather distantly studying the mortal princess and her efforts to remain still despite the pressure of the moment.

“By the Forge, I vow to you the first cut of my heart,” Annind translated for the sake of the mortals observing the ceremony, “the first taste of my blood, and the last words from my lips.”

And just like that, they were handfasted.

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