Page 113 of The Mortal Queen

But quicker than Peitho, quicker than even her blade, was Dagfin.

The Roktan prince fell to the earth the moment her sword was swung. She’d missed. Impossibly, she’d missed. And before Aisling could blink, Dagfin was on his feet, drawingthree daggers from the bandolier strapped across his chest and tossing them towards the fae princess. One by one, like sparrows, they cleaved the rain, driving towards Peitho.

Aisling froze, paling as she processed what was unravelling. Desperately doing her best to move forward but Lir still held the mortal queen by the arms, preventing her from running towards the Roktan prince.

But the daggers didn’t find Peitho’s heart. They found another’s.

Galad stood before the fae princess, the knives stuck into his chest like a bloody star of undiluted iron.

Aisling fell to her knees. Lir still held her, pulling her away from the center of the circle.

Was he dead? Aisling thought to herself. For although such small amounts of undiluted iron could do little against a fae knight, how could one survive a dagger straight to the heart? A blade impeccably aimed and placed at the center of Galad’s core?

The mortal queen shook as Lir at last released her, Rian taking his place. But Aisling was already on her knees, wiping away her tears as she processed what was happening before her eyes. So, Rian knelt beside her, holding her close.

Lir approached Galad, pulling the daggers from his chest one by one. The way his expression warped with cold, silent rage, bidding his fae knights a silent, wordless command to stay still. To not unleash bedlam just yet. To not rip the mortals to shreds where they stood and leave their entrails for the Unseelie to scavenge. For those were the desires painted across Rian’s, Filverel’s, Hagre’s, Einri’s, Cathan’s, and Gilrel’s expressions. Every one of the fair folk simmering with white fury.

Peitho stood behind him, gawking, still clutching her blade in her hand. Galad had saved her life but her greatsword was still hungry. Still starved for the blood it felt it deserved. That the magic owed it. And once every shard of iron was removed from the fae knight’s chest, he bent his neck side to side, cracking his bones.

Galad was fine.

Aisling choked out of pure relief.

“I believed this was a duel to the death.” Nemed’s expression darkened, meeting the fae king’s eyes. “With no interference from either race.”

“Tricks,” Clodagh spat, rolling her pale hands into fists, “tricks are all they know and all they’ll ever be. You violated the sanctity of our agreement.”

“Sanctity,” Lir mocked, the surrounding woodland groaning as they tossed violently in the storm, at last coming alive. “Do not speak of sanctity to me, mortal. Your Faerak was never meant to win. No mortal is meant to survive a duel of magic. It goes against the law of your kind. Your blood.”

Lir had intended for Dagfin to die. Had wanted Dagfin to die.

Aisling shuffled through her emotions, desperately pushing them aside to see clearly through the veil of angry tears welling in her violet eyes.

“This was no duel then, was it? It was an execution of not only a mortal prince, but one I consider a son myself.” Nemed laughed, stepping into the circle. “I can’t say I don’t understand. I would’ve done the same for Aisling had it come to it. Prevented her from facing the wrath of your enchanted blades. And your ensuing rage would be worth every law broken.”

And at the mortal high king’s words, all eyes turned back to Lir. The fae king ground his teeth, his jaw flexing, as he spun Dagfin’s daggers between his fingers. Never once unleashing Nemed from his gaze. From his irate scrutiny. From the loathing oozing from every Sidhe who gatheredtheir weapons in hand and prepared themselves to fight. It was a miracle in Aisling’s eyes they hadn’t already unleashed their otherworldly fury, dying this morning red.

“Your Faerak lost this duel the moment he accepted it.” Galad spoke, sword already drawn and poised to fight if it weren’t for Lir’s command to stand down. “It may be true that the fair folk assumed Peitho would defeat the mortal prince easily, but even if she didn’t, magic forbids a human victor.”

Peitho shifted, eyes lowering to the ground in shame. They’d all believed this was no duel but certain death for Dagfin. Hadn’t imagined the mortal prince was either Faerak or capable of matching the fae princess’s prowess in direct combat. But he had. The shy boy Aisling had once known was now something else entirely.

“The magic will reclaim what it believes it is owed,” Peitho said, eyes flitting towards Dagfin. “Your prince is cursed.”

Dagfin didn’t so much as flinch. Didn’t move or shrink from both the fair folk and mortals who regarded him with disbelief. With terror.

Nemed grinned but there was doubt inherent within every twitch of his expression. He was determined to not be outwitted, outsmarted, outplayed by his enemy. For this was how the mortals had dominated the fair folk for so long despite the Sidhe’s strength anddraiochtand lifespans. Because the fire hand was cunning, clever, willing to make the choices no other king or man would to ensure the victory of his kind. To match the fair folk’s mischief and devilry with pranks of his own. And somehow, to Aisling’s surprise, Nemed had been outsmarted. Outmaneuvered by the most cunning of creatures to exist. For despite the mortal victory, Lir always knew magic would retaliate. When magic gives, it demands back

“What do you know of prophecies, fire hand?” Lir took several lethal steps towards Nemed, the air saturating with the fae king’s palpable bloodlust.

Nemed’s violet eyes glittered with amusement. “That they are self-fulfilled.”

Lir laughed, grinning like a wolf raising its head from carrion.

“There is a lady who wastes away in a cave, century after century weaving. Every thread a thread of fate.” The forest roared madly. “There are some who believe that once these threads are placed upon the spindle, woven and knotted together, there are none who can undo its tapestry. No mortal man nor Sidhe nor beast who can tear apart destiny and make of it that which pleases him. That we are all slaves to fate. Tell me, fire hand, do you agree?”

Aisling peered around the circle. Fair folk and mortals drenched in rain and hatred alike. And beyond their ring, were the mountains humming with energy, the fields flooding with rain, the forest thrashing from side to side. It was angry, echoing the wrath rippling off the fae king. For either intentionally or unintentionally, the forest was growing, its trees rising from the dirt, snapping their roots, and moving closer. Larger. The greenwood shadows moving and taking form. Hundreds of eyes peering back from the darkness, beyond the veil of rain and storm. The mortal destriers grew inconsolable. Aisling’s breath caught in her throat, choking on the words quickly becoming more than a nightmare.

The Unseelie. They were here. Lir had summoned them. Had already arranged for their arrival when she’d caught him the night prior amidst the pines. He’d planned for this. All of this. In the end, it hadn’t been the mortals who’d betrayed the alliance as Aisling had braced herself for. It was the Sidhe.

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