Page 81 of Shattered Veil
“Isn’t it?” I press. “Think about it. The Council’s been playing us all along. What better way to turn everyone against shadow magic than to use it to kill innocents?”
Lochan’s breathing gets ragged, his fists clenching at his sides. I can almost see the gears turning in his head, reevaluating everything he’s believed for years.
“Lochan, there’s something I’ve never told you.”
He looks at me warily. “Spit it the fuck out, prince.”
“Your father was a good man.”
He really was. When we were boys, I used to envy Lochan, that he got to go home to a family who loved him, and to a father who looked at his son with pride instead of calculated cruelty. “He was loyal. But he was also honest.” To be fair, that’s a rare trait in us fae.
“Yeah. He was.”
“If he found out about the King’s plans—if he overheard him like I did—he wouldn’t keep silent.” I take a deep breath. “And it was your family’s murders that finally tipped the balance for the elites and my father. The public outrage allowed them to declare war on the shadow rebels.”
It all finally makes sense.
“If you’re right,” he says slowly, “then the shadow rebels, then Brigid—”
“Isn’t the enemy,” I finish. “And neither is her magic.”
The implications hit us both like a ton of bricks. Lochan’s whole worldview is crumbling, and I can see the conflict raging behind his eyes. His hatred of shadow magic has been his driving force for so long. Now, it might be the very thing that saves us all.
“We need to go,” Lochan says abruptly, his voice tight with barely contained emotion. “Brigid’s in more danger than we thought.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tiernan
The party buzzes around me, a swirl of laughter and fae wine fumes. I stand at the edge, watching. Evergreen garlands drape over the stone walls. Floating spheres of witchlight cast a golden glow over flushed faces. The air hums with relief and wild abandon.
Survivors, all of them.
The Harrowing’s deadly trials are behind us now. Those that didn’t make it aren’t here to care. I breathe in the scent of pine needles and spiced mead, focusing myself.
The turn of the seasons carries deep meaning for a druid, particularly the solstices. Darkness giving way to light. Death yielding to rebirth. An endless cycle, like spiral carvings on ancient oaks.
It’s no coincidence that they time the Harrowing to align with this important event.
My gaze drifts over the revelers. So exuberant and hedonistic. I feel a lifetime removed from their carefree joy.
A tipsy girl stumbles into me, giggling. “Wanna dance, handsome?”
I give her a polite nod. “I’m afraid I don’t dance.” It’s no lie. I don’t dance with anyone but Brigid.
She pouts and wobbles away. I return to my observations, watching the interplay of magic everywhere and the mundane behaviors of horny young adults. Faerie dust sparkles in the air. An illusion charm shimmers around a first year trying to impress his friends.
The events of the past days replay in my mind. Blood spilled on sacred ground. Ancient prophecies stirring. The veil between worlds growing thin.
I roll the acorn I picked up before coming inside between my fingers, feeling its life force. The oak it will become already exists within this tiny seed. Just as our fates are written in the patterns of the stars.
What does it all mean? My meditations offer only fragments. Pieces of a puzzle I can’t yet solve.
A peal of familiar laughter cuts through my musings, going straight to my groin. I look up.
Brigid.
Brigid’s spinning in the center of the dance floor, her long hair fanning out around her. She’s radiant, her gray eyes sparkling as she laughs with Eira and Finn. My chest tightens at the sight of her.
