Last week marked the completion of Chapter Five of The Draoidh’s Gambit.

With that, we have now shared the opening five chapters from three works: The Draoidh’s Cearcall, The Black Swan’s Bond, and The Draoidh’s Gambit. We hope you’ve enjoyed them—and perhaps even felt inclined to explore the full manuscripts.

We had intended to present Chapter One of The Draoidh’s Accord next. However, we find ourselves in need of a short respite.

To that end, there will be no new postings this week, and possibly next. We will, however, send along playbills to keep you informed of what lies ahead.

Thank you for attending our presentations. We hope you will return when we once again take the stage.

Until then, may the road rise to meet your feet, and the wind be ever at your back.

“Where would have they entered from?” Ria inquired, her palm brushing reverently across the old wood. Through the bond, Flur caught the faint thrum of her anticipation, a heartbeat echo beneath her own.

Rowena lifted one pale hand and threaded it through her raven hair, her fingers trembling just enough for the other two to notice.

“If you left them near that old willow tree, they’ll come up and enter from the west doorway.”

She gestured vaguely, though her eyes never left the heavy door before them. “They’ll enter through a door like this, change in the changing rooms, and soak in the frigidarium before going to the tepidarium.”

Her grin was crooked, almost self-deprecating, as though speaking of warmth could shield her from the cold of doubt rising inside her.

“Are there any more entrances?” Flur asked eagerly, nearly bouncing on her heels.

Excitement flickered through the bond she shared with Ria, bright and crackling, like sparks leaping from kindling.

“Of course, there are,” Rowena replied, the words spilling out in a rush, as though relieved to be useful.

“This door leads to one of the changing rooms between the frigidarium and the tepidarium.” She glanced at Flur’s wide eyes, softened by her own nervous smile. “I’ve never liked the cold bath and have always entered here.”

Her grin faltered as she caught the younger woman’s look of suspicion. “No, I’ve never shared the bath with him. He wouldn’t let me.”

The air shifted. A single bead of condensation traced down the oak, catching light like a tear.

“How did you know what she was going to ask?” Ria’s voice was low, though the bond carried her doubt clearly.

Rowena chuckled, though she worried at her lip immediately after. “Did Lady Despoina help me? No, she didn’t.”

She seemed amused when both women blinked, as if expecting the goddess’s hand in all things. “I don’t have to be a seeress to understand how people think,” she explained. “I just have to pay attention.”

She twisted a lock of her hair around one finger until the knuckle whitened, her eyes lowering. “Maighstir Rhyslin never wanted to be alone with any of the women here. Not me, nor any of the servants.” The words dropped heavily, and for a moment even the wood beneath their hands seemed to darken, drawing the weight of her confession into its grain.

“It’s almost as if he were worried about what might happen.” A breath caught in her throat. “Is he really going to accept me?”

Ria reached forward and gently unwound the tangled strand from Rowena’s finger, as though breaking a spell.

The bond shimmered warm between them, carrying reassurance like a steadying hand. “Yes. Once we speak to him, you will become his treas bhanna.” She smiled softly, and the tremor in Rowena’s shoulders eased as hope lit her eyes.

“I hope you’re ready for the bonding,” Ria added, the oak door groaning faintly in the silence that followed. “I can promise you it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt.”

Flur nodded, her golden hair catching the faint glow of lamplight, her excitement rolling through the bond like sunlight spilling over frost.

“I felt like I was drifting in the clouds and wrapped in Cotan when he bonded me.” She blushed deeply, surprising Rowena, then admitted, “I lost myself in the bond for the first three days.”

Ria scoffed lightly, brushing Flur’s shoulder. “Just the first three days? You still get lost in the bond.”

Rowena’s eyes widened at the playful admission, and Flur gave a helpless little shrug. “She’s right. But then, so does she. All Ria wants to do is cuddle.”

“I won’t deny it.” Ria lifted her chin, her voice touched with mock indignity, but the warmth in the bond belied her tone. “I feel safe in his arms,” she admitted, her gaze softening. “It will be different for you, but only if it’s you and not Despoina.”

For an instant, the faintest smile ghosted across her lips, as though the goddess’s presence brushed against them all. “The fact that he cares for my daughter only makes it better.”

The corridor seemed to draw a deeper breath of its own as Rowena’s gaze went glassy.

A shiver of unseen current stirred her raven hair, though no draft touched the others.

“Your daughter,” her voice rang hollow, layered as if two tones spoke at once, one human, one eternal. Her chin lifted, eyes unfocused and terrible. “Is she here?”

The air thickened; a low hum trembled through the oak door at their backs, as if the wood itself recognized who spoke.

Ria’s lips parted, her breath catching. She knew that cadence, that weight pressing against her chest like the first judgment of a tribunal. “Lady Despoina,” she whispered, blinking against the sudden sting in her eyes. Her voice cracked.

“Yes, she’s here and with Maighstir Rhyslin.” The goddess’s gaze pinned her, and she faltered, stammering like a child. “I—I don’t know if he’s changed her destiny.”

She closed her eyes, her heart pounding in prayer. “Has he changed her future?”

Rowena’s arm rose, stiff and unnatural, her hand tilting as though she cradled scales only she could see. The air around her seemed to ripple like heated glass.

“It is murky, even for me to see,” the goddess admitted, her words resonant, trembling the very stone beneath their feet. “But I do not believe he’s changed the future.”

Ria sagged forward, a strangled sound escaping her throat. “Thank A’ Mathair.” She pressed her palm to her chest as though steadying her own heart. Her voice turned fragile, desperate, the plea of a mother before the divine. “Would it be possible for him to train her so she can better survive what’s to come?”

The silence that followed stretched taut, full of the goddess’s unspoken weight. Even Flur, still and wide-eyed, felt the ache of it inside her bond, like a pressure along her bones.

At last, Rowena’s lifted hand shifted again, as though her unseen scales tipped beneath new knowledge. “I do not know. But from what I can determine, it could increase her odds.”

She tilted her head as if listening, though no one else could hear. A shadow crossed her expression, then softened. Her voice, though still otherworldly, carried a strange gentleness. “Very well, my dear Rowena. I’ll leave you alone now to experience your bonding.”

The glaze broke. Rowena’s body shuddered, her knees buckling slightly as she drew in ragged gulps of air, panting like a swimmer dragged back from drowning.

The humming silence collapsed, leaving only the sound of their own breaths in the corridor.

The oak door gave a low groan as Ria pressed it open, warm breath of mineral-scented steam rolling out to meet them. The air clung heavy, tinged with lavender oil from the tepidarium beyond. Stone tiles whispered with condensation under their feet, slick with the passage of countless bathers.

“Come along, Flur,” Ria said, her arm steady around the trembling seeress. “We have a gift to prepare for our beloved Maighstir.”

Rowena’s steps faltered as they crossed the threshold, the ancient hinges sighing shut behind them like a seal on her fate.

“Strip,” Ria commanded. Her voice carried like a bell in the mist, low and unyielding.

Rowena froze, the warmth of the room washing over her even as a shiver climbed her back. A strange blush bloomed beneath her skin, spreading like sunrise from her collarbone down her chest. Droplets condensed along the curve of her neck, tracing her pulse as if the chamber itself marked her hesitation.

“If you can’t be naked with us,” Ria added, pointing toward the far door, “you can’t do it with him.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Rowena whispered, the words trembling into the steam. With trembling fingers, she loosened the buttons of her blouse. The garment fell soundlessly to the wet stone, followed by her skirt. The chamber seemed to hold its breath as the soft blush deepened, her body revealed in the perfumed haze.

Flur inhaled sharply, her breath fogging the air. She was surprised by the seeress’s beauty, curves made luminous by steam-slick light. Rowena’s hips swayed slightly as she shifted, her breasts full, her skin beaded with dew like a flower after rainfall. The sight stirred a primal recognition in Flur — if they were in the courts of Bazan, Rowena would be paraded as a traill-feise, clothed in silk and chains, desired and displayed. The thought quickened Flur’s breath.

Ria mirrored her astonishment. “Oh my,” she uttered softly, voice carrying reverence. “She’d give Rana a run for her money.” The older woman rummaged among the cubicles, the sound of wooden doors creaking, until she pulled free three Yakuta robes.

“I can’t decide whether to let her wear this — or make her go out there as she is.”

“I know.” Flur circled Rowena like a flame licking dry tinder. “It would be like a Yuletide gift for him to unwrap. We could make her go to him wearing just a leash.”

The word echoed in the chamber. The seeress’s breath caught as the image seared into her mind: crawling to Rhyslin on hands and knees, steam curling along her back, the leash taut between her wrists. Heat rushed through her so suddenly she thought the bath had reached her skin already.

“She likes the thought of that,” Ria murmured knowingly as Rowena shivered. “Don’t you, caileag thràilleil?”

“Yes, Mistress, I do,” Rowena admitted, voice barely audible over the steady drip of water into the distant pools. Her confession seemed to thrum in the stone walls, as if the bathhouse itself absorbed her surrender.

A devious grin curved Flur’s lips. “How about the best of both? Wrap her in one of these, then let him order her to strip. He’ll appreciate the leash.”

“You heard the ciad cheangail, caileag thràilleil. Put this on,” Ria said firmly, handing her a Yakuta. “Make yourself look good for your Maighstir.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Rowena murmured. The robe’s linen clung damply to her skin as she slipped it on, her fingers tying the bow in a trembling knot. She smoothed the fabric down, gasping when she realized how scandalously short it was. The hem stopped mid-thigh; if she bent even slightly, the robe would bare her fully. The thought struck her with equal measures of dread and desire. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered, eyes wide as a child’s, looking to Flur.

“Are you sure?” Flur asked, her brow arching. When Rowena nodded, the golden-haired bhanna smirked. “That’s too bad. You’ll have to wait to be bonded. Ria and I can keep him busy for several months. He won’t have time to think of you.” Her laughter rippled like a brook. “And if Rana is doing what I think she’s doing, she’ll be the next bond.”

Her teasing was punctuated by the sound of silk whispering as Flur stripped down, slipping into her own Yakuta. She tied it to accentuate her breasts, tugging the hem higher so her thighs gleamed in the steam. “So, what will it be?”

Rowena lifted her hands, crossing her wrists in silent plea. Her offering was met with Flur’s deft fingers, the leash tied snug around them.

Flur gave it a tug, the sound of leather sliding through her hand sharp in the mist. “Come along, caileag thràilleil. Maighstir Rhyslin’s waiting.”

“Wait for me,” Ria called, hastily wrapping herself in her robe, leaving it provocatively loose. “I can’t wait to see his expression when we present her.”

Cloth rustled as they gathered the discarded garments into the cubicles. Then Flur pulled the leash again, playful, insistent. “Let’s go, tràill-feise.”

Rowena followed, heart hammering as the heat of the tepidarium wrapped around her. They entered the space between frigidarium and warmth, steam curling like veils around their bodies. Across the pool, two discarded robes lay abandoned.

“She got brave,” Flur murmured with a smirk. “It’s about time.”

“Shush,” Ria scolded. “I still think she’s too young.”

“She’s just eighteen,” Flur countered with a wicked giggle, tugging the leash again. “This one is about the same age, give or take a few years.”

Rowena blushed hotly, daring at last to lift her eyes. Across the haze of the tepidarium, she saw him, Rhyslin, his dark form half-reclined, and the young woman nestled against him. Jealousy sparked like flint in her chest. The Hin I-Balanath in his arms was radiant, beautiful, a rival already basking in the comfort Rowena longed for.

Her body ached to break away, to crawl across the tiles and lay her bond at his feet. But fear kept her tethered to Flur’s hand. Fear of rejection. Fear of being cast out.

When Ria growled and turned back to fetch fresh robes, Rowena drew a shaky breath. Her leash slackened for the first time.

For a heartbeat, she considered bolting forward. But then she remembered, Flur’s teasing could become exile if she disobeyed.

So she stayed, trembling, heat licking at her thighs, steam curling around her like the goddess’s gaze. Waiting to be led, waiting to be seen.

Without saying a word, Flur tugged on the leash. The motion was sharp enough to pull Rowena forward, her bare feet slipping against the damp tiles.

Steam curled thickly around them, carrying the mineral tang of the tepidarium, and her breath quickened as the sure-footed bhanna half-dragged her toward the glow of the warm pool.

“Maighstir Rhyslin, Ria, and I have brought you a gift.” Flur’s chirpy tone rang bright, almost jarring against the hush of the chamber.

The sound grated on Rowena’s nerves, and for an instant she longed to shove the golden-haired caid-cheangail into the pool. Instead, she inhaled the wet heat and reminded herself to be patient.

The surface of the frigidarium shimmered faintly in her peripheral vision, but all her attention snapped forward at the sound of a soft voice.

The young woman nestled against Rhyslin’s side stirred, her eyelids heavy with drowsy pride. “Momma, I did it. I crossed through the Linne fuar.”

The goddess’s breath seemed to linger on the water itself. Ria’s expression softened as she gazed at her daughter. Then, when her eyes lifted to meet Rhyslin’s, her robe slid from her shoulders like falling petals. She set it neatly beside the other two, then stepped into the pool, the water parting with a soft, reverent sigh as if recognizing her presence. She crossed to his side and curled into the curve of his arm, where he welcomed her as if she had always belonged there.

“What did I tell you? She’s a cuddlebug,” Flur whispered, her breath brushing Rowena’s ear. She poked the seeress, breaking the trance of her gaze. “I can’t blame her.”

The golden-haired bhanna’s deft fingers worked quickly, the leash unknotted, Rowena’s borrowed garment slipping away like mist until the leather draped around her neck in quiet claim. The sound of it brushing her skin made her shiver. Flur joined the others, shedding her own garment, sinking into the steaming water with a ripple that caught the torchlight. She propelled herself forward, rising from the pool before Rhyslin, water beading across her lifted breasts as she leaned in and kissed him hungrily.

“We find her acceptable, Maighstir. You may bond her.” Her voice, breathless and damp with desire, drifted like incense over the warm water.

The draoidh’s hazel eyes sparked as though catching the reflection of the braziers.

He reached and tapped Flur lightly on the cheek. “Oh? As if I need your permission to bond another woman.”

The weight of his tone settled over them like thunder before a storm. Even the water stilled, as if listening.

Flur blinked in shock, then lowered her head quickly. “Yes, Maighstir.”

Rhyslin’s fingers cupped her chin, tilting her face until her eyes met his. “Flur Dris, my Ciad-Cheangail, Keeper of my hearts, you and Ria were granted deas-ghnàth a’ chiad diùltadh. While it would have made your thoughts known, it is not a blanket by which to tell me what I may and may not do.”

His words were calm, but the bond thrummed with his displeasure. Both Flur and Ria felt the reverberation, like distant chimes struck within their chests.

When Flur hurriedly nodded, subdued, Rhyslin’s gaze swept to Ria, who remained steady, implacable, as if carved from the stone walls themselves. To his left, Rana’s eyes glimmered with curiosity, the girl silent, watchful, storing every gesture and word. With a sigh, the draoidh turned his gaze fully upon Rowena.

“Rowena, do you wish to offer your bond?”

The seeress nearly forgot to breathe. His gaze bore into her, stripping her of every pretense. For a heartbeat she felt the weight of every destiny she had glimpsed as a seeress, and yet none had terrified her as much as this moment.

She wanted him to command her, to strip the choice away. But he only waited.

Her lungs burned, and she forced a breath. “Yes, Maighstir, I do.”

The faintest smile touched his lips, as though he had always known. “Then come and perform the ritual.”

Her knees trembled as she stepped carefully into the pool. Warm water lapped against her thighs as she knelt, finding a place where she could bow her head and still keep it above the surface. Her voice, quivering yet resolute, filled the chamber like a prayer.

“I, Rowena Auldsotir, offer my bond, asking for nothing in return. In Ananke’s name do I ask this.”

The name of the Oathbinder seemed to thrum through the bathhouse itself. Torches guttered, steam thickened, and the water hushed. She held her breath, heart pounding as she prayed he would accept her.

When she opened her eyes, his hazel gaze was waiting. She fell into them as though into a vast sky, laid bare before him in body and soul.

“I accept your bond,” he intoned, each word carrying the weight of law and god-fire. “And promise to treat you the way you need to be treated. I will love you, protect you, and make you part of my house. This I swear by Ananke, the Oathbinder.”

The bond settled over her like a mantle of light and warmth. For an instant she swore she felt invisible threads binding her to him, weaving her spirit into his. A sob burst free, and she flew into his arms, clinging to him as tears spilled freely.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she whispered against his skin.

Rana made a small, startled sound, blinking herself awake just in time to see him cradle Rowena close.

Steam curled around them like a benediction, and Rana silently vowed that one day she would feel the same embrace.

Rhyslin tilted Rowena’s tear-streaked face upward. “Why were you afraid?”

“That you would throw me out,” she admitted, voice small as a child’s.

His lips brushed her temple as he whispered, “It was never going to happen.”

The water itself seemed to sigh with relief, and the torches steadied, their flames burning brighter as if to mark the household’s new bond.

We hope you have enjoyed the bard’s song. She has finished the opening act in five parts. Should you wish to continue on the journey, the playbook is

The Draoidh's Gambit

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A shadow stirred against his senses. He cracked an eye, expecting perhaps a cloud crossing the sun, but found instead that the willow’s branches had bent low, their green fingers spreading wide to cast a deeper shade upon him.

The scent of resin and damp earth thickened, like the tree itself exhaled.

Tilting his head back, he caught sight of her, the fox-eared dryad, perched along a wide branch. Her amber eyes gleamed with mischief as she mouthed a word down to him: Mac Draoidheachd. The willow’s voice made flesh, acknowledging his place.

When he arched a brow, she flashed him a grin and sprawled upon the branch, her tail dangling, swaying in a slow, lazy arc. Every few heartbeats, it stirred the air, fanning the scent of crushed willow leaves. When Rana roused a short time later, the draoidh noted the tail’s quickened tempo, a silent herald of waking hearts.

The young spell-blade hummed as she stretched, the motion carrying a feline languor.

Hazel eyes blinked open, widened, and her lips parted in a soft O at the sight of the dryad.

Without tearing her gaze away, she tapped Rhyslin’s thigh, her pulse racing loud enough that even the branches seemed to quiver with her.

Rhyslin tapped back, amused, as the dryad lifted a paw in greeting, tail swishing in playful rhythm.

“She’s awake,” Rana whispered, voice full of wonder.

“I see that,” Rhyslin murmured, raising his hand in a gesture half-greeting, half-blessing. “Good afternoon, Nighean na craoibhe.”

The willow’s leaves shivered as though in answer.

“Good day, Mac Draoidheachd,” the dryad purred, paw pressing flat against the branch as if to steady herself within her home.

“This one is known as Cansasa. This one wants to thank you for not hurting her home.”

“If I did, Matron Fohgar would bury me alive,” he replied with mock severity, though the staff at his side hummed faintly in agreement.

Cansasa’s laughter rippled down like shaken leaves. “Cansasa understands. This one has been asleep a long time.” Her amber gaze flicked to Rana, who squirmed, drawing the spirit’s attention like a moth to flame. “What is it, young one?”

“Maighstir Rhyslin said you had been asleep as long as he’d been here. What woke you up?” Rana asked, curiosity softening her voice.

The dryad pointed, paw delicate as a blessing. “Love woke me. This one could feel the love you have for each other.”

The air itself thickened, warm with the fragrance of blossoms stirred out of season. Rana blushed, and the willow seemed to lean closer, its branches bowing like listening ears.

“Are the two of you not lovers?” Cansasa asked bluntly.

Rhyslin hesitated. Even the cicadas paused. “We are still working out exactly what our relationship is,” he said carefully. “Her mother and I are bonded.”

The dryad tilted forward, amber gaze sharp as foxfire. “But this one felt her love for you, and your love for her.”

Rana’s blush deepened, her breath hitching. She pressed closer, her words spilling with the tremor of long-held truth.

“If I could, I would bond with Maighstir Rhyslin. I’ve been seeing him in my dreams for eight years. He’s the first man to pay attention to me and take me as I am.”

The willow trembled from root to crown, releasing a sigh of leaves. Cansasa’s right ear perked, tail sweeping faster. “It makes sense. From such things, affections grow.” Her eyes slid toward the draoidh. “What about you, Mac Draoidheachd?”

“How can I not love her?” he answered, voice low and cryptic, but the ground beneath them thrummed in approval. “She is part of my new family.” With that, he braced his staff, rising with a fluid motion. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Cansasa.” He offered a half-bow. The willow bent its limbs in mirror, as though bowing with her.

“I promised to show Rana the bathhouse,” he added.

Cansasa’s grin widened, fox-tail swaying. “This one does sense all the water, Mac Draoidheachd.” She waved her paw toward Rana. “This one thinks you will enjoy it, little one.”

With a languid stretch, she melded into bark and vanished into her tree, leaving behind a faint musk of sap and rainwater.

“How does she know where the water is?” Rana whispered, wonder still in her eyes. “How does she know that I’ll enjoy it?” She brushed her skirt smooth with trembling hands, then stood, slipping instinctively to Rhyslin’s right side.

“Dryads can sense water,” Rhyslin explained, tone gentle for her sake. “Through their roots, they can localize springs or wells within ten feet.”

Rana nodded, her hazel eyes bright as riverlight. She reached for his hand and clasped it firmly, her smile quiet but sure. “You promised to amaze me with your bathhouse.”

The willow behind them rustled one last time, as though sealing a covenant.

The draoidh chuckled, the sound low and warm as water over stone, and stepped out from under the willow’s shelter. “Prepare to be amazed,” he teased, his staff tapping softly against the path as he guided her toward the manor.

The air shifted as they rounded the corner, cool shade giving way to a hushed reverence. A side entrance opened before them, framed by ivy and two statues of Mathair Astinmah: one serene in sleep, the other caught mid-step, as if about to enter flowing waters. Their marble eyes glimmered faintly in the afternoon light, and Rana felt them watching.

Inside, the air was heavier, thick with the mineral tang of water. She drew a breath and tasted it on her tongue, ancient, cleansing, alive. The vestibule pressed in like a hushed chapel, stone walls whispering the echo of unseen streams.

Rhyslin’s touch at her shoulder recalled her from reverie; she blinked as he gestured to an open doorway.

“You can change in that room and come back out here. I’ll be waiting.”

“Okay.” She released his hand reluctantly, stepping into the chamber. It smelled faintly of lavender oil and damp linen, and her footfalls were softened by smooth-tiled floors. Along one wall stood cubicles for clothing, and benches waited like patient attendants.

She hummed softly as she slid her blouse from her shoulders, folding it carefully before placing it away. The rustle of fabric seemed louder in the sanctity of the room.

“What do I change into?” she called, fingers loosening the ties of her skirt. The fabric pooled around her ankles like fallen petals.

From his own chamber, Rhyslin’s voice carried, calm and grounding. “There should be a yakuta hanging on the wall. Once you are out here, we’ll wash the dust off and get into the pools.”

Her hazel eyes found the garment at last: a wrap of pale cloth, its weave faintly shimmering in the lamplight. She held it to her chest, cheeks flushing at its brevity, the hem brushing barely mid-thigh.

Did he mean for her to wear this into the pool? The thought warmed her skin with a guilty thrill. She tied it about herself, the linen whispering against her body, and peeked around the corner.

There he stood, waiting. A towel slung low about his waist, his presence filled the chamber like a pillar of calm strength.

“Is this, okay?” she asked, twirling, the yakuta flaring softly.

“You look fine.” His smile was steady as he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Are you ready?”

She leaned into him, her heart steadied by his nearness. Together they stepped into the frigidarium, and Rana’s breath caught. The chamber opened wide, its vaulted ceiling painted with celestial constellations, its air sharp with the bite of cold stone.

A vast pool stretched before them, so deep and clear it mirrored the frescoes above in a trembling reflection.

“How deep is it?” she whispered, awed.

Without hesitation, the draoidh shed his towel and stepped into the water. Ripples flared outward, striking the tiles like silver rings. “At the deepest, it comes to my shoulders,” he said, moving into the shadowed depths.

The young spell-blade hesitated at the edge. The water smelled of stone and ice, its surface reflecting her flushed cheeks. She dipped a toe and shivered, the cold biting up her spine. For a long moment, she warred with herself. Then, drawing a steadying breath, she stepped forward, choosing courage over fear.

The water closed around her legs, her body stiffening at each new depth. She paused as it kissed her hidden flower, again as it lapped over her breasts. Then, gathering resolve, she untied the yakuta and let it fall beside his towel. Her head rose high, proud despite the blush that painted her skin, as she walked deliberately down the slope.

Submerging, she leaned back until the icy water crowned her head. Rising again, she tossed her hair free, strands streaming down her back like molten glass.

The pool itself seemed to shiver with her bravery, the painted stars overhead glimmering faintly as if approving.

Rhyslin’s eyes softened, his voice a low murmur of claim and invitation. “Come here, mo phrìseil.”

“Seadh, mhaighstir,” Rana whispered, half-floating as she threw herself into his arms. He caught her with effortless strength, anchoring her against his side. Her cheek rested against the steady drum of his heart. “Is this it?”

The draoidh shook his head, lips brushing her temple. “No, this is just the first room. We still have an amar blàth and an linne teth to go through.”

Her voice was hushed as prayer. “When do we take those steps?”

“When you are ready. We won’t do anything that you are uncomfortable with.”

She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat and the cold’s sharpness give way to warmth inside.

Slowly, she loosened, the water no longer feeling hostile but cleansing. After a long silence, she whispered, “I think I’m ready to go to the next pool.”

Without a word, Rhyslin pulled himself out of the frigidarium, steam rolling from his skin like a second cloak, and extended a hand to Rana. When she nodded, he gave a sharp tug that lifted her free of the water as if she weighed nothing, setting her gently on the tiles beside him.

The chill clung to her body like a jealous lover. Gooseflesh marbled her arms, and beads of water traced cold paths down her spine. She wondered, breath catching, why it felt colder out here than in the pool itself.

The silence pressed in like stone, and when she began to shiver, Rhyslin drew her against him.

His arm felt like a band of living heat, guiding her toward the arch that opened into the next chamber.

Crossing the threshold into the tepidarium was like passing from a cavern’s shadow into a meadow at springtide. The very air shifted, soft, fragrant, touched with herbs and faint floral oils that whispered of Astinmah’s breath. Each droplet that slid down her back seemed to dissolve into warmth, no longer stabbing her skin but caressing it.

Rana halted, stretching instinctively, caught by the frescoes. “Oh, how beautiful,” she murmured, voice hushed as if before an altar.

The nearest wall shimmered with paint depicting A’ Mhathair Astinmah strolling unclad through fields of wildflowers, petals seeming to bend toward her in eternal devotion.

Rhyslin let her wander, her pale feet tapping lightly across the tiles, while he sank into the pool. Leaning back against the curved lip of stone, he studied her.

She bent over a mosaic, dark hair tumbling like a cascade of ink, and in that moment he thought she looked less like a girl than a dryad freed from bark, caught mid-dance among painted blossoms. The thought lingered so deeply that he scarcely noticed when her gaze flicked to him, catching the weight of his eyes.

Feeling daring, Rana gave in to the wicked impulse curling through her chest.

Pretending not to see him, she gathered her hair and let it spill in a waterfall down her shoulders, then lifted her arms into a languid stretch that arched every line of her body.

For a heartbeat, the frescoes themselves seemed to brighten, blossoms along the wall glowing faintly in sympathy with her display.

Rhyslin was not fooled. He narrowed his eyes, lifted his hand, and beckoned. The gesture was subtle, but the room seemed to lean with it, waiting.

For a moment she froze, caught between terror and exhilaration. Then, with deliberate care, she stepped toward him.

The arch of her ankle, the roll of her hips, each movement became a rhythm, and with every step the air thickened with something older than either of them. By the time she padded across the edge of the pool, the bounce of her body carried like music, rippling across the water.

Rhyslin’s breath caught, she stalked toward him like a wild feline tamed by choice alone.

He marveled at how far she had come in mere weeks. She dipped a toe into the pool, sending concentric ripples out that shimmered like light through glass. Finding it warm, she slipped inside and drifted to his side, curling into him as naturally as if the water had delivered her there.

“This is much better, maighstir. I could sit here like this all day.” She nuzzled into his shoulder, sigh soft as a prayer. “I never thought I could be comfortable.” Her lips quirked in a mischievous smile. “If I were older, would you bond with me?” she teased.

Rhyslin rested his head against hers, breath warm at her ear. “I can, if you wish — but it can change your destiny.”

His whisper drew a flush to the tip of her ear, darkening its brown shade.

Rana shivered. She wanted what he offered yet feared it too. She wanted to be loved but trembled before the weight of fate. And in that moment, for the first time in eight years, she realized the murmurs that haunted her had fallen silent. The air itself seemed to hush in reverence.

Rather than answer, she pressed closer, snuggling against him until not even the water could slip between them. And in the stillness, with silence in her ears and warmth in her heart, she promised herself that one day she would ask him to bond with her.

Thus the curtain drops for a brief intermission. However, if you wish to see behind the scenes, our players will be happy to show you our playbook.

The Draoidh's Gambit

Before you leave us, gentle reader, would you mind sharing in your wisdom?

What scene from this chapter brought warmth to your heart?

These tales endure because of those who gather to hear them. If you would remain by the fire, you are welcome here—whether as a free guest or a patron of the road.

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For once, Kita wasn’t babbling needlessly. The silence pressed in around them like damp wool, broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath their feet. Flur noticed how the fairy’s wings gave off a faint, restless shimmer of light, dimmer than usual.

She couldn’t decide whether it was because of the two Hin I-Balanath or because they would soon speak to the seeress, and Kita longed to be there for that.

Upon arriving at the front door, Kita mumbled, “It’s not locked. You can go right in.

The words hung in the air with a metallic taste, as if the threshold itself disapproved of their arrival.

Flur paused and looked to Ria—or more accurately, to the shimmer of air where she knew the fairy rode. “What’s wrong, Kita?”

“Nothing,” Kita prevaricated. “It’s just that I don’t get along very well with Wena.”

The golden-haired bhanna’s blue eyes narrowed slightly. She had the sense that Kita was hiding something, though whatever it was, it did not strike her as life-threatening. Still, the air prickled faintly along her arms, carrying the dry scent of sage and iron. With a shrug, she reached out and pushed the door open.

“Hello?” she called out as she stepped into the foyer.

“Is anyone here?”

When there was no answer, she took time to look around. The entryway was circular, its high walls echoing faintly with her voice. Potted plants circled the room, their leaves trembling faintly as if stirred by an unseen current.

The air was cool and green, touched with the earthy scent of moss and wet clay. On the walls hung paintings of ponds and groves, each framed in wood that seemed to pulse faintly with life.

“He has good taste, that’s for sure,” Ria whispered as she looked around. “He’s creating a quiet space that invites you inside.”

The hin- i-balalanth matron commented softly, her words laced with the faint hum of agreement from the room itself. She glanced around. “You’d think someone would be waiting here, especially if they know the Maighstir is back.”

Flur brushed her fingers through her hair, her eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Do you think there’s some way to let them know we are here?”

“Oh, they know we are here,” Kita groused. The air near her shimmered like disturbed water. “They just feel as if they don’t have to answer to anyone but Rhyspet.” Ria could tell that the treatment miffed the fairy.

“Do they treat every guest this way?” Flur inquired, noticing a bell rope hanging near the opposite door, which she figured led into the rest of the house.

The fairy shook her head. “No, just women, and so far, Rhyspet hasn’t corrected them.”

Flur glanced at Ria, who shrugged, then marched over to the rope and gave it a sharp tug. The bell rang, its tone carrying a sharp shiver through the plants.

A young woman appeared, her steps quick, eyes downcast. “Welcome home,” she started, then examined Flur and Ria from head to foot. “You aren’t Maighstir Rhyslin. Who are you?”

Flur drew herself to her full height and tossed her hair back. “I am Flur Droigheann, Maighstir Rhyslin’s First Bhanna. With me,” she pointed to Ria, “is Ria, his second bhanna.” The moment the words left her lips, the room seemed to brighten, light catching on leaves and paintings alike.

She wondered if she had overstepped her bounds when the woman paled and dropped to her knees.

“Please forgive me, Mistress,” the young woman cried.

“I, we, didn’t know.”

Three other women appeared, drawn by the current of her voice, and upon hearing those words, they too knelt before Flur.

“We’re sorry, Mistress, please don’t tell Maighstir Rhyslin.” The first woman groveled, bowing so low her forehead nearly touched the tiles. The tiles themselves seemed to thrum faintly with the pressure of her contrition.

“How may we serve you?” the second cried, holding her hands up to Flur and Ria, her voice trembling like a plucked string.

Flur tamped down her anger. “The— What did Maighstir Rhyslin call them —Automata?” When Ria nodded, Flur continued, “Will be here shortly with our luggage. When it arrives, you will take it to the rooms next to the Maighstir’s chamber, and then you’ll wait for us.”

The third woman, one with cat’s ears and a tail that flickered in distress, nodded. “Yes, Mistress, we will do as you say.” Her tail lashed the air like a living metronome.

She leaned toward the golden-haired bhanna and sniffed, the motion quick, almost furtive. “You are looking for someone, yes?”

“Yes,” Flur said after taking a minute to calm down. The tips of her ears tingled, the plants around her rustling faintly in sympathy.

She took a deep breath and slowly blew it out, the tension in the air easing with her exhale. “We are looking for Rowena. Can you show us where she is?”

The young woman’s ears folded back when the seer was mentioned. “I can.” Her tone made it evident that she didn’t like Rowena.

“She’s in the Maighstir’s study.” Flur watched attentively as her tail whipped from side to side, betraying more than her words did.

Ria took a few minutes to examine each woman’s attire. All three wore maid dresses, one in blue, one in green, and the third in golden rod. The colors caught the lanternlight and shimmered faintly, as if the house itself claimed them.

As she saw the different shades, she wondered if Rhyslin had a house color but filed the thought for later and addressed the woman talking to Flur.

“We’ve given you our names. Would you give us yours?”

“I’m Mira,” the third woman said, her ears pointed toward Ria. “She is Leena —” Mira gestured to the one in the blue dress, “and she’s Ayla,” she added, pointing at the one in green.

Flur’s blue eyes sparkled as she watched the three maids. “I guess I can forgive you this time,” she teased, extending a hand to Leena, who took it and rose to her feet.

Leena and Ayla sighed in relief, straightening their dresses as they watched Flur.

The room seemed to loosen its tension with them. “Thank you, Mistress. We’ll wait here for your luggage and take it to your rooms. When you are finished with Rowena, Mira can show you to your room.”

From her vantage, hiding under Ria’s hair, the fairy silently laughed, rocking back and forth on the hin i-balanath’s shoulder. The ripple of her amusement sent a faint shimmer through the strands, as if her mirth tugged at the light itself.

Flur nodded and turned to Mira. “Take us to Rowena, if you please.

Mira flashed a grin, her tail playfully dancing behind her as she led Flur, Ria, and the hidden Kita into the house and down the hallway.

Yet the air around her seemed charged, her golden-flecked eyes catching every flicker of light, her steps too sharp to mask the lash of irritation that twitched through her tail.

The two Hin I-Balanath followed her down a short hallway before turning right down another. Several times, Flur nudged Ria as she recognized paintings by artists she knew; each canvas seemed to glow briefly under her gaze, as if acknowledging her recognition. Ria, more reserved, offered only slight nods, but the air hummed faintly with her appreciation.

After turning left at the next intersection, they came to a tall oak door reinforced by three iron bands. The door radiated weight, a threshold that seemed to carry both memory and warning. Mira’s ears perked forward as she indicated the barrier. “She’s in there.”

Her golden-flecked eyes fixed on Flur. “I’ll wait out here for you.” Her tail lashed angrily for a second or two before she mastered her temper, but the sharp gesture left the air tasting of ozone.

Flur smoothed out the wrinkles on her skirt, steadying her hands. “Ready?”

“Yes.” The raven-haired bhanna nodded. “Let’s get this over with. I hear that bathhouse calling me.”

She gave a crooked grin, though her bond-thread hummed with unease. With confidence she didn’t feel, Ria reached out and pushed the door open.

The door groaned as it swung, releasing a draft of cool air tinged with leather and ink. Directly before them stood a large oak desk with ornate carvings.

Atop it lay a leather-covered writing surface, inkwell, and feather quills that gleamed faintly, as though freshly dipped. Behind the desk loomed a high-backed chair covered in black leather, and on the far wall, an ornamented Croabh gleamed with quiet power, much like the cabinets of the Dawn-Breaker.

Flur’s breath caught; for a heartbeat she almost stepped back, the gravity of the place pressing against her resolve. Only Ria’s nudge grounded her. She drew in a steadying breath and stepped forward, her skirts whispering against the intricately cut wooden planks, each line of the Croabh pattern seeming to guide her steps.

To the left, shelves sagged with neat ranks of leather-bound tomes, their spines whispering secrets too faint to hear.

Flur’s fingers twitched with the ache to trace them, but Ria’s small, knowing smile barred her.

To the right, a Darach-carved mantle crowned the fireplace, its grain coiled like captured flame.

A leather settee and a simple tree-trunk chair stood sentinel beside it. The floors, warm with polish, carried a subtle resonance, as if they remembered countless footsteps and waited to judge these new ones. Beyond, double windows gazed out over the gardens, where branches stirred though no wind touched them.

At last, Flur’s eyes found the young woman seated in the plain chair. She looked no older than four-and-twenty, long black hair framing pale skin — not the pallor of sickness but of a life confined indoors.

When her brown eyes lifted, shadows clung to them, haunted, as though something unseen gnawed at her spirit.

“Welcome home, Mistress,” the young woman said as she rose and approached the two Hin I-Balanath. She dropped to her knees, the sound of it echoing in the chamber like a small plea. “My name is Rowena.”

Ria’s gaze swept over her, noting the conservatively cut black dress, its hem falling properly below the knees. Perfect. Too perfect. Rhyslin’s type in all the obvious ways, quiet, pretty, compliant. Yet beneath the neatness, something unsettled her. She felt the press of a presence, heavy and veiled, and the thought came unbidden: how much of this is Rowena, and how much is Despoina?

There was only one way to know. “Before we start, can we speak with the Lady of Mystery, the all-seeing Despoina?”

Rowena gasped, her head snapping up toward Flur, who had moved behind the desk as though by instinct. “You can. When?”

“There is no time like the present,” Ria said as she eased onto the settee. She crossed her legs, but tension whispered through her posture. “How may we do this?”

The seeress gestured toward a full-length mirror in the corner. “You’ll be able to see her through the mirror.”

Both of the hin I-Balanath turned toward it. The surface darkened, then coiled with smoke. A tall, willowy woman stepped forth in reflection — hair like obsidian smoke, body wrapped in a white gown from throat to ankle, its center pierced by a diamond gap girdled in leather spiral. An inverted crescent headdress gleamed with opals and emeralds. Her eyes were black pools scattered with silver flecks, stars drifting in the void. The smoke rolled outward, heavy with myrrh and ash, clinging to the chamber until even the books seemed to hold their breath.

“What do you wish, Flur Droigheann, former princess of Clann na Coille, now Bhanna to Mac Draoidheacd?”

“If it is not too inconvenient, we need to speak with Rowena and Rowena alone.”

Flur’s voice was steady, though her knees yearned to bend, her bond pulling taut at the weight of the goddess’ presence.

The goddess turned, her gaze sliding to Ria. “Do you wish this as well, Ilyriatri, former Queen of Clann a’ Fhasach?”

Ria bowed her head, her voice a chord of respect and steel. “I do, Milady of Mysteries. If Rowena wants to be Maighstir Rhyslin’s bond, we need to know the real Rowena, not the Rowena receiving your help.”

Despoina breathed deeply of the smoke, as if drawing in strands of future yet unwritten.

“Very well. I will not assist Rowena for the next two hours. She will have to muddle through your interview on her own.”

The smoke recoiled into the mirror, leaving only Flur’s reflection staring back, her blue eyes suddenly too mortal in the absence of the divine.

“Thank you,” Flur murmured, offering a half-bow. She lowered herself into the leather chair behind the desk but shifted forward quickly, rejecting its comfort, leaning instead against the edge, a posture of judgment, not repose.

Rowena lifted her face from the floor. Without the goddess’ aura upon her, she seemed smaller, her haunted eyes more fragile, her voice pleading: “Please don’t throw me out.”

When Flur gestured toward the plain wooden chair, Rowena recoiled as if it were a trap.

Slowly, hesitantly, she rose and sat, her every motion wary, like a bird fearing the snare.

Flur gave her an encouraging nod. “Now that it’s just us, we—” she gestured to Ria, “have some questions. If we don’t like what you say, throwing you out could be the least of our actions.”

Rowena’s lips trembled, her eyes brimming, but she forced them still. The floor beneath her chair thrummed faintly with her effort at composure. “I understand, Mistress.”

From the moment Flur fixed her gaze on the raven-haired woman, the air seemed to tighten in the study. Shadows lengthened along the carved Croabh floor as if the wood itself were listening.

“Good.” Flur eyed the woman, considering how to phrase her first question. “How long have you been seeing things that eventually come true?”

It was apparent the seeress hadn’t expected that question, for she grew even paler, if possible, and shivered. The lamplight flickered, dimming. “I’ve seen visions since I was five summers old.”

Flur almost felt sorry for the young woman. To carry sight since childhood was no gift, but a burden of smoke and silence. She framed her next question, but Ria spoke first.

“Did they always come true?”

“No, not at first,” Rowena answered quietly. Her voice carried like a ripple across still water.

Flur leaned forward slightly, catching that thread. “What did your parents think?”

The young woman’s eyes dropped to the floor, her voice sinking with them.

“At first, they thought I was making things up, but after a few things came true, they started getting worried.”

“About you or for themselves?” Ria asked, her tone even, but the hearth crackled as if in protest.

The seeress’s quiet breath was the only sound for a long moment. “At first, I believe they were worried about me, but eventually, for themselves.” She dared to look up at the two Hin I-Balanath with hope in her eyes, fragile as moth wings. “I think they feared that if too many things came true, they’d be blamed for harboring a daemon.”

Flur locked eyes with Ria. The silence between them was heavy, like the moment before a bond-oath.

Then Flur asked the question neither wanted spoken. “What did your parents do as more and more of your predictions came true?”

“Momma tried to get the village priest to get rid of what she considered an evil spirit,” Rowena said flatly, her voice devoid of tone. The windowpanes rattled, catching a ghost of old memory. “When the priest said there was no evil spirit, Daddy called him a fool, yanked me out of the church, and took me back home.”

She shuddered, rocking slightly, as if the Croabh floor itself rocked with her. “He said he would beat the evil out of me.” Her body swayed, a rhythm of old survival. “He beat me at every chance; if he didn’t, then Momma would do it.” Tears traced silver lines down her pale cheeks as she lifted her gaze toward Flur.

Flur’s heart clenched, the edges of her bond with Rhyslin tugging hot with anger. For a breath, she saw him standing in judgment over Rowena’s parents, saw the reckoning that might have been. She swallowed it down. “How long did the beating go on?” Her own voice cracked like brittle glass.

“For five years, right up until Mistress Despoina sent one of her disciples to take me to her temple.” Rowena raised her hands to Flur, almost pleading, as if seeking absolution she could not name.

Ria’s hand moved gently to her shoulder, grounding her. “How long were you at the Temple?”

Rowena’s pain softened into warmth. “I stayed with the Oracles for eight years.” She closed her eyes, then opened them again, brighter for a heartbeat. “I left when I turned eighteen and ended up here. Maighstir Rhyslin let me stay, asking for very little.”

Flur’s brow furrowed as memory tugged at her. “Mathair mentioned something that Astinmah said about Maighstir Darkblade knowing about the Orcan attack.”

She fixed Rowena with a sharper look. “Was that your doing?”

“I saw the attack in a dream and told Maighstir Rhyslin about it. He chose to act on it.” Her voice was wistful, the fire lowering to embers as though it grieved with her.

Ria tilted her head, catching the sadness. “Did you also see the chance we would bond with him?”

When Rowena nodded, the raven-haired hin i-balanath matron sighed, heavy as wind through barren branches. “You could have kept that to yourself, and we would have never come here.”

The seeress bit her lip until it whitened. “I couldn’t have lived with myself if your people had ended up as slaves.” Tears welled again, shimmering in the firelight. “Even if it meant that he would bond with you—”

she gazed at Flur, “or you, ” her eyes shifted to Ria, “and that I would be thrown away like an old blanket.”

Flur leaned against the desk, her fingers caressing the leather writing surface as if to ground herself. “You made a hard decision, and we thank you for it.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, though her ears flushed pink.

“Why do you want to stay, and why did you ask him five times to bond with you?”

When the raven-haired seeress answered, her voice was so fragile that both Hin I-Balanath leaned closer to catch it. “Because I think I love him.”

Ria gave a slow nod, her eyes softening. “You don’t know for sure, do you?”

Rowena shook her head, shame lowering her lashes. “I was always afraid to ask, for he’s never paid me much mind or said anything about how he feels.”

Flur’s brow arched. “The Lady of Mysteries has never hinted at how he feels?”

Another shake of Rowena’s head. “She’s kept very silent about it. I’ve suspected that she can’t read his future.”

The room stilled at that, as though the Croabh floor itself hushed.

Flur gave her next question lightly, like tossing a stone into still water. “Why wait here for Maighstir Rhyslin?”

Rowena looked embarrassed, folding her hands. “He won’t allow me in his study if he’s not there.”

Flur chuckled softly and caught Ria’s attention. [Doesn’t that sound like him?]

Ria’s lips curved faintly. [It does.]

Flur’s thought brushed like warmth across the bond-thread. [I’d feel sad if we said no. She seems truthful.]

Ria tilted her head slightly left, her agreement blooming like a sigh through the air. [She does, and she’s not lying about loving him. Shall we?]

When Flur nodded, the unspoken consent hung in the room like incense.

Ria pulled Rowena into a soft embrace, and the seeress clung as though she’d been drowning all her life and had at last found air. The Croabh patterns in the floor glowed faintly, as if witnessing a new chord struck in Rhyslin’s household.

“Let’s get you ready to bond with your Maighstir.”

Thus the curtain drops for a brief intermission. However, if you wish to see behind the scenes, our players will be happy to show you our playbook.

The Draoidh's Gambit

Before you leave us, gentle reader, would you mind sharing in your wisdom?

What scene from this chapter brought warmth to your heart?

These tales endure because of those who gather to hear them. If you would remain by the fire, you are welcome here—whether as a free guest or a patron of the road.

Subscribe now

And should this story have stirred something in you, share it. There is always room for one more at the circle.

Share

Keisha skipped ahead, her laughter light as wind over leaves, and jabbed his arm with a fingertip. “Are you gonna face down the seer?”

Rhyslin shook his head. “No, I’m going to bathe.” When she poked again, he caught her finger and held it still. “Flur and Ria have asked to perform Deas-ghnàth a’ chiad diùltadh, and I’ve allowed it.”

His chest rose with a steady breath before he turned to Rana. “Are you still going to join me?”

The young spell-blade flushed, but instead of retreating she lifted her chin with a sudden spark of pride. “Yes, maighstir, I am. You still have to prove to me that you have that bathhouse.”

His answering grin matched hers, and together they turned up the path toward the manor.

“What about our luggage?” Ria asked, halting him with a raised hand. “Do we just leave it here?”

“Of course not,” Rhyslin said. “You can either carry it or wait a few minutes for the automata to fetch it.”

The three women gave him a level stare that tugged a chuckle out of him. “I didn’t tell you about the automata, did I?”

“No, maighstir mo ghràidh, you didn’t,” Flur replied, glancing to Ria, who merely shrugged.

“The dockhands who moored the ship were their larger kin,” he explained. “Their smaller cousins carry burdens, mend walls, and lend their strength to whatever task is needed.”

Even as he spoke, the earth at the foot of the hill stirred, and five stone-wrought figures climbed free of the soil with ponderous care.

“Here they are now.” Rhyslin gestured to the foremost. “Please take the luggage to the manor and set it in the foyer.”

The stone men bent with surprising gentleness, lifted each trunk as if it were no heavier than a branch, and marched uphill toward the house. The air hummed faintly with the echo of their inner cores—an old craft Rhyslin had bound into the land long ago.

“If you follow me, I’ll lead you to the foyer. From there, a servant will take you two —” he nodded toward Flur and Ria, “to my office, where I think Rowena will be waiting.”

His gaze slid to Rana, warm with amusement. “Our intrepid spell-blade and I will find the bathhouse and wash the dust of travel from our bones.”

“What should I do, Maighstir?” Keisha asked, half-skipping to keep up with his stride.

“Find Matron Foghar,” Rhyslin answered without hesitation. “Ask her if she’s willing to train you for what lies ahead.”

The dryad bit her lip, abashed, but she darted forward to wrap him in a brief, fierce hug before racing toward the grove. The green around her seemed to sigh in approval as she vanished into the trees.

The three who remained fell in step behind Rhyslin. The path wound through flowerbeds and young groves, every plant alive with the slow pulse of his decades of tending. The scent of loam and blossom mingled in the air, calming and thick as incense.

“It’s so beautiful,” Flur whispered, as though louder words might disturb the place. She bent to breathe the fragrance of a blue-petaled bloom, her voice reverent. “It must have taken you years to create this.”

“It did,” Rhyslin admitted. “Decades, to shape it as I wished. Every blade, every branch serves a purpose.” The grass beneath their feet answered faintly as he spoke, bending toward his presence.

Rana crouched and pressed her palm flat to the path. “What is this made from? It gives and flexes.”

“Ground tree bark, packed earth, and mulched grass,” he replied. “I wanted something that could endure heavy tread and still belong to the living land.” He tapped the butt of his stave against the walkway, and the ground seemed to answer with a subtle tone. “I haven’t had to do more than minor repairs in twenty years.”

“That’s amazing.” Rana rose, eyes half-closed, her breath drawn deep as if the place itself poured into her. “It smells good here.”

She turned slowly, drinking in the color and the air, her stance loosening as though she might one day belong to this soil.

Rhyslin watched, a secret smile curving his lips, and turned his head toward the horizon. He had been listening for it, and when the three Hin I-Balanath lifted their eyes as one, he knew they had heard it too: a thin, bright cry on the eastern wind.

Ria and Flur shaded their eyes with mirrored gestures. Rana’s hand fell instinctively to the hilt of her sword as she edged closer to Rhyslin, her body braced against the unseen call.

“Rhyyyyyyspeeeeeet!”

The cry cut the sky like silver thread. Rhyslin lifted his head as a blur of wings streaked down, scattering petals from the flowerbeds.

The air hummed with her passage, a bright, fey pitch that made the grass quiver and the blossoms tremble.

“It is you. You’re back.”

The fairy squealed as she flung herself against him, burrowing into his hair near his ear. Tiny wings beat against his cheek; the faint scent of nectar and wild clover clung to her. “I’ve missed you so much, Rhyspet.” She crooned, pressing quick, dew-light kisses against his earlobe.

“I’ve missed you too, Kita.” Rhyslin’s voice softened as he reached up, offering his palm. The small woman wriggled free of his hair, fluttered once, and settled into his hand. Her joy lit her features like dawn, and the weight of her presence made the air feel sharper, livelier.

The three Hin I-Balanath women leaned closer, curiosity stirring the green around them. Leaves shifted toward the fairy as if the land itself bent to her brightness. Kita spun, eyes wide.

“Oooooh, you brought new people with you.”

She zipped upward, circling Flur’s head, tugging at golden strands that glimmered like sunlit grain. “Oh, such pretty golden hair. What’s your name?”

“Flur,” the bhanna replied with a faint smile tugging at her lips. “And who are you?”

“Kita,” the fairy sang, alighting on Flur’s shoulder. “Ohhh, you’re bonded to Rhyspet, I can tell.”

Before Flur could reply, she darted to Ria, wings stirring the air like a harp’s high string. “I love your eyes; they are such a pretty green.”

When Ria extended her hand, Kita perched in her palm and peered up with scrunched delight.

“I am Ria,” she said warmly. “I’m also bonded to Rhyslin.” With a glance, she gestured toward Rana. “This is my daughter, Rana.”

“Hello, Ranapet.” Kita waved merrily. “You’re not bonded.” Her tone carried neither judgment nor pity, only fact. She turned at once and zipped back to Rhyslin. Her expression faltered, small brow knitting. “Wena’s not going to be happy.”

The concern in her tiny voice was sharp as birdsong. “Do you need me to go with you?”

Rhyslin chuckled, the sound grounding the moment. “No, not unless you want to go to the bathhouse with me.”

Kita tilted her head, wings whispering. “If you aren’t going to see Wena, who is?” Her worry hung in the air like a faint tremor, tugging at even the flowers.

“Ria and Flur will talk to Rowena first,” the draoidh assured her.

At that, Kita spun back to Ria’s waiting hand, joy returning. “I can go with you, yes?”

When Ria nodded, Kita’s laugh rang bright. “Can’t wait to see what Wena does when she sees you.”

She scampered up Ria’s arm and vanished beneath her hair near her ear, her wings buzzing softly like a secret hidden in the leaves.

“See you later, Rhyspet.”

“Fly free, Kita,” Rhyslin said with a smile. He lingered a moment, watching the fairy lead Flur and Ria up the path toward the door, before turning aside. The air felt lighter in her wake, though the mention of Rowena pressed like a shadow on his thoughts.

Rhyslin hummed low in his chest as he stepped off the path, the sound carrying like a deep note through the meadow. He bent, unlaced his boots, and set them aside.

A smile softened his face as he spread his toes in the grass. The earth answered at once, warmth seeping up through soil and root, threads of life tugging back into his being.

Rana watched, eyes wide, as though afraid to blink and miss some hidden ritual.

When Rhyslin closed his eyes, posture settling into a rare ease, the air itself hushed. A bird trilled once in the branches and then fell silent, listening.

She hesitated only a moment before following suit, pulling free her boots and sinking to her knees in the grass. Pressing both palms flat, she giggled softly when a beetle clambered across her skin, its tiny weight a tickling benediction.

When she lifted her gaze again, Rhyslin was seated beside her, his presence steady as stone.

“How much can you feel?” He gestured lightly to the land around them.

Rana worried her lower lip, searching for words. “Almost everything. I can feel the flowers reaching for the sun. I can feel the trees and grass, and I can feel some of the animals.”

She tilted her head toward the tall willow whose branches brushed the ground.

Her brow quirked. “Why does that one feel so odd?”

Rhyslin followed her glance, closing his eyes again. For a moment his breathing matched the sway of leaves. “I see. That’s a Seileach tree, and for as long as I’ve been here, the Dryad inside has been asleep. I keep hoping she’ll wake, but she’s content to sleep.”

The young spellblade reached over and caught his hand. Her fingers were warm against his, her voice quieter. “Maybe she feels safe, so she doesn’t need to be awake.” She traced the lines of his palm with reverence, almost as though reading runes written into his skin. “I understand how she feels.”

“Oh? How’s that?” He curled his fingers lightly around hers, anchoring the touch.

A playful smile tugged at her lips. “From the moment I boarded your ship, I felt safe.” She edged closer, grass bending beneath her knees. “I’ve slept better than I have for eight years.”

When he did not move to stop her, Rana slipped into his lap, her head finding his shoulder as if it belonged there. Yet simple nearness was not enough; a whimper escaped her throat—fragile, seeking.

Rhyslin’s arms came around her at once, closing her in. At that, her whole body melted, settling against him, as if the earth itself had exhaled in relief.

So still were they in that embrace that neither noticed the tree stir. The bark of the Seileach whispered apart, forming a doorway, and a fox-eared dryad peeked through.

Gold eyes gleamed beneath the sweep of willow-shadow. She watched the pair a long moment, tail swishing once in faint approval, before retreating back into her tree.

Thus the curtain drops for a brief intermission. However, if you wish to see behind the scenes, our players will be happy to show you our playbook.

The Draoidh's Gambit

Before you leave us, gentle reader, would you mind sharing in your wisdom?

What scene from this chapter brought warmth to your heart?

These tales endure because of those who gather to hear them. If you would remain by the fire, you are welcome here—whether as a free guest or a patron of the road.

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Whilst our bard rests, with dreams of the ancients drifting through his mind, we thought you should know—

The Sheriff’s Oath, the next tale in the Law Keepers Chronicles, has been released.

Should it please you, step next door:

https://joseph-l-wiess-author.com/

and claim your copy.

We look forward to your company at the bard’s next telling of The Draoidh’s Gambit.
We trust you are enjoying the journey thus far.

Till next time,
Nai i rath rîdha an i-thelir lîn.

The cast have waited patiently for our return. The great ship Dawn-Breaker holds fast in the skies above Am Flur Manza and longs for nothing more than the road home.

If this is your first time walking these roads, you may begin the earlier tale here:
https://josephwiess.substack.com/p/introduction-and-chapter-one

And should you wish to see it through to its end, the full journey awaits you here:

https://joseph-l-wiess-author.com/

Now, with the stage set and the players ready, we give you—

The clouds thinned around them as the Dawn Breaker descended, her hull groaning like an old tree bending before a storm. Veils of vapor curled away from her sails, trailing streamers of silver that clung to the rigging as if reluctant to let go. The sky still cradled them, offering freedom of movement, but the earth below pulled with its heavier promise, safety of hearth, safety of home.

The hundred-and-fifty-foot galleon steadied her fall as the heavens gave way to bright air. At her prow, the draoidh bent over the scrying orb, its surface clouded with pale light that swam and reformed into the terrain below.

The glass throbbed faintly beneath his hand, each beat like the pulse of the land itself.

“How does it look?” Marcus inquired as he stepped up behind his friend.

Rhyslin straightened, the faint sheen of prana still lingering in his eyes. “It looks like home,” he replied with a smile, and for a heartbeat the orb glimmered brighter, as if affirming his words.

The ranger nodded, stretching his arms with a ripple of muscle and leather, his joints cracking like old branches. “I can’t wait to be on solid ground.” He would have leapt from the ship and walked the leagues barefoot if given half the chance.

Rhyslin understood well enough.

Though he loved the sweep of sky beneath the keel, there were times he longed for the simple rustle of leaves overhead and the loam beneath his boots. “We’ve only been airborne for a week,” he teased.

“A week there, three weeks aground, and two weeks back. I miss the feel of dirt under my feet.” The ranger leaned slightly over the prow, his cloak tugged by the wind. Below, the land rippled with shadow and light, far too distant for mercy.

“Don’t fall overboard,” Rhyslin warned, eyes glinting. “We’re still high up. You’d make a wonderful splat on the ground.”

Marcus squinted down at the dizzying height, then grunted. “I guess I’ll just have to wait a bit. I guess now’s a good time to tell you something.”

When Rhyslin arched a brow, the ranger’s voice grew solemn, steady as bedrock. “If anything untoward happens to me, you get Nat and the kids.”

Rhyslin stared at Marcus, aghast, hand rising instinctively to his chest as if to ward off the enormity of the words. “You are, without a doubt, the strangest person I’ve ever met. Imagine a man so twisted that he would hand his wife and children —”

Marcus interrupted, the humor in his eyes breaking the solemn air. “And Saor-shealbh.”

“His wife, children, and his saor-shealbh—”

“Don’t forget my pack.”

“Yes, yes, and your pack,” Rhyslin echoed, shaking his head. Then he paused, truly considering.

“Your pack would follow me?” His gaze sharpened, measuring Marcus with sudden seriousness.

Marcus nodded once. “You are Mathair Astinmah’s son,” he said simply, as if that were the only proof required.

“Or so she keeps telling me,” Rhyslin muttered, half bitter, half amused. Then his tone dropped, threading with a darker resonance. “You know, I may not live past tonight. Then it would be you inheriting my bonds and property.”

“You’re full of it,” the ranger said, laughter spilling into the wind. “Here’s what I think will happen.” He waited until the draoidh turned that storm-colored glare upon him. “I think your Flur and Ria requested Daes-ghath-a-chaid dioladh and will talk with your seer for several hours before bringing her to you for binding.”

Rhyslin’s mouth tightened. “You think all that will happen, do you? That is very specific for a hunch.” His fingers traced a lazy rune in the air, prana answering faintly in the rigging before fading, drawing a chortle from the ranger.

“I may have overheard them discussing it the other day.”

“I thought as much,” Rhyslin smirked. Silence fell, but it was not empty; the air trembled with the faint whirr of unseen wings, the rigging of the Dawn Breaker creaking as though the ship itself leaned in to listen. The orb at the prow pulsed once, like a heart responding to the cadence of their thoughts. At length, Rhyslin asked carefully, “Do you think Despoina will—?”

“Tell Rowena step by step how to get what she wants,” Marcus said with a shrug. “She’ll know exactly what to do.”

Rhyslin’s jaw tightened. The protest formed in his throat but withered; Marcus would only counter with the same truth he always carried—that Astinmah called Rhyslin son.

The weight of divine expectation pressed across his shoulders like the yardarm above his head, heavier than timber or rope. He turned back to the horizon, frowning, as the light dimmed behind a gauze of passing cloud.

“A sgillin for your thoughts,” Marcus grinned, as if reading the current beneath Rhyslin’s silence.

“Just thinking about the gods and their taghta.” Rhyslin shrugged, not even sparing a glance. The word carried on the wind like a bell tolling at a funeral, hollow and sure.

When the ranger grunted, Rhyslin muttered under his breath. “Go ahead and say it.”

“Nope, got nothing to say.”

“Really?” Rhyslin blinked when Marcus only nodded. “That’s a first. Usually, I can’t get you to shut up.”

The ranger’s grin widened, sly as a fox basking in firelight.

Rhyslin shook his head, exasperated.

“Since each god has a taghta,” Marcus teased, “does that mean you are a’ Mathair’s taghta?”

“Not on your life,” Rhyslin shook with mirth. His laugh rolled low, but the smile that followed was laced with weariness. “I know her too well to be a true disciple.” His gaze drifted, shadows etching deeper across his brow.

“I would probably drive her believers away if I told them the truth about her.” He knew, even as he said it, that they’d never go that far.

“What truth would that be?” Marcus looked at the draoidh, eyes narrowing with the kind of curiosity that smelled faintly of danger.

Rather than answer, Rhyslin leaned lazily against the rail, his expression sliding toward boredom. The wind tugged at his cloak, whispering as if eager to spill what he would not. “What do all women want, even if they deny it?”

Marcus glanced at his friend, uncertain where this road would lead. “A strong man, a home, a family, love, and protection.” The words left his mouth by rote, worn smooth by generations.

The draoidh confirmed them with a rhetorical question, his voice weighted like a stone dropped into still water.

“Can it be any different for a goddess?”

The ranger blinked, shocked. “Truly?”

Rhyslin nodded somberly. Even the sails overhead stilled in the lull, as though the ship itself leaned closer to the confession.

“He who watches created this world as a refuge for a’ Mathair after her gardens were all destroyed on the world that was.”

He paused just as the women drew near, their steps soft on the deck, the air shifting with the scent of resin and sky-salt. “Mathair Astinmah is not a creator goddess.” His eyes swept across them, gauging the weight of his words as silence pressed heavy as fog. “A’ Mathair is a nurturing goddess.”

When Rana looked skeptical, Rhyslin continued, his tone gentling like rainfall through leaves. “She loves wild growing places; she surrounds herself with Dryads and nature spirits. She doesn’t want to fight and has welcomed refugees from other worlds and planes.”

He glanced at Marcus, who nodded, leaning against his staff with a faint creak of wood against wood.

“A’ Mathair doesn’t want to rule,” he added with a snort. Natolie’s chuckle broke the tension like kindling snapping in a fire. Rhyslin’s voice dropped, mournful now. “Why do you think she keeps trying to give me that horrible crown?”

The lake stretched wide below them, a mirror of still steel beneath the Dawn Breaker’s keel.

The air smelled faintly of damp iron and pine, touched with the resinous sharpness of dockside forests.

“I wondered about that,” Marcus admitted, then looked away as O’Cuire raised a hand to signal the crew. “I think it’s about time.”

“Time for what?” Rana asked the ranger, her eyes bright with eagerness.

“To hit the water,” Marcus said with a grin.

Rhyslin shook his head, the wind teasing strands of his pale hair. “Not this time. That creature did enough damage to the hull that a water landing might sink her.”

Marcus winced, breath hitching as memory clawed up—the void monster, its maw tearing into planks, two crewmen vanishing with only a scream. “By Nan Diathan, I forgot about that.”

Rhyslin arched his left brow, a shadow of humor covering the steel in his gaze. “You’re getting forgetful in your old age.” He tried to make it a jest, though the ship beneath their feet still bore scars.

Marcus leaned against the rail, the wood creaking in sympathy. “Just you wait, young man. One day it’ll be you who’s forgetting things.”

Rana, thrumming with energy like a bowstring drawn too long, waited until the two men were through their sparring.

“If you aren’t landing in water, where are you going to dock?”

“The drydock,” Rhyslin said simply, his voice carrying the weight of decision as his eyes followed the ship’s captain.

O’Cuire stood with the practiced calm of command, gaze sweeping upward as the lower sails were furled and lashed to the yardarms. Canvas rippled like sighing ghosts, the Dawn Breaker easing into a slow hover over the cradle prepared for her.

“Andros, let me know when we are in position.”

The earth elemental knelt on the deck, his fingers splaying across the planks as though the ship’s bones were his own. Closing his eyes, he reached downward with his senses, threads of earthen resonance finding the cold iron blocks below. The timbers hummed faintly beneath his touch.

He waited until the vessel’s heart aligned with the cradle’s, then opened his eyes. “Now, sir.”

The captain drew his right hand to his chest. Along the yards, the topsails fell into place with a sound like wings folding, the ship’s forward thrust dwindling into stillness. Hovering now, twenty feet above the lake’s glassy skin, she seemed to breathe.

O’Cuire glanced at Andros again, and when the elemental gave a steady nod, the captain signaled. Fore and aft anchors uncoiled with a thunder of links, the heavy cables plunging toward earth.

Rana darted to the rail, hair flying, leaning over just far enough to glimpse the world below. The air rose cool and empty, the anchors vanishing into shadow.

She studied the process with fascination as the deck crew barked orders and secured equipment. “Are they not using the capstan?” She stumbled slightly over the word, self-conscious.

“No, the capstan isn’t needed.” Rhyslin’s eyes narrowed, catching something in her tone. “What did you see when you looked down?”

Rana answered quickly, too quickly. “Nothing. What was I supposed to see?” Her pulse thrummed like the taut rigging overhead, her whole body alive with restless, questioning energy.

The Dawn Breaker groaned faintly beneath their feet, as if she too was waiting for an answer.

“You’ll see in a minute,” Rhyslin commented, his gaze flicking toward Andros. “Andros, are they down there?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Flur and Ria at the rail, hair stirring in the wind, bracing themselves with the ease of women long accustomed to flight.

He was about to warn Rana when he noticed her knees bend, balance sure as a sailor’s. Instead of reaching for the railing, she crossed the deck in three light steps, took his staff just below his hand, and spun in a graceful half-turn until she was pressed back against him, her body settling with startling familiarity into the curve of his.

Rhyslin arched a brow as she drew his right hand across her abdomen, anchoring herself in his touch.

“Am I suddenly the most secure thing on the deck?” His fingers spread across the dome of her belly, feeling the warmth of life beneath, the rise and fall of her breath.

Rana nodded, cheeks flushed pink, the tips of her ears burning. She tilted her head up, her green eyes vivid against her dusky skin, her aquiline nose catching the slant of light. Her lips curled in a grin both impudent and shy.

The draoidh studied her profile, the way youth and fire mingled there. She rocked her hips back, brushing across his manhood with deliberate mischief.

“If you don’t stop that,” he warned, voice deepening, “you’re going to get into trouble.”

His attempt to keep from responding to her, failed as her grin sharpened into a devious smile, and she pressed harder, playful defiance in every movement.

His tone cut low, steel wrapped in velvet. “If you don’t stop this, I will take you over my knees and tan your hide.”

Beneath his palm her belly tightened, then shivered as though a storm passed through her. Rana froze, lips parting into a perfect O, a sound spilling soft as prayer.

More shivers coursed through her frame, trembling beneath his fingers. That sealed it, truth unveiled.

She was submissive, her soul yielding as naturally as breath. Rhyslin closed his eyes and prayed to Mathair Astinmah for patience, the goddess’ silence pressing back upon him like the sea against a hull.

Before the moment could deepen, the timbers of the dock boomed. A shadow fell across the ship as the first iron golem stepped into view. Fifteen feet tall, its metallic frame gleamed, runes pulsing faintly across bronze-like plates. It halted at sight of Rhyslin, then raised an arm in solemn greeting.

Rana gasped, pointing excitedly. “What is that?”

“It’s an iron golem.”

The massive construct’s gesture echoed with the scrape of metal on metal. Rhyslin inclined his head in return, acknowledging the ancient thing as one master to another.

Seconds later, the ground trembled as the second golem appeared, each step landing with the weight of thunder.

The Dawn Breaker eased into the cradle’s embrace, the air alive with the smell of heated iron and the creak of straining timbers as she was secured.

Rhyslin caught the captain’s attention with a measured glance, the weight of command pressing in the air.

“I’ll be in my office. Let me know when the men are off-loaded and ready to leave.”

The timber of his voice carried through the planks like a drumbeat, and the captain dipped his head in assent. Only then did Rhyslin turn, cloak stirring faintly as though drawn by a hidden current, and stride back into his office.

The room was cooler, shadows wrapped close by the tall bookshelves, the faint tang of ink and leather softening the air.

Ria, Flur, and Rana trailed behind him, their presence folding into the space like threads woven through a tapestry.

“Do you mind going and packing our things?” Rhyslin asked, turning toward Flur.

“Of course not, maighstir.” Her voice was warm as a hearthfire, and she brushed a kiss to his cheek, a spark of light in the dim chamber.

Then she caught Rana’s hand, tugging her with a playful urgency, skirts whispering as they slipped out. The door hushed closed, and silence returned like a waiting breath.

Left alone, Ria’s fingers toyed with the folds of her skirt. The air shifted with her hesitation, a fragile flutter like leaves stirred in a half-wind. “What can I do, Maighstir?” Her green eyes flickered from him to the bookshelf, then back again, restless.

“Help me find a leather-bound book with a green spine.” His voice was muffled, head bent into a drawer, the rasp of papers and wood filling the pause. “I know I had that book when we left the manse.”

Ria moved toward the shelves, fingertips grazing the spines as though the books might whisper their secrets. She thought, with a twist in her chest, that Rhyslin had more volumes here than she had owned in her entire household.

Then,a flash of green. She drew the book gently, reverently, holding it aloft. “Is this the one?”

The Draoidh looked up from the box by his desk. “Yes, that’s the one. You’re a gem.”

The praise lit her cheeks in a slow-burning blush, warmth that pulsed down into her chest.

She beamed despite herself, and the very boards beneath her feet seemed to hum with the shared spark.

“What’s so important about this book?” She held it toward him, offering.

“Take a look and see if you can figure it out.” He leaned back, gaze steady, inviting.

She laid the book on the desk and opened it with care. The scent of ink and parchment drifted up like a memory. Her eyes flickered across elegant script, the names breathing like ghosts from the page. “It’s a ledger, isn’t it?” She glanced up, catching the tilt of his nod. “But it’s not a general ledger.”

Her finger traced a line like a pilgrim along a prayer-bead. “Lieutenant Isom Istare, commander of the Blackguards, Forty-nine soldiers.” Her hand trembled faintly as she turned another page.

“Ranger Commander Marcus Tanner, Natolie Tanner, Twenty-five Ranger scouts, twenty-four Infernal soldiers.”

Her voice softened as she touched another line. “Sergeant Torval—” The name flared across her cheeks, a betraying blush. “Twenty soldiers, 1 cannon crew, four Magaidhean.” She looked up, breath quickening. “It’s a paybook, isn’t it?”

“That it is.” Rhyslin’s grin broke the tension, a warm light through a storm cloud. “And before we can go to the manse, we must fix one small thing.”

When she arched a brow, he continued, “The original contract was for three weeks, and thanks to Mathair’s meddling, my three-day sleep, and the weeks of travel back, I owe them three extra weeks pay.”

He leaned back, stretching, the wood of his chair creaking like old trees in wind. “Do you see the bundles of square tickets?”

She nodded, eyes finding them.

“Each of those bundles goes to the captains of the squads. We must add three extra ticks to each ticket and then get them to each captain before they can dismiss their men.”

Ria calculated silently, lips pursing, the quill and ink already shaping themselves in her imagination. “I can get them done in two hours,” she admitted, concern touching her tone. “Is it fair to make them stand out in the sun that long?”

“No, it’s not.” Rhyslin’s voice gentled, the air itself easing. “Since it’s my fault they got delayed, I’ll take half of those. That should cut it down to an hour.”

She pulled two of the four bundles and handed them across the desk. His hand brushed hers as he gave her quill and ink, a fleeting spark that left her pulse unsteady.

“May we help, maighstir?”

Both looked up to see Flur and Rana hovering in the doorway, the light from the hall framing them like figures in a painted triptych.

“It’ll go quicker if you have more hands.” Flur’s tone was lilting; Rana’s gaze steady as iron.

Rhyslin studied them for a breath, then nodded. “Very well. Grab a stack and add three ticks to each ticket. You don’t have to do this.”

“We know, Maighstir, but we want to.” Rana’s voice cut firm, certain, as she took a quill and settled beside Ria.

Together they bent over the desk, four pairs of hands scratching ink across parchment. The sound was steady, almost ritualistic, like prayer chimes ringing in unison. With every tick, time compressed, labor transformed into intimacy.

After forty-five minutes, Rana set down her quill with a flourish. “Done!” She wiped it clean and placed it in Rhyslin’s hand. “Now what?”

“I want each of you to take a stack of tickets and find a captain,” Rhyslin said, gathering his. “I’ll take these to Marcus.”

“No, you won’t.”

Keisha breezed through the doorway, her presence carrying the crisp scent of green wood. “I’ll take those and find Maighstir Marcus.” She plucked the stack from his hand with dryad quickness.

When he frowned, she only laughed, sticking out her tongue before darting away, laughter echoing down the hall.

“I’ll go find Torval,” Ria murmured, clutching her bundle. She slipped away quietly, the echo of her footsteps like a heartbeat receding.

Rana glanced down at her stack. “I’ll go find Lieutenant Istare.” Before Rhyslin could guide her, she had already vanished into the corridor.

Flur lingered, reading her slip. “That leaves me with Captain K’Tek.” Her brow furrowed briefly. “That’s the Infernal that signed the accords, right?”

When Rhyslin nodded, she smiled. “I think I saw him with some of his men at the gangplank.”

She leaned down, unable to resist, lips brushing his in a quick kiss that tasted of daring. “I’ll be back shortly, Maighstir,” she whispered, and with a wink she was gone, skirt swaying like a flame caught in wind.

The office fell quiet again, charged with the fading echoes of their footsteps and laughter, the hush of duty completed, intimacy left hanging in the air.

Rhyslin stared at the door long after it closed, his thoughts scattered like leaves in a restless wind. He had gone from solitude to being surrounded by four women, with the promise of yet another to come. The weight of it pressed against him—not crushing, but disorienting. He pushed back from the desk and rose slowly, as if standing might steady his mind.

From somewhere in the rafters of the world, laughter rippled across the air. He tilted his head, lips curling despite himself.
“Of course, you’d think this is funny,” he muttered. His voice was softer now, reverent in its weariness. “But despite your sense of humor, I do love you, Mathair.”

The laughter faded, leaving behind a hush so tender it stirred the fine hairs at his temple.

He could almost swear he felt fingers stroke across his scalp, mother-gentle, reminding him he was never as alone as he sometimes feared.

By the time he stepped out onto the quarterdeck, the air itself had changed. Two hundred soldiers stood at attention, their stillness pressing like a living wall. Their captains and lieutenants flanked them, a row of steel and discipline.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, carrying only the creak of timbers and the faint scent of iron and sweat.

⋘─────━⟐━─────⋙

When Rhyslin appeared, the line of warriors moved as one. Each fist pressed over the heart, each arm extended outward to open palm. The gesture shimmered with unspoken oath.

The draoidh returned their salute, his fingers cutting through the air as he traced a rune that flared briefly, bright as dawnfire. His voice carried, filling not just ears but chests, until the deck itself seemed to resonate with his words.

“Soldiers of the Saor-shealbhaidhean, I want to thank you for all you’ve done.”

A thunder of cheers broke loose, a storm of joy held just barely in check.

He waited, patient as stone, until the waves ebbed.

“It is a testament to your training, your honor, and your determination that you defeated an army almost twice your size.”

The cheers rose again, mingled with whoops that carried the relief of survivors. Somewhere in the crowd, steel boots stamped in time with the cries, grounding the noise in rhythm.

When at last silence reclaimed the space, Rhyslin’s gaze swept the ranks. It felt, to each soldier, as though his eyes had lingered on them alone. Such was the draoidh’s gift—and his burden.

“I am deeply indebted that you chose to stay near me while I was unconscious and acted as the protectors of the Hin I-Balanath. You could have easily returned to your homes and been here sooner.”

The murmured refusals came low, a tide of voices pushing back against the thought, carrying with them the taste of iron loyalty.

“You have acted beyond the scope of your contract,” Rhyslin continued, his tone firm now, ritual-deep. “And because you did so, I am going to add three weeks to your contract and pay you for those weeks.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a ticket. The square slip gleamed faintly, ink and promise woven together.

“Each of you should have your pay stub.”

Hands lifted, a few stubs raised toward the waning light as if in silent offering.

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can start cashing in the paystubs tomorrow morning after sunrise. Until then, enjoy the night with your families and friends.”

This time, he raised his arm first, fist to heart, hand opening like a blessing. The salute rippled outward, mirrored by two hundred strong, until the entire quarterdeck throbbed with a single heartbeat of loyalty.

The captains’ voices cracked like thunder, “Dismissed!” followed by the sergeants echoing the command, their words scattering the formation like sparks across dry wood.

The soldiers broke apart, laughter and relief rising into the evening air, carried on the wind that still smelled faintly of runes and reverence.

Do not wander far, gentle reader—stay but a moment while the cast makes ready for the next chapter.

And should your curiosity outrun patience, the manuscript awaits upon yon table.

The Draoidh's Gambit

While we sit a moment longer by the fire, gentle reader, may I ask—

What in the opening first caught your eye?

What moment stayed with you?

Who among the cast has drawn your interest?

And is there a line or scene that lingers still?

I don’t usually share information like this unless I think it might genuinely be useful. Recently, I came across a company offering two services that both readers and authors may find interesting.

Tertulia.com

I first discovered Tertulia.com when IngramSpark offered me an author page through their platform.

After doing a bit of research, I learned that Tertulia is a co-operative online bookstore. Their goal is to build an online book marketplace that offers an alternative to Amazon.

If you join Tertulia for $25 per year (yes — per year, not per month), you become a member of the co-op and receive a small ownership share in the company. Members also receive book discounts ranging from 10% to 50%.

Unlike Amazon, many of the books sold through Tertulia come from IngramSpark authors, which means a lot of independent writers are represented there.

Needless to say, I decided to join. IngramSpark offered a 30-day free membership, and once that ends I plan to continue with the yearly subscription.

I’ve always liked the idea of supporting something like this — a bookstore owned by its members.

For that reason, I’d recommend taking a look at Tertulia for both readers and fellow authors.

Tertulia Author Pages

I also discovered Tertulia’s Author Pages, which allow writers to build a personal storefront for their books.

There are two versions available:

Basic Author Page — $12/month

This version allows you to create a page that lists your paperback books and lets readers choose where to purchase them.
By default, the purchase options include:

• Amazon

• Tertulia

• Bookshop.org

• Barnes & Noble

Upgraded Author Page — $19/month

The upgraded version adds several additional features. It allows you to sell:

• eBooks (EPUB, PDF, TXT, and legacy Kindle MOBI)

• Signed paperbacks

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Payments are processed through Stripe and deposited directly into your bank account.

My author page is now live here:

https://joseph-l-wiess-author.com/

I’ve already added my EPUB editions to the site, so you can purchase my ebooks directly there.

For paperbacks, I’d prefer readers in the United States purchase them through Tertulia.com, while international readers can use the IngramSpark links.

As I have time, I’ll also be adding additional IngramSpark distribution links for Europe and Australia.

If you’re an author considering it, I’d personally recommend the upgraded version, depending on how much you want to do with your storefront.

Thank you for reading, and I hope this makes it a little easier for you to find and enjoy my stories.
I’m always looking for ways to make my books more accessible to readers.

Brandyn stood at the center of the common room, eyes roaming across the sprawled shapes of his patrons. His count faltered at a dozen. So many, he thought, his heart tightening. “Come on, Lucy.” His voice broke the stillness. “We have to see who’s dead and who’s alive.”

Lucy disentangled herself from his arms, shivering. The air still carried a chill that wasn’t natural. “How many do you suppose are dead?” she asked, brushing her arms as though to shake off unseen eyes.

“Hopefully none,” the barkeep muttered, stepping away from the safety of the bar. His boots creaked on the floorboards that had seen laughter, song, and spilled ale the night before. Now they only whispered. He knelt beside the nearest man, placed two fingers against his throat , and sighed as warmth still pulsed beneath his skin. “This one’s alive.” He adjusted the body reverently, folding the man’s arms as one might a fallen comrade.

Lucy mirrored him at the next table. “So is she.” Her voice was steadier now, anchored by hope.

It took them twenty long minutes to move among the bodies, twenty minutes of breath and silence of heartbeats slowly returning to rhythm. When they met again by the bar, Brandyn leaned against the counter, shoulders heavy. “Ten men, eight women. All alive , just asleep.” He frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you remember how many guests we had?”

Lucy shook her head. “No, Maighstir. Should we check upstairs?” She didn’t want to, not with that strange quiet pressing down like snowfall, but she already knew the answer.

“It couldn’t hurt,” he said, and started for the stairs. “Better to check and find them all alive, than find a dead body later.”

His mouth twitched into a weary smile. “If you don’t want to search upstairs, you can stay down here.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “Stay here, with all them looking like that? Nope.” She shook her head frantically. “I’m going with you.”

They climbed together. The floorboards creaked beneath their steps, the only sound besides their breathing.

Upstairs, the rooms smelled faintly of lavender soap and spilled cider, and every door they opened revealed only stillness and the soft, steady rise and fall of sleeping chests. When they came back down, relief sat heavy in their limbs, a kind of exhausted grace.

At the bar again, Brandyn poured them both a drink. “All alive,” he murmured. The words should have comforted him. Instead, they hung hollow. He raised his cup halfway to his lips , and froze. “Did you hear that?”

Lucy blinked. “Hear what?” She looked at him, concern softening her face. “The only thing I hear is their breathing.” She gestured to the sleepers along the wall, half joking.

Brandyn frowned. “I thought I heard a war horn.”

“Are you sure you aren’t hearing the flute from earlier?” Lucy teased gently, pressing her palm to his forehead as though checking for fever.

He brushed her hand away, growling low. “No, what I heard wasn’t a flute. It sounded like a war horn.”

Something in his tone silenced her. The air shifted again, the faintest hum in the rafters, like the after-ring of metal struck upon metal. Then Lucy, hesitant, changed the subject with a question that had lingered since their bonding. “Maighstir,” she said softly, “now that you’ve bonded me, what are you going to expect from me?”

Her earnestness startled him. He took a slow breath, searching for words. “I expect you to continue to do your job. Serve our patrons as if you are serving me, and always be on your best behavior.” He caught her hands and placed them against his heart, a gesture both simple and binding.

The barmaid blushed. “What if I misbehave?” she asked, eyes bright with a teasing hope.

Brandyn lifted a brow. “If you misbehave, I will have to punish you.”

She smiled at that, a woman finally at peace with the strength of the man she’d chosen. “Will you ever expect me to dance for our patrons?”

He blinked, taken off guard. Scratching his chin, he frowned. “Maybe.”

The sound came again, faint, distant, unmistakable. A war horn. This time, Lucy heard it too. It rolled through the inn like thunder’s breath, and the glasses on the shelves trembled in their hooks. Brandyn’s eyes widened. “That sounds almost like a Clarion Call.”

Almost as if the horn had summoned them, the front door burst open. Two men stormed in, breathless, their boots striking the wood with purpose. One wore a cloak of restless colors, hues chasing each other like wind over water; the other, a ranger in black and tan, plucked the string of the bow slung over his shoulder.

“Brandyn, was that a Clarion Call I heard?” the first demanded.

Brandyn blinked, still leaning against the bar. “Did you hear it twice?”

“Yes,” said the ranger. “And there’s no mistaking that sound. Only captains get Clarion Calls.”

“Then there’s your answer.” Brandyn straightened. “There’s a Black Swan captain in town. He saved Heather from Brutus.”

The two men exchanged looks. Brandyn grinned. “See what happens when you don’t visit daily?”

“Go on,” grunted the ranger.

“We think the witch beguiled us with her music and kidnapped Heather. The captain went after her.”

The men swore under their breath. “We should’ve hunted down Brutus and his cronies months ago.”

Brandyn gave them a flat look. “You two griped about it after Dafyd and his deputies were killed , then got drunk and forgot.”

Silence hung a heartbeat, then the old soldier in him stirred again, that long-sleeping discipline thrumming awake. “If you two are hearing the war horn, then there’s no choice but for us to help him.”

He turned toward Lucy, his voice softening. “You know where I keep my leathers, right?”

She blinked in surprise but nodded.

“Go grab them. We have people to save.”

Lucy stood frozen, her lips parted, no sound coming out. Brandyn hesitated, then invoked the one truth that would move her heart. “He was the one who assisted us with the bonding ceremony.”

The words broke her hesitation like glass.

“Yes, Maighstir.”

Lucy was gone in a flurry of skirts, light-footed as a promise kept. Her steps rang up the stairwell, the soft thunder of devotion.

Brandyn stood still for a breath. The silence that followed was not silence at all—it was charged, humming faintly, as though the gods themselves inhaled with him. Behind him, the two men who had answered the call adjusted their cloaks, faces drawn taut with recognition. For the first time in many years, The Black Swan was no longer just a tavern, it was a garrison waking from slumber.

Somewhere in the marrow of the world, a god’s horn still echoed. The note hung over the town like a dream of war, like a warning to the righteous heart.

Brandyn turned from the sound and reached above the bar. His fingers closed around the haft of the war-axe. The iron whispered against the wood as he pulled it down, the edge catching light like dawn on old steel.

He turned next to the wall, where his shield hung—painted with three chevrons, the mark of a man who had once carried command. When he lifted it from its hooks, dust fell away like a benediction.

While he waited for the tavern maiden’s return, Brandyn tested the edge of the axe with the pad of his thumb. Still sharp. Still ready. So was he.

“Here you go, Maighstir,” Lucy’s voice came from behind, small and breathless but steady. She held the folded leathers in both arms as though bearing a holy relic.

Brandyn nodded his thanks. The armor creaked as he pulled it over his head, the scent of oiled hide and smoke rising like incense. The tunic was a bit tight, his years at the bar had not been kind, but it would hold.

The leather pants followed, fastened over linen. He flexed his knees, testing the fit. The old gear remembered him.

Before he could turn, Lucy wrapped her arms around him, trembling. “Maighstir, please be careful. I don’t want to lose you.” Brandyn froze, the war-axe heavy in his hand.

She looked up at him through wet lashes, courage and fear braided together in her eyes. Then, before doubt could still her, she kissed him—fierce, clumsy, full of everything she could not say.

“If anything happens to you,” she whispered, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

The tavern master coughed and stepped back, daring the two men to laugh. Neither did. They only bowed their heads, as if witnessing something sacred.

Brandyn ruffled her hair gently. “I’ll be careful, I promise. When I return, we’ll consummate this bond.”

That promise hung between them like a prayer.

Then the soldier in him reawakened. He rested the axe upon his shoulder, hefted the shield, and started for the door.
“Come on, guys, let’s go. We have a captain to rescue.”

“Right behind ya, Lieu,” the two men echoed as they fell into step. Their boots struck the floorboards like the slow heartbeat of fate.

Outside, the street was washed in the faint blue of dawn, the world holding its breath between fear and hope. Brandyn glanced down the lane. “Do you remember what direction the call came from?”

The ranger pointed north. “That way.”

And they went—three men walking toward war, each with the shadow of a god at his back.

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Far away, in the labyrinth below the town, Balgair listened to the muffled clamor of men searching for him. His body was bruised, his breath thin, yet his heart was steady. He knelt in the darkness, speaking softly.

“Thank you, Lord Huitzilopochtli. I will try to bring you honor.”

The words felt foreign in his mouth. He had never prayed to the War-God before; he was no zealot, no glory-hunter. He had joined the Black Swans out of necessity, not zeal. What began as a six-month contract had stretched into years, a lifetime of blades and sleepless roads. His two bonds still waited on the small farm he’d meant to return to.

He bowed his head, voice raw. “But why would you help me, a man who doesn’t glory in war?”

The air shifted. The stone beneath him seemed to breathe. Then came a weight, not crushing, but absolute.

When he lifted his eyes, he stood atop a mountain beneath a red sky. Two armies clashed in the valley below, their banners like bleeding stars.

“What the ifrinn…” he muttered, reaching instinctively for his sword.

“Your thoughts bring you honor,” said a voice behind him—deep, calm, inexorable.

Balgair turned and froze. The god before him was carved from battle itself: black and red paint across his arms, eagle-beaked helm shadowing eyes like twin suns swallowed by night. His presence hummed through the air, a note too vast for mortal breath.

“Not all conflicts are great battles, Chain-maker,” Huitzilopochtli said. “Some wars are fought within the soul.”

The god extended a hand toward him, the gesture neither command nor blessing, but invitation. “You honor my sister by keeping your word and seeking balance. Could I do less, when you need aid?”

Balgair lowered his head, overwhelmed. “Why does everyone think that I’m a Sagarte of Ananke?” He spread his arms helplessly. “If I look like a priest, I don’t see it.”

The god’s laughter rolled like distant thunder. “You have a singular view of what a Sagart is. You are no temple-bound monk. But you work, you keep your oaths, you mend the broken.” His eyes softened. “You are a chain-maker in truth.”

The words rang through Balgair’s chest, echoing against the old scars of his conscience.

“You rescued those who were bound in darkness,” the god continued. “You defend those who cannot defend themselves. You are not merely a servant of Ananke, Balgair, you are her reflection in flesh. Perhaps a ridire naomh.”

The words struck him silent. A holy knight? Him?

The god seemed to sense the doubt. “You rode alone into danger to save a woman you barely know. That is no soldier’s duty—it is a calling.”

Balgair’s throat worked. “But I can’t do this alone.”

“You won’t,” the War-God said simply. “They are gathering—the ones who believe in law and order. They will find you.”

He turned his gaze toward the valley, where the battle raged on, a vision of every conflict in every age. “This world needs guardians. Have you ever thought of being a sheriff?”

Balgair blinked, startled by the earthliness of it. “But I have a Saor-Shealbh. A small farm—”

Huitzilopochtli raised one brow, voice stern now. “You have two bonds who have not seen you in five months. It is your faith in my sister that holds them. Would it not serve them better if you had roots? A stead, a purpose beyond coin?”

The words burned with quiet truth.

“Switch contracts,” the god urged. “Become the leader these people need.”

The mountain wind rose, hot and scented of iron. Balgair closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his years, the ache in his shoulders, the faint warmth of hope.

“I guess you’re right,” he whispered.

And the god smiled—the kind of smile that precedes sunrise.

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Far below that celestial mountain, Brandyn and his companions moved north, following the call only the faithful could hear. And somewhere deep beneath stone and shadow, the mercenary knelt, his heart open, a chain newly forged between man and the divine.

The war horn sounded again—low, sonorous, and sure. The gods were watching. And for the first time in an age, the Saorsa was awake.

The air in the witch’s lair was thick with the scent of chalk, burnt myrrh, and blood—old magic. The walls, carved from ancient stone, seemed to pulse faintly in rhythm with Brigid’s incantations, as though the very bones of the earth listened. Heather watched her captor move within the dim circle of light, her robes whispering like the wings of some patient carrion bird.

“Why do you worship Chaos?”

The question was soft, almost fragile, yet it cut through the silence like a blade through silk.

Brigid didn’t pause in her work. The witch’s brush traced slow sigils of black ink that shimmered faintly with power stolen from the leylines buried deep below.

“Why do people follow gods?”

Heather tugged against her bonds instinctively, the iron biting into her skin. The bindings were not just physical; they thrummed with something alive , a net of will that hummed with the breath of another world.

“I don’t know. Why do people follow gods? I’ve never given it much thought.”

Brigid’s laughter was brittle and empty. It didn’t sound cruel , it sounded tired, as though she’d been laughing at that same truth for years.

“Most people don’t. For your information, I’m a follower of the imprisoned god because he’s promised me power if I can break him out.”

The words hung heavy, and the shadows along the walls seemed to lean closer, listening.

“And you’re going to use me to break him out.”

“You’ll find out.”

Her brush resumed its dance, painting runes that smelled faintly of blood and lightning. Each line glowed for a heartbeat, then faded, absorbed into the circle like water into thirsty soil.

Heather’s voice was almost a prayer.

“Power isn’t everything.”

She remembered the wreckage of her past, the way she had wielded her will like a knife and cut even those who had tried to love her. Her breath trembled.

“What good is power if you use it to take lives? Who are you?”

Brigid completed another rune, the ink now moving on its own.

“Plan on taking my name to your grave, Heather?”

The witch’s voice was cool, detached. When the blonde flinched, she smiled, not kindly, but knowingly.

“We know who you are, and what Brutus did to you.”

Heather folded inward, her shoulders curling like wings around her heart. Memory clawed up her throat, the smell of sweat, the sound of laughter that wasn’t hers, the darkness that never quite left.

“If you must know, my name is Brigid.”

“I see.” Her voice was quiet, but her eyes lifted with a flicker of defiance.

“Why serve chaos and death, when there are other gods to serve?”

Brigid’s silver eyes caught the candlelight , cold, liquid, and ancient.

“Because I’ve prayed to those other gods, and none of them will give me what I want.”

“What won’t they give you? If you’ve earned it, they have to acknowledge it, don’t they?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

Her voice trembled, not with doubt, but with rage suppressed for too long.

“I have mastered four of the schools of draoideachd, plus I’ve mastered half of Draoideachd Biase, and the arrogant men and women who sit in the council won’t acknowledge the mastery. The chaos bringer has promised to teach me what I don’t know.”

Heather’s heart clenched at the sound of longing, twisted and furious though it was.

“If you have that much power, why do you care what they think? Isn’t there anyone who would acknowledge your power that they can’t ignore?”

“Of course there is. If I could get Mac Draoidheachd to acknowledge my mastery, they’d have to accept it, but I can’t find him, and thus, can’t get the acknowledgement.”

The room’s torches flickered as if the name itself had weight.

The witch’s obsession burned hotter than the circle she drew, a hunger not just for power, but for recognition, for place in the order of creation.

“And my death will bring this god of chaos, who will do what? Give you more power and force A Mathir’s son to acknowledge you?”

“Exactly, little girl. Chaos has promised me that, and much more.”

The light from the runes pulsed once, as if exhaling. The air tasted of copper and thunder. Heather felt the world tilt slightly, as though something vast and ancient had turned its gaze toward her.

She trembled, not just from fear, but from the sudden knowing that she was standing at the hinge of something far greater than herself. She didn’t want Balgair’s life to be another sacrifice.

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Far above, the god of war still lingered in the world of men.

The mountains were gone, but Balgair still felt their shadow, their echo pressed against his ribs. Huitzilopochtli’s words burned through his mind like embers caught in wind.

“Regardless of your decision, be aware that I have found you to be a man of great character. Succeed or fail, you will make your mark.”

The warmth of divine presence faded, leaving a silence so heavy it bordered on sacred.

Balgair opened his eyes. The small vestibule was still and dark, but not empty. The air shimmered faintly, like heat above a forge, and for a heartbeat he thought he could still hear the echo of wings.

“Thank you, great Huitzilopochtli, but I can’t wait for your help to find me. There are some things a man must do for himself.”

His voice was quiet, reverent but resolute.

He shifted from cross-legged to kneeling, the links of his mail whispering softly like prayer beads.

His fingers traced the battered face of his shield, finding each scar by touch, cataloguing every story etched into steel.

Each dent was a memory of defiance. Each scratch, a vow.

The gods might watch, he thought, but it is mortals who bleed.

He checked his chainmail one last time, breath steady now, spirit sharpened. Above him, faintly, he thought he heard it again, the war horn.

A divine note, carried on mortal wind.

Lift with us a glass, gentle reader, for we have reached the fifth chapter of the story, and here the bard must leave us.

Should you wish to hear the rest of the story, you have but pick up the book and read for yourself.

The Black Swan's Bond

Did the chapter recited move you?

Who was your favorite character?

Would you have done the same as Brandyn?

He wasn’t afraid of her, per se, but he hadn’t survived for thirty-three years by being stupid.In the dim, the scent of fuil na talmhainn, old blood and burnt rosemary, hung in the air, the unmistakable perfume of draoidheachd worked too often in one place.

As befitting his experience, each step was carefully placed so as to raise no noise. Still, sound had a way of betraying even the careful in such a place. The stair groaned once, softly, as if sighing to the weight of his sins.

Even though he moved silently as a ghost, the witch called out to him before he reached the final step. “Oh, Indigo, where is my sacrifice?”

Her voice carried like smoke, languid, invasive, curling into his ears before the words reached meaning. When he stepped into the dim light, the witch took one look at his face. “What has Brutus done this time?”

The assassin shook his head in disgust. “The fool has gotten himself killed.”

He had no particular liking for the ruffian and was secretly glad to have him dead. The gods of Saorsa, he mused, had a cruel sense of balance, fools often fed the wiser.

“How did it happen?” the witch inquired as she placed her hands on the crystal ball before her. To call her a witch wasn’t entirely accurate, she would have corrected him, proudly reciting her mastery of four of the seven spheres of draoidheachd. But to him, a witch was a witch, no matter the breadth of her arrogance.

The orb thrummed faintly beneath her touch. Silvery mist coiled upward, alive with whispering shapes. Faces flickered within it, witnesses, victims, memory itself, replaying death in miniature.

“Apparently he tracked the woman down and confronted her in the common room of the Black Swan,” Indigo said. To him, the act had been folly. She should have sent him to secure the prize himself. “According to witnesses, she has a defender, and he took Brutus apart without trying.”

The witch muttered a few words, and the scrying haze convulsed with color. In the orb’s depths, Indigo glimpsed the brief shimmer of the inn, people falling like marionettes cut loose from their strings.

“I see,” she grumbled. “He also got Darfyn killed.”

Lifting her hand from the orb, she stared at the assassin, eyes lit from within by that baleful draoidheachd glow, green shot with gold, the hue of dying stars. “Come, Indigo, let’s go take our sacrifice.”

She stood, sweeping her cloak about her shoulders in a motion that stirred the air like wings. “We can’t fail now. The great one awaits.”

The assassin inclined his head, the faintest curl of a smirk ghosting his lips.
“As you wish, Brigid.”

Behind them, the orb flickered once more, and for the briefest instant, the reflection of a spider’s web rippled across its surface, strung with dew that glowed like tiny eyes. Then it went dark, swallowing the light whole.

Balgair had excused himself from the celebration sometime past midnight, his laughter softening to a tired hum as he slipped away from the candlelight and song.

The hall behind him still rang with joy, but joy always came with exhaustion; even the gods slept after creation. Heather followed quietly, her steps light as breath, and when he closed the door, she curled herself upon the couch and drifted into slumber.

Morning came softly through the shuttered window. Dust-motes turned in the gold light, each one catching the faint shimmer of draoidhean still resting in the air. Heather stirred first. Her eyes found him in repose, the mercenary, the servant of chains, his face unguarded in sleep. A tenderness welled up in her chest, aching and pure. She rose and knelt beside him, fingers trembling as she brushed a lock of hair from his brow.

“Good morning, mo te alanine,” Balgair murmured, waking as if from a dream. His eyes, still half-lidded, shone with a lazy affection. “Would you like me to bond with you?”

He said it gently, almost teasingly, his hand finding hers with the ease of long habit.

Heather blinked, the words striking something deep and fragile inside her. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to steady her voice. “You’re mean,” she said, half smiling through her blush, echoing Lucy’s jest from the night before. “Springing that on a woman before she’s properly awake.”

She tried to meet his gaze but faltered, retreating into a nervous laugh. “Why would you want a woman like me?”

Tears gathered but she refused to let them fall. She pulled her hand free, the tremor in her breath betraying her heart. “I’m going to get us some breakfast,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice. “I’ll be back.”

Her smile, brave, thin, lingered in the doorway before she turned and fled.

When the latch clicked shut, silence claimed the room. Beyond it came the faint sound of a sob, muffled by the wood. Balgair exhaled slowly. “Might as well get cleaned up,” he murmured, though his chest felt heavier than it had the night before.

He crossed to the basin and splashed his face with cold water drawn from the river that wound through Eola’s heart. For a moment, the chill revived him, the shock of the living world.

But as he lifted his head, something unseen brushed across his skin.

It was not air. It was not light. It was the trembling edge of a dweomer, a ripple in the fabric of the world, like fingers plucking the strands of Ananke’s web.

“What the…” he whispered, the hair on his arms rising. The sensation slid over him again, subtle as a breath and sharp as a knife. Instinct moved him. He dressed in haste, strapping on his boots and cloak before heading for the stairs.

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“Ready yourself, my Indigo,” said the witch. Her voice was the sigh of silk over stone.

Brigid pushed open the inn’s door and stepped into the pale morning. Her silver flute gleamed faintly in the half-light. When she lifted it to her lips, the sound that followed was haunting, not quite music, not quite birdsong.

It wove through the common room like mist, lilting and soft, each note a thread tugging gently on mortal minds. One by one, the early risers stilled. Heads drooped. Cups slipped from slackened fingers. The laughter of dawn gave way to silence as sleep swallowed them whole.

Indigo watched with cold admiration. Before she finished the melody, he had already slipped into the common room, his steps ghosting over the wooden floor. His eyes found the pale-haired woman at the bar, her body crumpled as if her strings had been cut.

“There you are,” he muttered, a dark grin tugging at his lips. “You cost us two men. I hope you are worth it.”

He slung her effortlessly over his shoulder, the way a man might heft a sack of grain. As he turned toward the door, the witch’s final note lingered, high and piercing, a song of sleep and sorrow.

They had nearly reached the foyer when he heard it, the heavy rhythm of boots descending the stair, two at a time.

The spell faltered. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Balgair was awake.

Balgair took the stairs two at a time, his heartbeat hammering in time with the wooden rhythm. The air itself was wrong, thick, still, the silence between notes lingering like an aftertaste of enchantment. He hopped off the bottom step and ran into the common room just as the trilling notes faded into nothing.

He had expected some sort of draoidheachd, the residue of magic clinging to walls or light, but what he saw brought him up short. The inn looked as if a puppeteer had vanished mid-performance: every person within lay strewn across the floor, limbs slack, heads bowed. The fire still glowed, plates still steamed, but the living were as marionettes with their strings cut.

Balgair’s breath hissed through his teeth. “By the Diathan—” Cursing himself for leaving his shield in the room, he drew his sword, the blackened edge whispering softly as it left the scabbard, and padded among the fallen. He moved with soldier’s caution, testing for breath, for pulse, for the whisper of life.

Each body he touched was warm, each chest still rose and fell, but none stirred. They were not dead, merely stolen from waking. Dream-theft, he thought grimly. Old witchcraft. Old and cruel.

He counted as he went, murmuring the numbers under his breath like a ward. “Six, eight, twelve—” When he reached twenty, his search brought him to Brandyn and Lucy, collapsed behind the bar, their hands still touching as though they had fallen mid-gesture.

He frowned, scanning the room again. No Heather. The realization cut through him sharper than steel. He slid the sword back into its sheath and leaned over the barkeep.

“By the Diathan,” Brandyn groaned, cracking open one eye and swinging at the shadow above him.

“Whoa, hold on, it’s Balgair,” the soldier said quickly, leaning back from the wild fist.

“Sorry,” Brandyn muttered, his voice thick and weary as he tried to sit up. “All I could see was a big shadow.” He half-turned and leaned back against the bar, clutching his head. “Ohh, my head—

He gathered Lucy in his arms, her fair hair spilling across his chest like spilled moonlight. “What happened in here?”

“I dunno,” came the mumbled reply. “The last thing I remember was birds singing , and then you were standing over me.”

Balgair’s jaw tightened. “Is she—

The Tavern Master checked her pulse, nodded. Balgair sighed in relief, the tension easing only slightly. “Thank the gods. Have you seen Heather?”

“She was standing at the end of the bar, ordering breakfast.” Brandyn wanted to stretch but refused to disturb Lucy. His gaze darted uneasily to the door.

Balgair snorted. “Well, she’s not here now.” His tone was clipped, but the look in his eyes betrayed it, fear, raw and personal.

A low moan of pain drew both men’s attention downward. Lucy stirred, shaking her head. “She’s gone,” she whispered. “The last thing I saw before blacking out was a cloaked man carrying her out the front door.”

She coughed weakly, one hand reaching up to caress Brandyn’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time he could remember, Balgair felt lost. Not the battlefield kind of lost, no, this was worse. He had promised to protect Heather, and now she was gone. The oath weighed on him like cold iron. If he had just bonded her, he’d be able to find her. He knew that truth too well.

He closed his eyes. When reason failed, when fear clawed at the edges of his resolve, he did what he had always done, he reached for Her.

[Can you help me find Heather?]

The thought left him like a prayer cast into water.

[If you had bonded with her, you’d be able to do it yourself,] came the wry, lilting reply, the voice of Ananke, curling through his mind like warm smoke. [I understand why you didn’t.]

Her tone softened the words, no scolding, just quiet understanding. Love tempered with truth.

Balgair inwardly groaned.

[You’re right. I was an idiot.]

That earned him a flash of anger across his thoughts. not cruel, but bright.

[You are not an idiot, my Balgair. You’re careful, and you care too much.]

Her voice folded around him like a cloak, and he could feel her smile in the dark of his mind.

[Give me a moment, and I’ll see if I can find her.]

He waited, still as prayer. The faint hum of divine thought thrummed behind his eyes. Then, warmth. Presence. Her touch. It was like standing beneath sunlight after days of rain.

But with it came something else: fear. The kind he hadn’t felt since his youth. The knowing that time was slipping through his fingers like spilled sand.

[If you don’t relax, you’re going to hurt yourself,] the Lady of Chains teased him, amused. [I’ve found her, and I can guide you there.]

Her next words came with gentle mischief, a goddess’s mercy wrapped in humor.

[Would you like to talk to her?]

[Of course I would!]

He nearly shouted it aloud, earning a startled glance from Brandyn.

Ananke’s laughter was a chime in his soul.

[You can talk to her now, and she can answer you.]

[I could hug you,] he thought fiercely, every word charged with gratitude.

He could almost see her roll her eyes, could almost feel her wave him off.

Then came the stillness again, deep and resonant. He closed his eyes and reached into that bond that was not yet a bond, the half-thread between their souls, alive and trembling.

[Heather?]

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The assassin burst through the inn’s front door, the hinges shrieking as he crossed the threshold into the cold dawn. His breath came sharp, ghosting through the chill, and the woman slung over his shoulder hung limp as if the soul had already been drawn from her. “Heather,” he muttered under his breath, not her name as a person, but as a thing of value now taken. “Get a move on, Brigid. Someone is still awake in there.”

The witch blinked, startled from her calm, and cursed beneath her breath. “That’s not possible. The flute is an artifact.” Her eyes flicked back toward the doorway, where faint light spilled like accusation.

Indigo shifted Heather’s weight, the unconscious woman’s hair trailing like golden silk down his back. “I heard someone running down the stairs. Maybe whoever it is, has an artifact of his own.”

Brigid’s lip curled, though her face remained pale beneath the hood. “It’s always possible.” Her voice trembled just once, the smallest crack in her certainty. She stepped into the hastily scrawled circle that marred the frost-dark earth, kneeling at its heart.

With an almost reverent motion, she pricked her right finger, letting blood drip onto the runes etched into the dirt.

“Mar a thuiteas m’ fhuil,

Chun an taobh eile tha mi a’ gairm,

Fosgail an t-slighe,Gu mo dhachaigh,

tha mi ag ràdh.”

As my blood falls,

To the other side I call,

Open the path,To my home

I speak.

The words thrummed like harpstrings pulled too tight. The air warped, folding in upon itself; the runes began to smolder with a hungry light, leeching life from the ground and frost alike.

The smell of iron and ozone filled the space, and shadows lengthened toward her like supplicants.

A ring of darkness formed beneath them, not a hole, but a reflection too deep to be seen through. For a heartbeat, Indigo thought he saw eyes staring back from within, the suggestion of a great spider’s shape, ancient and patient. Then the world gave way.

The circle collapsed. The three fell through the shadow like stones through water and landed hard upon the smooth stone of another place, another circle, drawn in the mirror image below.

Brigid rose first, brushing her fingers across the runes that still glowed faintly beneath her boots. “We’re here, my Indigo,” she whispered, her voice echoing through the gloom.

She lifted her left hand, and her fingers caught the last breath of magic still clinging to the air. “Ignis.”

At the word, every candle on the candelabra sprang to life in a silent burst. The flames burned blue at their roots and gold at their tips, casting long, swaying shadows that made the chamber seem alive. Their light fell upon a table in the center of the lair, a crystal ball resting atop it like a heart that refused to die.

“Feel free to drop her anywhere.”

Indigo obeyed without hesitation, lowering Heather onto the cold flagstones. The moment her body touched the floor, the runes around the circle pulsed once more, faintly, greedily, as if the lair itself had tasted something it liked.

The witch turned, satisfied. The portal’s light flickered once, then went out, leaving only the candlefire and the echo of her god’s unseen laughter.

═════⊹⊱✦⊰⊹═════

[Heather!]

The voice echoed through the long corridors of her unmade mind, distant and trembling like the sound of a prayer lost to the wind. The unconscious woman stirred, her spirit adrift in the dim threshold between waking and dying. The air around her was heavy, thick as water, and each breath felt as though it filled her mouth with wet sand.

[Can you hear me?]

The call came again, faint and urgent, a thread cast across the void. She tried to grasp it, to shape words, but her thoughts moved sluggishly, sinking beneath the surface of sleep.

Far away, Balgair gasped. The tether between them had tightened, then gone slack. He felt the slip, the weight of her soul sinking deeper into shadow.

[I can’t hear her, Milady.]

The scent of rosemary filled the air, sweet and heavy, a reminder of sacred binding and oaths fulfilled. Warm hands came to rest upon his shoulders, and the world softened at their touch. The mercenary bowed his head as if in temple, for the goddess had come.

[I can still see her,] Ananke murmured, her voice like silk drawn across iron. [But she is being shielded from you.]

He felt her lean close, breath warm upon the back of his neck, a whisper made of eternity.

[Would you like me to guide you?]

[If it pleases, Milady,] he whispered, his voice barely more than the echo of a vow.

[Then awaken and follow my lead.]

The scent of rosemary shifted, sliding from spirit to world, from prayer to place, settling like smoke upon the inn’s foyer.

Balgair opened his eyes. The light of the waking world returned, duller, colder, but real. His heart still thrummed with divine rhythm. He rose slowly, feeling the chains of devotion tighten around his chest. Whoever, whatever, had shielded Heather had power enough to rival a goddess.

He would need steel.

He turned toward his room. “Where are you going?” Brandyn’s voice broke the stillness.

“To get my things,” Balgair said, steady and resolved. “I’m going after Heather.”

“Oh?” The barkeep lifted Lucy gently, helping her sit. “Do you know where she’s at?”

“No, but Ananke does.” His eyes gleamed with that faint, impossible certainty only the blessed carried. “She’s going to guide me.”

Brandyn nodded, though unease shadowed his expression. “Here’s hoping Huitzilopochtli watches over him,” he muttered.

Five minutes later, the mercenary returned. The scent of iron and old blood hung about him, the relics of battle not yet washed away. The dried stains across his chainmail caught the firelight, dark as memory.

“If I were your commanding officer,” Brandyn grumbled, eyeing him, “I’d yell at you for wearing bloody armor. It’s borderline disgraceful.”

Balgair’s mouth twitched with faint shame. “I know. Believe me, I know. But I can’t spare the time to clean it. I’ve got to save Heather.”

Lucy looked up, her voice trembling. “Be careful, Maighstir. I’m not sure, but I think the spellcaster was Brigid.”

Brandyn blinked. “Are you sure?”

“There are rumors,” Lucy murmured, “that she can use music to cast spells.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Balgair said, grasping Brandyn’s forearm, a warrior’s promise. “Take care of her, brother. Women like her are a gift from the gods.”

Lucy smiled, radiant as dawn, curling into Brandyn’s chest. The barkeep returned the clasp, mortal strength meeting divine purpose.

“Good luck on finding your girl.”

Balgair inclined his head once, the faintest shimmer of rosemary trailing after him as he stepped toward the door. Somewhere, far beyond mortal sight, the Lady of Chains smiled, and the air trembled with the promise of pursuit.

═════⊹⊱✦⊰⊹═════

“We’ll have none of that,” a feminine voice said, the sound curling through the dark like smoke through incense. The syllables carried power, honeyed and cruel, as a sigil of ash and light bloomed across Heather’s brow. The mark burned cold , the kind of chill that whispers to the soul instead of the skin.

Heather’s body remained still, but her spirit strained. Locked within her own mind, she could hear the soft rustle of cloth, the measured movement of feet across ritual lines. Somewhere beyond the veil of her half-consciousness, someone was carving intent into the bones of the earth.

But she had heard him, Balgair. Hadn’t she? That voice, reaching for her through the dark, it had been real. She clung to it like a drowning woman to a thread of light. Tears slipped free, shining trails that caught what little glow lingered in the circle.

“What’s wrong, little one?” The voice crooned again, motherly in sound but empty of love. “You’d like to see what’s going on, wouldn’t you?”

Of course she would. And when the woman’s steps ceased, when the sigil on her forehead shifted and the binding reformed, her eyes fluttered open. The world bled into view.

What she saw did not inspire hope. The chamber was swathed in shadows that writhed like living things, pulling away only from the circle that held her. In the weak, circling light, the runes glowed faintly, veins of a world gone wrong. She managed to roll to one side, her breath coming shallow, the symbols of the circle pulsing around her like a heartbeat not her own.

“Why,” she croaked. A cough wracked her chest. “Why?”

“Why what?” the woman replied.

Heather turned her gaze upward, and met eyes of a green so deep it might have been the ocean before the first dawn. The woman standing above her was young, her crimson hair cascading like a wound come to life.

“Why are you here? Why have we kidnapped you? Why are you tied up in a magic circle?” Brigid’s smile glinted sharp as a blade. It might have been lovely if not for the frost behind it, a beauty carved from cruelty.

Heather coughed again, her throat raw. “Yes, to all of those.”

The smile grew feral, almost delighted. “You are here because I need a sacrifice to power the spell that will release my god from his prison.”

“Why me?” Heather asked, though her heart already knew. The answer came, as prophecy always does, from the mouth of the damned.

“Because nobody will miss you.”

The witch crouched low, her hand cold and deft as it drew a rune across Heather’s stomach. “You have no family, no friends, and no lovers.” Each word was a hammerblow, each line of ink a nail sealing her fate.

“Aww, see now, you’re all frightened,” Brigid cooed. “That will make it all the sweeter when my master yanks your soul from the wheel and uses your rebirth to escape the prison He Who Watches put him in.”

She traced a spiral between Heather’s breasts,, the mark of the devourer. “It’s a shame that Brutus took your innocence. The sacrifice would have been sweeter for it, but no matter. The Creeping Chaos will be hungry.”

Her robe, black as the void before creation, seemed to drink the light from the candles. The room grew darker still.

Heather drew a breath, faint and trembling. “Only Mathair Astinmah can remove a person from the great wheel,” she gasped. “Any other may only kill me.”

Brigid’s laughter rang out like glass breaking in a crypt. “Oh, so you believe that, do you? You are in for a surprise.”

The witch let silence fall, heavy, suffocating, as if giving the doomed girl time to grasp the enormity of her insignificance. Then, softly, “The Creeping Chaos devours all, and none escapes his ravenous hunger. Not even Mathair Astinmah can save this world.”

Heather closed her eyes. Her pulse fluttered weakly, like a bird’s wings against the bars of a cage. She saw Balgair’s face in her mind, rough, kind, worn by duty, and clung to it with everything she had left.

Please, she thought. Let me see him again. Just once more.

She made her vow in silence: Anything. Anything, if only I can see another dawn.

[Anything?]

The voice was not Brigid’s. It came like a ripple across still water, patient, measured, impossible to mistake.

Heather’s heart stumbled. She tried to place it, to remember whose tone held both comfort and command.

[Would you give your life to me if I save you?]

The frightened girl squeezed her eyes shut. For a heartbeat, she thought herself mad. But the voice smiled.

[No, I’m not your imagination.]

The warmth in it was real. [My Balgair calls me Milady, or Our Lady of Chains.]

Hope, fragile, luminous, flared in her chest at the sound of his name. She remembered his quiet faith, his prayers whispered in the dark.

The goddess who had guided him, the one he had spoken of with awe and affection, was here.

Heather opened her soul like a door and offered everything she was.

[Welcome, mo te àlainn,] came the answer, rich and tender as sunlight through stained glass. [I knew I was right about you.]

The weight of divinity settled around her, not crushing but enveloping. The cold of the circle receded as warmth spread through her veins, golden, steady, alive.

For a moment, she was not in that lair but within something vast, something eternal. The goddess’s arms wrapped her in invisible chains made not of iron, but of promise.

She wanted to stay there, to drown in that gentleness, but the sensation began to fade.

[Don’t worry,] Ananke murmured as her presence dimmed like twilight receding from dawn. [Balgair is on his way.]

Balgair followed the scent of rosemary into the waking dark. It threaded through the night like a memory, thin and deliberate, drawing him out through the inn’s door and onto the cobbled street beyond.

The wind shifted, and the fragrance moved with it , left, then further still, as though the goddess herself were walking just ahead, unseen.

At the corner, the trail faltered. The night deepened, the lamps hissed. He closed his eyes and listened, not with his ears but with the place inside where prayer takes root.The scent resumed, faint but stubborn, leading him to a narrow alley where waste and shadow slept together.

“Now what?” he muttered, his breath forming ghosts that hovered before his lips. He could taste the damp on the air, the rot beneath the stones. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Still, he went on. That is what faith does, it demands movement even when the road stinks of the grave.

He walked softly, the soles of his boots whispering across filth. Each step drew him deeper, each heartbeat a wordless supplication to the Lady of Chains.

The rosemary veered right. Balgair turned, and there it was: a door, half-sunken into the wall of a forgotten building. Its wood was swollen with years and lies.

He paused, studying the structure, the slanted brickwork, the windows bricked over from within, the silence too complete to be natural. He could almost hear the pulse of the place, a rhythm that did not belong to the living.

At last he muttered, “To ifrinn with it.”

He set his shield before him, the sigil of Ananke faintly glowing beneath the grime, and stepped toward the door. Raising his left hand, he knocked.

“Who be it?” came a muffled voice, hoarse and suspicious. “What business have ye?”

For a moment, Balgair considered truth. He imagined saying, I am a soldier of the Lady of Chains, and I come for the captive you stole.

But truth has its own weight, and not every ear can bear it. So he said nothing.

He knocked again.

“Look here ya git, if you don’t answer, you don’t get in.”

Balgair listened, the scrape of feet, the shift of shadow behind the wood. He measured the distance, the rhythm of the man’s breath. When the time was right, he drew his sword and buried it to the hilt through the door.

There was a wet gasp, the universal sound of mortality remembering itself, then silence.

“All you had to do was open the door,” Balgair muttered. His tone carried no anger, only weary ritual. He lifted his leg and kicked, hard. The door splintered inward, the dying guard collapsing in a heap of cloth and blood.

“So much for a quiet entry,” he said, stepping over the body.

Inside, the air reeked of dust, incense, and stale magic. The shadows felt heavier than they should. Balgair knelt briefly beside the corpse, not to mourn, but to honor the moment. Death deserved acknowledgment, even when deserved. He wiped his blade on the man’s shirt and rolled the body in the moldy carpet.

Faith is not clean work.

He carried the dead man outside and laid him in the refuse, whispering, “Go find your peace, if the gods still hear you.” When he returned, the scent of rosemary brushed past him again, lighter now, as though approving his grim resolve.

Pulling his cloak close, he moved down the corridor. Each door he passed held its own secrets , some whispered, some groaned. The walls sweated moisture, and the candlelight dripped in uneven pools.

He kept his steps steady, sword at ease, heart alert. Those few who passed gave him no trouble, perhaps sensing something coiled in him that was not to be tested.

He asked questions where he could, quiet, deliberate. A witch. A blond woman. Short blue dress. Faces turned pale. Heads shook. Silence spread like contagion.

Doubt crept in, Was this even the right place? When one door opened ahead. A woman emerged, bare-skinned and trembling in the half-light. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.

“Shhh,” he said softly, shaking his head. “I’m looking for a blonde-haired woman wearing a short blue dress, a witch, or both.”

She hesitated. Fear flickered in her gaze, but so did something else, pity, perhaps.

“If you can help me, I’ll let you go,” Balgair continued. “You can either get back inside that room or run out the front door. Do you know where she is?”

He didn’t expect an answer. But the woman pointed, hand trembling, toward the far end of the hall.

“She’s down there. She lives in the basement,” she whispered, before retreating into her room, the door closing like the last note of a prayer.

“Goddess bless you,” Balgair murmured, pressing forward.

His eyes traced every door he passed, ready for violence. But the corridor remained still, save for the throb of old pipes and unseen lives. Each closed door felt like a reprieve.

Then , movement.

The door creaked open. A figure cloaked in gray stepped out, blocking his path.

“You don’t belong here.” The stranger’s tone was low, assessing. “Earl would have never let you in.”

Balgair’s face betrayed nothing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. When I got here, the door was standing wide open.”

“Unlikely,” the man said, his hand slipping into his cloak. Two daggers gleamed in the half-light like hungry eyes. “Earl would never abandon his post. He gets paid a lot to stop trouble.”

“Guess he took the money and split,” Balgair replied, his grip tightening around his sword.

“Again, unlikely,” the man said flatly. “I don’t know who you are, but you aren’t going any further.”

Balgair sighed softly, drawing his sword. The steel sang, low, cold, almost reverent. “What’s more important, your life, or hers?”

The man’s brow lifted. “Mine, of course. Which is why I must stop you. If I don’t try, my soul will be devoured.”

He stepped into a guarded stance, one dagger raised, one poised low, the stance of a desperate man serving a merciless god.

And there, in the stale air of that forsaken hall, the light of Ananke’s follower met the shadow of another faith.

Two souls bound by chains, two creeds of fear, two hearts that had long forgotten mercy.

The goddess watched in silence, somewhere just beyond the veil, as her chosen lifted his blade.

The air before the duel held a pulse, faint, metallic, and alive. Rosemary hung like incense, ghosting through the corridor as though the Lady herself watched unseen from the shadowed rafters.

Balgair’s breath was slow, measured, the rhythm of a prayer turned inward. His shield settled on his arm with a whisper of chain against leather. “I don’t want to kill you,” he said, his voice a vow rather than warning. “All I want is the girl back.”

The cloaked man’s silence answered him. The stillness had the density of choice, a soul balancing on the edge of damnation. Then that sharp smile, the look that promised death. “Very well,” Balgair murmured, lowering his stance. “Let’s have at it.”

The first clash was thunder in a narrow hall. The Black Swan surged forward, shield striking like a sermon, the word of faith made flesh. The man reeled, recovered, and came again, twin daggers gleaming like black stars. They met in a flurry of movement too fast for thought, steel striking steel, sparks glancing off the walls like scattered prayers.

The air shuddered around them. Each step, each pivot, was liturgy:

The assassin rolled past him, the daggers flashing. Balgair turned, pivot smooth as breath, shield up just as the next strike came for his back.

The clang filled the hall; the Lady’s sigil flared faintly where the dagger met the iron boss, the scent of rosemary deepening as if she approved.

“Not bad,” the other said, and his tone held almost admiration. “You aren’t a common crook,” Balgair replied, steady, sword low but alive in his hand.

The duel became language. Words were blades, and blades were words. Each thrust answered, each blow countered, until motion itself blurred into chant. The stranger’s movements were honed desperation; Balgair’s, tempered mercy.

When the mercenary drove his shield forward again, the air rippled like a heartbeat. The man stumbled, laughing under his breath, laughter that carried the exhaustion of too many deaths. “You might be right,” he said, and shed his cloak like a serpent sloughing off old skin.

The black leather beneath devoured the light. It was not forged; it was grown, living armor, whispering with the pulse of a darker god. The air dimmed around it.

“Is that Iron-Leaf leather?” Balgair asked, though his voice came from somewhere deeper, half wonder, half mourning.

The man smiled. “I am Indigo Yarsmith, and you killed my father.” A pause, then a cruel chuckle. “No, not really , but it sounded good.”

The levity rang hollow, a jest to hide the gnawing in his soul. Then he moved.

The sword in one hand, the sheath in the other, his dance changed rhythm. He struck low and fast, the sheath hooking beneath Balgair’s shield, the sword arcing down like judgment. The Black Swan twisted his wrist, caught the steel, and locked it there, a cruciform struggle, the symbols of two gods grinding against one another.

“I wasn’t recruited yesterday,” Balgair growled, and shoved him back.

“You’re becoming quite the challenge,” Indigo grunted, sweat and shadow streaking his jaw. Then he whistled , three short notes, sharp as cuts.

From the hall’s darkness came footsteps, the ring of steel, the whisper of loaded crossbows. Three figures joined him, one bearing the cruel gleam of a bec de’ corbin, the others crouched low with their bolts trained.

The corridor tightened around them, heavy with dread. But still, the scent of rosemary lingered. The Lady watched. Her chain-bearer stood his ground.

Balgair shifted his stance. The light from a guttering lantern fell across his face, catching the reflection of Ananke’s mark etched faintly in his armor’s surface, a sigil half-seen, half-remembered. His voice was low, almost tender. “I gave you the chance to walk away,” he said. “Now, the gods decide who leaves this place breathing.”

The assassin smiled, but his eyes flickered, haunted. Somewhere in that gaze, a trapped thing clawed for mercy it no longer believed existed.

And as they closed upon him, the air thickened, the shadows swayed, and every heartbeat became a drumbeat of the divine.

Steel rang. Sparks fell like fireflies. And over it all, the faint, steady hum of the goddess’s chain, unseen, unbroken, wrapped the hall in its unseen rhythm.

The corridor breathed around them, damp air, old dust, and the faint scent of rosemary, ghosting like incense from a chapel unseen. Somewhere, the Lady of Chains watched, her gaze heavy as moonlight, patient as time.

“Well, crap,” the Black Swan muttered, quietly assessing the danger.

The bec de’ corbin was a cruel thing. The haft shortened for hallways, the pike lean and gleaming like a serpent’s tooth. The hammer head and spike opposite it were the true menace , one to break, one to pierce. A weapon forged for judgment, perverted now into execution.

He shifted his weight, lowering his center, his stance that of a man who had fought too many battles to ever trust mercy.
As long as he kept Yarsmith and the bec wielder out of reach, he might live through this. The crossbowmen were danger of another kind, patient, waiting for the smallest lapse in faith.

“No offense, stranger, but I just had to call some friends out to play,” Yarsmith said as he stepped to the left, his shadow peeling away from him as if unwilling to share the space.

Balgair said nothing. He watched the four men, realizing from their silent alignment that they had fought together before, not allies by affection, but by habit and coin. The mercenary adjusted his shield, drawing it close to his chest, feeling its battered face tremble faintly with each heartbeat.

He had already chosen. The first would be the one who bore the bec de’ corbin. It was always better to silence the loudest threat.

He lunged forward, quick and low, driving the tip of his sword toward the man’s belly. It was a killing strike, precise, efficient, merciless. The kind of move born from too many winters and too little faith left to waste on words.

But the man twisted, narrow as a whip. The sword glanced past him. His answering growl was deep, animal, and he dropped the bec’s head low, the weapon aimed like accusation at Balgair’s heart. Then, with a piston’s snap, he drove it forward.

The clang of steel on iron echoed like a struck bell. Balgair winced as the pike gouged a line across his shield, dissecting the painted Black Swan. For an instant, the sigil split, faith wounded but unbroken, and the scent of rosemary flared sharp, bright, burning.

He slid back two steps, shaking his numbed arm, his breath ragged.

“That won’t work,” he murmured, voice half-prayer, half-warning. He took a step back, eyes flicking between targets. Yarsmith lingered at the rear, calculating. The crossbowmen angled for open shots. The bec wielder, steady, silent, advanced again.

This one did not waste breath on taunts. He raised the maul-like head to his shoulder, hands gripping the haft like a smith before the forge. The motion was simple, brutal. When he swung, the air cracked, and pain bloomed across Balgair’s arms as the hammer struck the shield’s center. He was pushed back five steps, boots scraping against the stone, the breath ripped from his chest. His wrists screamed their protest, but he held.

Light flared, a glint of intent rather than mercy, and he almost didn’t get the shield up in time. A crossbow bolt slammed against it, sparking and tumbling away. The mercenary’s gaze never left the bec wielder, who wound up for another strike.

He couldn’t take too many more. The arm was already trembling. The chain of his goddess, unseen but felt, hummed faintly along his spine, reminding him that faith, too, was a kind of armor.

He feigned weakness, staggering a step backward, hiding strength beneath pain. He angled himself toward the nearest corner, where he could brace against the wall and make their circle narrower. He knew his body well enough to lie with it convincingly.

But the gods test the proud.
He forgot the crossbowmen. The next bolt hissed low, slicing across his knee, a white-hot line of pain that tore a grunt from his throat.

While his attention flickered, the bec wielder struck again, silent and perfect. The underhanded swing caught the shield at a crooked angle, the blow twisting him off his feet. The world tilted. He crashed to the floor, the breath knocked clean out of him.

For a heartbeat, he saw the ceiling above, dark, cracked plaster, threads of cobweb trembling in the draft. The air pulsed with dull echoes of combat, every sound distant and hollow.

Then, through that haze, came the faintest whisper, not from his enemies, but from the goddess herself. [Still you stand.]

He rolled to one side, dragging himself to one knee. His body hurt, but the chain in his soul thrummed steady. He hunched behind his shield, the wounded swan glaring up at the four shadows before him. Each breath was a vow, each heartbeat a prayer unspoken.

The mercenary of the Black Swan was not done yet.

The corridor had grown too still. The smell of iron and old dust hung heavy, yet beneath it lingered a softer scent, rosemary and burnt air, the perfume of his goddess. It wrapped around him like a memory of safer days.

“Of all the stupid things you’ve done,” Balgair cursed under his breath, “this has to be in the top two.” His words fell flat against the stone, small and mortal.

Rhyslin would have kicked his ass for this, Marcus too. “Dumb, dumb, dumb,” he muttered, hearing in his head Rhyslin’s slow, disbelieving sigh and Marcus’s low growl of disapproval. He knew what they’d say: Never go in alone. Never without your men

But he hadn’t been thinking like a soldier. He’d been thinking like a man who loved, and in Saorsa, that kind of thinking was as dangerous as any blade.

He could retreat, but that would mean leaving Heather to die. Reinforcements would take weeks to reach Eola, and the trail would be cold long before they arrived. He could ask Rhyslin or Marcus for help, and they’d come, but every favor owed chained the soul a little tighter. A man in Saorsa stood on his own, or he bartered pieces of himself to stand with others. He could talk to Brandyn, but that, too, would come at a cost.

And then there were the gods.

He thought of Ananke, his Lady, his Milady, but she was not a god of war. Her sphere was oaths, contracts, the invisible bonds that held men and gods alike to their word. Her gifts lay in threads, not blades.

Mixcoatl? No. This wasn’t the hunt. Quetzalcoatl? This wasn’t defense or wisdom.

That left one. Huitzilopochtli, forger of strength, bringer of courage, lord of the field and the bleeding sun. Balgair had never prayed to him before, a soldier without a war god, a mercenary who had never offered the blood that bought divine favor. If irony were a coin, he could have paid his debt tenfold.

He looked up. The four shadows before him shifted closer, weapons gleaming. The bec wielder smiled, a cruel, knowing curve of the mouth that promised more pain. The air trembled with their hunger.

There was a door behind him. Twenty feet. Too far.Another, ten feet away. Maybe luck, maybe providence.

“Are you still alive, Black Swan?” Yarsmith called. “I’d hate for you to die before we finished our fight.”

Balgair did not answer. He pressed his lips together and bowed his head for the briefest heartbeat. [Forgive me, Milady,] he prayed in silence. [I screwed up, and put Heather’s life at risk. I need some help. Any you can give would be appreciated.]

The air answered. It didn’t roar or shine, it shifted. The light dimmed to twilight; the scent of rosemary deepened until it filled his lungs like prayer. Then smoke rose from the cracks between stones, slow, deliberate, curling upward in elegant spirals.

It wasn’t fire-born. It was contract-born. Every tendril a signature of her will.

The smoke gathered between him and the enemy, thickening into a veil of gray. The crossbowmen coughed, confused, their forms lost in the haze.

The hammer wielder cursed, eyes watering. Only Yarsmith stood still, suspicion flickering behind his mask of confidence.

Balgair did not wait for their recovery. He turned and ran, each step echoing like a heartbeat against the walls. The world beyond the smoke seemed strangely clear, as though Ananke had marked a path only he could see.

He tried the first door, locked. The second gave way beneath his hand. He dove through, slamming it behind him, the latch catching like a sigh. He could jam it, but that would trap him. Better to move.

[Thank you, Milady,] he whispered aloud, the words trembling in his throat. The air was cooler here, untouched by smoke or blood.

He passed through another doorway and found himself in a dark vestibule. Dust motes drifted in narrow shafts of moonlight through cracked boards. He waited, one breath, two, three, listening for pursuit. None came.

His legs gave way beneath him. He sank to his knees, pressing his forehead against his shield. The gouge across the swan’s body stared back at him like a wound that would not heal.

“Great Huitzilopochtli, forger of strength and bringer of courage,” he whispered, each word steadying his shaking breath. “I need help. I have not called upon you, and you may reject me. However, what I seek is for someone else. One of Ananke’s daughters is being held captive and will be sacrificed to the Creeping Chaos unless I can free her.”

His words faded into stillness. Then the air changed again.

It began as a tremor beneath his skin, the pulse of a drum far away, echoing through the marrow.

The scent of rosemary receded, replaced by something sharper: blood, copper, sunlight on iron. A warmth spread across his shoulders, pressing down, heavy as a warrior’s hand.

He knew, without seeing, that the War God had come.

Silence filled the vestibule, thick, alive. The god did not speak at first. His awareness swept outward, like fire crawling across dry grass.

Balgair felt it moving through walls, through minds, through hearts, testing the pulse of the living, tasting the fear that drifted from room to room.

And then, the words, not sound, but knowing.

[Very well, you will have my help. Stand fast, chain-maker, for help will soon be there.]

The title struck through him like thunder muffled by reverence. Chain-maker. Not mercenary. Not soldier. Something forged between.

Balgair exhaled, the tension spilling from his limbs. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closing. The cold stone steadied him; the divine warmth lingered, a heartbeat against his spine.

For the first time since Heather’s abduction, he allowed himself to breathe without fear. Smoke still lingered in his hair, the perfume of his goddess. The air around him thrummed faintly with the war god’s presence, patient and watchful.

He sighed, exhaustion and gratitude folded together. “Thank you,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure which god he meant.

And for a long while, there was peace in the dark,the silence before the next storm.

Worry not, gentle reader.
The bard rests but a moment to wet his throat and gather the tale. He will return soon with the next chapter.

Should you wish to walk ahead of him, the rest of the saga awaits below.

The Black Swan's Bond

When Balgair turned, he didn’t need to ask why. The man behind her, tall as a temple door and twice as broad, filled the tavern’s entryway.

His bald head gleamed in the firelight; his eyes were gray pits that swallowed the room’s glow. His voice, when it came, was a weapon.

“Nothing to say, woman?” he sneered, his words thick with ale and cruelty. He nudged her side with the tip of his boot. “I’m talking to you, bitch.”

The patrons froze. The hearth crackled nervously, its fire whispering against the silence. Without thought, Balgair stepped between them , a single, fluid movement born of habit more than decision.

“I’m just starting,” the brute smirked, circling to jab at Heather again. “If this is what you wanted to be, I could have put a collar around your neck.”

The mercenary’s expression darkened, and though his tone stayed even, his voice carried like a drawn blade.
“I don’t think she wants to be anywhere around you. Why don’t you take the hint and leave her alone?”

His words struck the air like thunder beneath velvet , no louder than before, but full of weight. The brute laughed, an ugly, barking sound that didn’t quite hide his unease.

“Har, you’re funny, stranger.” He stepped in and drove his foot toward Heather again, this time harder. The sound of her body hitting the floorboards cracked something open in Balgair.

“You don’t have the balls to—”

He never finished. Balgair’s fist came up in a flash, the strike fast and merciless. Bone met bone with a sharp report, and the brute reeled backward, blood welling from his split lip.

“What are you made out of, stone?” Balgair muttered, shaking out his fingers. The old rhythm of violence hummed beneath his skin, familiar and steady as prayer.

Brandyn’s voice broke the silence, deep and certain. “Brutus, you’ve had enough. It’s time to leave.” He hefted the axe from behind the bar, the polished edge catching the firelight. “No sane woman will have anything to do with you, not after what happened to the last three.”

The brute spat blood onto the floor. “I nach do rinn nothing, and you na dean have proof that I did.” His grin returned, thin and mean. “And you, Boyo,” he said, eyes narrowing at Balgair, “you just signed your death note.”

“Hold on,” Balgair said, glancing toward the barkeep. “Last three? What happened?”

Brandyn’s disgust was plain. “This person collared three different women, and all three died within weeks.”

The words sank into the floor like spilled oil, and every soul in the tavern seemed to hold its breath. Balgair looked down to find Heather watching him through her hair , fear and fragile hope caught in the same trembling gaze.

“Heather is not going anywhere with you,” he said, his tone low but unyielding.

“Who’s to stop me?” the brute sneered, a tooth gone from his grin. “You?”

Balgair’s reply came calm and sure. “You’ll drag her out of here over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged,” Brutus spat, his voice slurred with rage. He bent low, close enough for Heather to smell the rot of his breath. “After I’ve killed this un, I’m gunna drag ya out of here and make ya scream like the slut you are.”

Heather whimpered, a small, broken sound that somehow cut through the room more sharply than the earlier violence.

“Let’s go, boyo,” Brutus growled. “I’ve got things to do today.”

Balgair’s eyes hardened, the shadows deepening around him as though the fire itself deferred to his will. “Let’s take this outside.” His voice carried like iron on frost. “I’ll be out in five minutes. That should give a coward like you enough time to set up your little ambush.”

Brutus spat again and stomped out, his boots thundering against the porch boards until the sound was lost in the rain.

For a long moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, the tavern began to breathe again. The hearth crackled louder, the storm’s howl slipping through the open door like the whisper of unseen gods , and Balgair stood there in the center of it all, his jaw set, his shadow long and dark across the floor.

The tavern still thrummed faintly with the echo of Brutus’s departure, a vibration in the floorboards, like the aftershock of an earthquake waiting to finish what it started. The scent of smoke and spilled ale hung low in the air, mingled with the faint metallic tang of fear. Outside, the muted roll of thunder over the moors whispered warning through the eaves.

Balgair exhaled, the tension leaving him in a visible shiver. “Well, well, mo te alainne, you do know how to pick them.” His voice carried the trace of wry affection, the kind that masked old weariness. He reached down to help Heather rise. The firelight caught the tremor in her hands before his steadied them.

“Are you okay?” he asked, holding her at arm’s length, his eyes scanning her for hurt like a battlefield physician assessing the fallen. “I think you’ll live.”

Heather sagged against him, the relief in her breath soft and human. When she leaned close, he returned the contact, a protective embrace that, for a heartbeat, stilled the restless murmur of the room. “Go upstairs and get my shield and chain shirt. Bring them back down here.” His words were gentle command, the voice of habit and care entwined. He smiled faintly as she turned, nearly running for the stairs. “Slow it down, girl. I’ve got five minutes.”

The boards creaked as she ascended. For a moment, the tavern seemed to breathe again, fire snapping, rain beginning to patter softly against the shutters.

The smell of wet earth seeped in, mingling with smoke and stew, the world grounding itself after violence.

Balgair turned to the barkeep, his tone shifting from human warmth to the iron calm of a commander. “If this brute has killed three women, why hasn’t he been arrested?”

Brandyn’s jaw tightened as he set the axe on the bar, the blade catching the glow of the fire. “Our sheriff died a while back, and none of his men have been brave enough to try to arrest him.” He nodded toward Balgair. “If the boss trusted you enough to make you a Captain, maybe you can beat him.” The barkeep leaned against the counter, the weight of memory behind his eyes. “And when you’re done, I’ll discuss Lucy’s well-being with you.”

“When this is over, we’ll have a long talk about her and how you know my boss,” Balgair said. His tone was flat, almost ritual.

Inwardly, he was already counting heartbeats , five minutes, no more.

Above them came the crash of Iron against stone and Heather’s startled cry. “Help!”

Balgair was already moving when Brandyn barked, “Lucy, give her a hand!”

The girl dropped her cloth and ran up the stairs. Within minutes both women reappeared, stumbling, burdened by iron and steel. Lucy fought to control a kite shield almost larger than herself, while Heather struggled beneath the drape of chainmail that swallowed her small frame.

“How do you carry this, Maighstir?” she gasped, half-laughing through her effort. “This is heavy.”

The other woman, cheeks flushed, looked at Balgair as though seeing him for the first time. “I didn’t realize how strong you were,” she whispered, kneeling and bracing the shield against her chest.

Brandyn chuckled and leaned forward, his hands thick as knots of rope. He lifted the shield in one easy motion, setting it on the bar. “I’ve got it, girl.”

“I don’t carry it wrapped around me,” Balgair said, his voice low and amused. He leaned down carefully unwrapping the chain from Heather’s body. His gauntlet brushed her by accident, the soft underside of her breast, and the startled gasp that followed was too human to ignore. A blush rose like dawnlight up her throat, and she looked away.

“I wear it like this,” he continued, his tone matter-of-fact, the motion fluid and practiced. The chainmail slid over his shoulders with the weight of memory, each ring a whisper of past battles and oaths sworn. “The weight of the chain is distributed across my body, starting with the shoulders and around my hips,” he explained, fastening his sword belt back over the armor with a soft clink.

For a moment, he softened again. He reached down, fingers brushing her cheek, a soldier’s blessing. She turned her head and kissed his palm, eyes bright beneath the tavern’s dim light.

Behind the counter, Brandyn muttered almost reverently, “I didn’t know that you were An Eala Dhubh.”

The tavern seemed to still at the name. The Black Swan, soldier of the great council, men who went where others dared not go. The hearth’s flames guttered once, as though acknowledging the invocation.

The barkeep lifted the shield and handed it over. Balgair raised a brow. “You didn’t pay much attention to the sign outside, did you?”

When the soldier shook his head, Brandyn pointed behind him. There, carved into oak and burnished by smoke, was the tavern’s crest: a black swan with three pale bars beneath its wings, the mark of old campaigns and shared blood.

“Interesting,” Balgair murmured, tracing the familiar sigil. “When did you serve?”

“About five years ago,” Brandyn replied. He wiped the face of the shield, the rag catching the dull gleam of iron. “How is Maighstir Darkblade doing?”

“He should be back from tri aibhnichean by now,” Balgair said. His tone was wistful, respect wrapped in memory. “They were on their way to hunt an Orcan war band.”

“That’s interesting,” Brandyn mused. “I figured you worked for General Oberon instead of Rhyslin.” He gave a conspiratorial grin. “Is that temperamental black-haired woman still begging for his bond?”

“Rowena? Yes, she’s still there and still begging for that bond.” He sighed softly. “Speaking of changes, it’s just about time.”

He turned back to Heather. Her eyes followed his every motion, the way one might watch a torchbearer walking into a storm.

“Do me a favor and wait here,” he said quietly. “I should be back soon.”

Heather swallowed hard. For a moment she thought he was memorizing her face, the line of her jaw, the tremor of her lips. She offered him a shy, trembling smile. “Be careful, Maighstir,” she whispered, cheeks coloring. “I don’t want you to die because of me.”

Balgair’s own smile was weary but warm. “I doubt it will come to that.” He chuckled. “Besides, Nell would pay someone to bring me back, and then Amelia would geld me.”

His humor softened the heaviness of the moment. “I have no intention of allowing that man to beat me.”

He hefted the shield, feeling the sigil’s weight as though his goddess herself had laid a hand upon it.

“Can you watch over her until I get back?” he asked.

Brandyn nodded. The oath hung unspoken in the air, iron between men of the same order.

The Black Swan took a long breath, tasting the tavern’s smoke and rain, the mingled scent of hearth and storm. Then he turned toward the door, stepping into the gathering dusk.

The hinges creaked softly behind him, and as the door closed, the last light from the fire caught the swan etched on his shield, a dark wing poised between shadow and flame.

The street lay still beneath a shroud of gray light, the snow having drawn back to the hills.

Mist coiled in the gutters like breath from the sleeping earth, and from somewhere high above, the faint hum of Lady Ananke rippled through the air, not a sound, but a tremor in the soul, like the string of a harp plucked by unseen fingers.

Balgair stepped out into that silence, the iron scent of rain and blood already whispering through his memory. He paused, scanning the lane.

The brute stood bold and centered, his spiked club swinging idly, while a shadow lingered at the edge of a nearby building, a crossbowman half-swallowed by the fog.

Balgair angled his shield toward the hidden man, the swan sigil catching the weak sunlight like a coal ready to flare.

“Seall, there’s the funny one,” the brute snickered as Balgair came forward. His voice was a sneer that stained the air. “Well, well, this should be fun. I’ve never killed a black swan before.”

“I wouldn’t count your wyvern eggs just yet,” Balgair said, his tone measured, a soldier’s calm sharpened to a razor. He strode forward with the gait of one who had long since made peace with death. “I’d ask if this were a fair fight, except I’ve already found your hidden assassin.”

He proved his point with a flick of motion, the dagger spun and sang through the air, thudding into the timber near the crossbowman’s face. Wood splintered, and the shadow jerked backward with a curse, melting deeper into the alley.

“It looks like you missed,” the brute jeered, lips curling.

“If I had been aiming to kill, he’d already be dead,” Balgair replied, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His eyes narrowed slightly. He was already counting heartbeats, the rhythm of the coming death.

Brutus grinned, showing cracked teeth. “Are there any last words you want me to pass along to whichever woman is unlucky enough to be cleaning your slop?”

Balgair stopped four feet away, mist curling between them like ghostly breath. “Let’s go, you degenerate. I’ve got better things to do than play with you all day.”

“Do you?” Brutus hefted his club and advanced, his boots thudding in the wet dirt. “Fine, let’s get this over with. The sooner I kill you, the sooner I can enjoy the body of that little whore.”

“You wouldn’t know where to stick your dick,” Balgair shot back, his tone a blade of contempt. “Knowing you, you hit the wrong damned hole.”

Rage twisted Brutus’ face, but before he could react, Balgair flexed his knees and drove forward, sword flashing in a clean, economical thrust.

Steel met leather and bone, the strike glanced off as Brutus barely managed to parry with his club. Sparks danced between them, dying quick as flies in the rain.

From the alley came the soft, betraying twang of a crossbow.

Balgair moved before he thought, the shield lifted, divine instinct guiding the motion. The bolt struck the rim and spun away, humming into the dust.

He took another step forward, slashing diagonally, the blade singing a low note of fury as it carved from waist to shoulder, tearing through the man’s armor.

“Damn you, boyo. Now I’m going to kill you,” Brutus spat, tracing the cut as though it were merely an inconvenience. “I’ve heard that sluts love scars. Maybe yours will love mine.”

Balgair’s lips curved, though his eyes had gone cold. The light of the dying sun flared along his shield’s polished edge, a sudden, searing beam that struck the alley. The assassin cursed and ducked back, blinded.

The Black Swan smiled faintly.

“There’s no shame in withdrawing in the face of a superior swordsman,” he murmured.

“Stay still, ya fooker!” Brutus roared, swinging the club in a wide, heavy arc, all muscle, no grace.

What followed was less a duel than a dance, the Dance of the Dead, as the old mercenaries called it.

Where Brutus lunged like a beast, Balgair flowed, shield, sword, and breath all one continuous rhythm.

The edge of his blade whispered across the brute’s knee, then darted upward like a striking serpent toward his shoulder. Blood darkened the leather.

“That’s what you get for not having stamina,” Balgair taunted, circling lightly. “Then again, you probably fight like you make love. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”

The words landed like a slap, driving Brutus into a fury that robbed him of thought. His club came down in a killing blow.

Balgair stepped forward and half-turned, catching the strike on his shield, the impact shuddering up his arm.

Before the brute recovered, the flat of Balgair’s sword cracked across his right elbow.

Bone splintered. The scream was short, ragged, wet.

“Yer gonna pay for that, boyo,” Brutus growled, switching the club to his left hand, trying to raise it again.

“I wonder,” Balgair said mildly, dipping low and preparing his next block, “do you practice using that cudgel with your offhand?”

The next swing came slower, clumsier. Balgair caught it with his shield, pivoted, and hooked his boot behind the brut’s knee.

“I guess not,” he murmured as he wrenched back. The bigger man crashed down, landing on his shattered arm with a roar that sent pigeons scattering from the rooftops.

Then came the end.

With the patience of a craftsman finishing his work, Balgair drove the shield into Brutus’ other arm. The snap of bone echoed down the narrow street.

“Now,” he said conversationally, voice almost kind, “what was that you said you were going to do to Heather?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. The sword swept low, cutting the back of Brutus’ leg, muscle parting cleanly. The brute toppled again, shrieking.

“Oh, that’s right,” Balgair said, stepping behind him, “you were going to make her scream like the slut she is.” His boot lashed out, a single, punishing kick that shattered the man’s hip and sent him sprawling.

“Mercy, please,” the brute begged, chest heaving.

Balgair drew back his sword. His face was unreadable, not rage, not pity. Only purpose.

“Why?” he asked softly. “You would have shown no mercy to either her or me.”

The sound of another twang cut through the silence, and the arrow struck home, not in Balgair, but in Brutus.

The ruffian gasped, a feathered bolt blossoming from his ribs.

“You need to learn to aim better,” Balgair called toward the alley, his tone dry. “You hit your own man.”

He advanced, closing the space between him and the would-be killer. The assassin stumbled backward, and from the shadows, two ragged shapes emerged. The homeless men, watchers of fate’s low tide, moved with brutal efficiency.

A kick to the groin. A slice of rusted steel. The crossbow clattered to the cobbles.

Balgair smiled grimly. “Just goes to show, you should always watch your back.”

When he turned again, Brutus was still breathing, though shallowly. Blood spread like a dark tide beneath him.

“Now, you were begging for mercy, right?” Balgair said as he approached.

“You can’t kill me. You’re a soldier. You have rules.”

“I’m a mercenary,” Balgair replied, kneeling. The sun caught in his hair like flame on bronze. “The only rule I have is not to hurt the innocent.” He placed the tip of his sword over the man’s chest. “You, my friend, are no innocent.”

He bowed his head slightly, voice lowering to the cadence of a prayer. “May Nan Diathan have mercy on your soul.”

The sword came down, clean, final.

The air shivered. The mist rose in a sigh, curling upward like incense.

Balgair stood, wiping the blade on the dead man’s tunic. “Nobody is going to miss you,” he whispered, sliding the sword home.

The swan upon his shield caught the waning light, black upon silver, poised between grace and death.

And so the Lady’s justice was done.

The rain had slowed to a mist, leaving the street slick and silver under the lanterns. The puddles glowed faintly, each holding a reflection of the heavens above, fractured stars trembling in muddy water. Balgair stood for a moment beside the bodies cooling on the cobblestones, his breath visible in the damp air. The tang of iron and the sharpness of fear still clung to the stones, though the goddess’s hum, low and steady, had begun to ease.

He turned toward the two homeless men crouched by the assassin’s corpse. One was old and thin as wire, the other broad-shouldered but hollow-eyed. They moved with the nervous speed of men used to being chased away.

“Did he have anything of value?”

The older man straightened, his face wary under the streetlight. “He had some coin, his clothes, and weapons.” He eyed the mercenary as though weighing his soul. “You gonna take it away from us?”

Balgair shook his head, a tired smile touching his mouth. “No, in fact, I was going to offer you some more coin.”

The younger man snorted. “Right, and I’m Father Yule.” When the mercenary laughed, the man scowled. “It weren’t meant to be funny.”

A faint breeze wound between the buildings like a sigh, stirring the edges of Balgair’s cloak. Somewhere in the darkness, a church bell tolled, not for the dead, but to mark their passing on to whatever justice awaited them.

“I know,” he said lightly, “If you can take off both bodies, you can have what they’ve got on them, plus I’ll give you a handful of coins to clean the mess up.”

The men exchanged glances. Rain dripped from the awning above, beating a soft rhythm against the cobbles. “How much coin?” asked the first.

“Enough to get you off the street for a week,” Balgair offered. “If you want it.”

The second man whispered something to the first, the sound lost beneath the patter of water. After a beat, he nodded. “You’ve got a deal, sir. We’ll drag the bodies to the undertaker. We get what’s on them, and you’ll give us a handful of coins on top of that.”

Balgair nodded. “Exactly.” From behind his belt, he drew a small leather pouch and tossed it to the closer man. The pouch landed with a heavy jingle, and the man caught it, blinking in disbelief at its weight.

“Thank ye, sir.”

“No, thank you, Father Yule,” Balgair replied, grinning as the goddess’s laughter, quiet and crystalline, rippled through the fog.

The two men burst into rough laughter of their own, startling a stray dog that had been watching from the shadows.

“Jang, sir,” said the first, thumbing toward his companion, “and me friend is Fred. If you need us for any other dirty work, just call.”

“I’ll do that,” the mercenary said. The fog thickened around him, curling in ghostly shapes as he turned toward the inn. The scent of wet stone and iron gave way to the warmer aromas of stew and smoke as he crossed the threshold.

Balgair pulled out a piece of cloth and wiped his forehead as he stepped onto the porch and approached the door. “That could have been worse,” he muttered, his voice lost in the hiss of the rain. He pushed the door open and was met by the soft hum of life, laughter, conversation, the crackle of fire.

The first thing that greeted him was the smell of cooking meat stew. As he walked past the bar, Brandyn stopped him with a wave.

“How did it go?” He took a good long look at the Captain.

“About the way it usually goes when an untrained fighter picks on a soldier,” Balgair said with a shrug. “I got rid of the big guy and a pair of bums killed the assassin.”

“What did you do with the bodies?” The barkeep inquired curiously.

“I got the bums to cart them off. Told them they could have what’s on the bodies, plus I gave them a handful of coins for their trouble.” He glanced around, looking for Heather. “Where did my charge go?”

Brandyn held his hands up. “She couldn’t bear the thought of you being hurt, so she ran up to your room to hide.”

“At least I know where to find her,” Balgair commented as he headed upstairs. “I’m going to clean up and then we’ll be back for some of that stew.”

The barkeep grinned, “Good, I’ll save you some.” He inclined his head. “I haven’t forgotten that you wanted to talk about Lucy.” He teased, bringing a blush to the maiden’s face as she heard him.

As the tavern door swung shut behind him, the air seemed to shimmer faintly, Ananke’s unseen gaze lingering a heartbeat longer before fading into silence. Outside, the snow covered the blood on the cobblestones.

Balgair laughed quietly to himself as he ascended the stairs, the wood creaking beneath his boots like an old friend sighing with relief. The sounds of the common room faded behind him, the clatter of dishes, the low hum of Brandyn’s voice, replaced by the muted hush of the upper floor. A stray breeze from a cracked window carried with it the faint scent of rain and iron, cleansing and sharp, as if the world itself sought to wash away the blood he’d shed.

He paused at his door and knocked softly. “I’m back, mo te alainne.”

When he opened the door, the room was dim save for the light of a single oil lamp flickering on the table. Heather knelt at the foot of the bed, the lamplight gilding her hair so it seemed spun from pale gold. Her face lifted at his voice, joy breaking over her like dawn after storm.

“Balgair, oh Balgair,” she cried, rising half to her feet before he stopped her. When she froze, crestfallen, he offered a small, tired smile.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, reaching back to tug at the chain shirt that clung to him like a second, blood-slick skin. “I’ve got his blood all over me. I didn’t think you’d want it on you.”

The metallic tang of dried blood filled the air as Heather hurried to his side, fingers trembling as she helped lift the chain mail over his head. Her touch was gentle but sure, and the links whispered like falling rain.

“I was concerned that you might get hurt,” she said, voice small but steady. She sniffed, holding a handful of mail. “How do you clean this?”

“Just concerned?” he teased, a ghost of humor softening the fatigue in his eyes. “Is that why you were crying at the end of the bed?”

Heather’s eyes widened, catching the lamplight like glass. “Well, if anything had happened to you, Brutus would have pulled me out of here, kicking and screaming.”

Balgair arched a brow, his smirk wry. “Would you have now? To get the blood off the armor, we’ll dunk it in water, along with my shirt and pants.” He unfastened his shirt and let it fall to the floor.

Heather gasped softly. The lamplight revealed a map of scars across his back , pale ridges and darker lines, the language of every battle he’d survived. “Do they hurt?” she whispered, tracing one with a fingertip, reverent as a priestess reading an inscription.

Balgair shook his head, voice low. “No, I’ve almost forgotten about them.” He reached for his belt, smirking again. “I’m about to get out of these. If you want to protect your virtuous reputation, I’d move.”

A rueful chuckle escaped her. “My virtuous reputation was destroyed after Brutus killed my parents and raped me.” Her voice trembled, not from shame but from release, like a wound finally breathing. Before he could respond, she slipped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his back. For a heartbeat, the air stilled, as though the goddess herself held her breath.

He let her cling to him, feeling her trembling quiet under his steadiness.

The flickering lamplight dimmed and then brightened, a subtle pulse that felt almost alive. After a time, he gently untangled himself. “Could you get me a change of clothes?”

“Of course,” she murmured, moving toward the small chest beside the bed. The soft sound of cloth rustling was oddly comforting. “Are we going downstairs?”

Balgair nodded. “Brandyn is saving us some stew. I thought you might be hungry.”

Heather smiled faintly, her voice warm again. “You’re such a gentleman. Always thinking of us poor women.” She waited as he dressed and pulled on his boots. The scent of steel and sweat gave way to the softer aromas of stew drifting up through the floorboards. “I’m ready when you are.”

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When they descended to the common room, the air was thick with the rich fragrance of simmering broth and roasted herbs. Firelight from the hearth flickered across Brandyn’s scarred face as he gestured them to a newly cleared table.

“Now where were we?” Brandyn asked, pushing a steaming bowl toward Balgair.

The mercenary accepted it with a nod. “This is very good,” he said after a spoonful. “I believe we were talking about bhanna.”

“Thank you,” Brandyn said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “Though the thanks should go to Lucy. She fixed the stew.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Lucy said, smiling shyly as she clung to Brandyn’s arm.

Brandyn’s expression softened, but his voice was gruff. “Why should I bond with her when I can just take her and make her mine?”

Lucy’s eyes flashed, spoon raised like a tiny weapon. “Why you! What makes you think you can just take me?”

“Five years of you mooning after me,” he countered, leaning down with a teasing glint. “Do you mean to tell me that if I were to carry you upstairs and ravish you, you’d fight me?”

“No,” Lucy squeaked, pressing her face against his shoulder. “You know I wouldn’t.” Then, quieter: “You’re mean. You’re supposed to want to join our hearts together and tell me that you’ll keep me forever.”

When Brandyn didn’t answer, she looked toward Heather, who nodded in solidarity. “See, she agrees with me.”

Brandyn exhaled, running a hand through his hair before meeting Balgair’s calm gaze. “By Nan Diathan, woman. You must know that I care about you.”

When Lucy nodded timidly, he sighed. “Balgair, can you help us with the bonding ceremony?”

Balgair winced as a ripple of divine laughter filled his chest. The air around him shimmered faintly, a pressure, a warmth, as though invisible chains of light coiled and danced at the edge of sight. “Yes, I can,” he whispered, silently begging Ananke to still her joy. Her presence pulsed in his mind like sunlight through water.

Brandyn frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Just Milady showering me with her excitement,” Balgair explained, smiling faintly. “If you really want to do this, you should know a few things first.”

When Brandyn gestured for him to continue, the tavern’s chatter dimmed, and even the fire seemed to quiet. “First, this is for life, no taksies-backsies.

What Ananke joins together, none other than death can undo.”

Brandyn looked down at Lucy. “Are you worth all this trouble?”

“Yes, Maighstir, I am,” Lucy whispered, eyes bright. “I will be yours forever.”

Brandyn nodded, turning back to Balgair. “And the second?”

“MiLady takes a very dim view on how bonds treat each other,” Balgair said, his voice deepening as the goddess’s presence stirred within him. “If you use your bond to hurt your mate, Ananke will do everything in her power to make your life miserable.” The tavern air grew still, warm, humming faintly like a plucked string.

“If you want to do this, and mean it, you’ll have to offer your bonds to each other and accept them in return.”

Lucy turned to Brandyn, crossing her wrists and lifting them. The faint shimmer of Ananke’s touch illuminated the gesture, not visible light, but a subtle feeling, like awe or the edge of tears. When Brandyn took her wrists and mirrored her motion, their breath mingled.

“There before their witnesses and the gods,” Balgair said softly, his voice a conduit, not his own, “they offered their bonds to one another.”

The goddess’s joy filled the room, a weightless warmth, a sigh of contentment that fluttered through every candle flame.

“Before these witnesses and our Lady of Chains,” Balgair finished, “you are now bonded together.”

The fire popped softly. Somewhere beyond the tavern walls, the wind quieted. For the first time that day, peace settled, fragile, but real, in the wake of blood and chaos.

Worry not, gentle reader.
The bard rests but a moment to wet his throat and gather the tale. He will return soon with the next chapter.

Should you wish to walk ahead of him, the rest of the saga awaits below.

The Black Swan's Bond

There was silence for a moment, and then Heather spoke. “Maighstir, here I am.”

He turned. She stood framed in the bathroom doorway, the warm lamplight haloing her like sunrise after storm.

Nervously, she brushed her hands down the short thigh-length skirt that did little to cover her long legs. His gaze rose, not with hunger, but with quiet awe, past the lines of the skirt to the soft curve of the blouse that caught the firelight. Her heart-shaped face, framed by damp, dirty-blond hair, shone with a fragile kind of bravery. In her brown eyes, he saw both fear and the tremor of self-worth being reborn.

To say he was spellbound would be a lie. It was not enchantment that held him still, but reverence. The change in her was like the difference between night and dawn. With a small, approving nod, he gestured for her to approach.

There was a hint of a smile as she crossed the room, her bare feet whispering against the wooden floor.

The air around her felt different now, as though the goddess’s unseen hand had lifted something heavy from her shoulders. She knelt at his feet, her voice soft but newly alive, and almost sang, “What do you think?”

“You’re breathtaking.” His lips curved into a smile. “Do you feel better?”

Caught off guard, she froze for a heartbeat, then answered timidly,
“Yes, Maighstir, I do.” She tilted her head, fingers combing through her hair, smoothing it from crown to tip. Her breath quivered as she spoke again. “It’s most strange. I feel as if a great weight has lifted from me.”

The flickering light dimmed as he moved toward the small table by the far wall. “Heather, come here.”

She gazed at him, uncertain but sensing a test in his tone. Her eyes flicked from him to the table where the meal still waited, two plates, two cups, and the bottle of meadhon glinting gold in the lamplight. Understanding dawned, and she smiled faintly. Rising, she gathered the meal with grace, the practiced precision of someone once scorned for trying too hard. She carried each piece to the table, arranging them with care: his plate in the center, hers to the side, one cup before him, the other near her own.

Then, lifting his plate, the bottle, and a cup, she carried them carefully and sank to her knees once more. The floor creaked softly beneath her.“Can this slave girl offer you food and drink, Maighstir?”

He blinked, caught between sympathy and unease. Of all the things he expected, this wasn’t it. Something in him tightened, not anger, but sorrow. He briefly wondered if she was playing a role, or if the world had truly taught her to equate servitude with love.

Heather froze when she saw his expression. “Am I not a slave?”

He inwardly flinched, the question cutting through him like cold air. He had hoped for more time to lead her out of that darkness. “No, you aren’t a slave.” He hesitated, steadying his tone. “Nor are we bonded.”

She looked lost for a moment, as though the floor itself had shifted. “If I’m not a slave, what am I?”

“You are a free woman,” Balgair said softly, “under my protection.”

The fire cracked, throwing gold across her features. She gave him a strange, almost haunted look.
“Am I so unworthy that nobody wants me?”

“That’s not it,” Balgair replied, whispering a silent plea to Ananke that the fragile woman before him would not crumble beneath her own doubt. “Giving and accepting a life-bond requires trust.”
He knew it was half a lie; he’d accepted bonds under far worse storms. But he needed her to breathe before she bound herself to anyone.“I didn’t think you were ready yet.”

Heather sighed softly, tapping her fingers against her thighs, a nervous rhythm, half defiance, half thought. “Shouldn’t that be my call?” she murmured. She lifted her eyes, voice trembling between pride and pleading.
“What if I want to be your slave? Will you allow it?”

He nodded slowly, watching the tension leave her shoulders. She set the bottle and cup gently on the floor, then removed the thin square of cotan that covered the plate. Her movements were deliberate, reverent, almost liturgical. After a steadying breath, she lifted the plate with both hands and held it out, eyes lowered. “Your plate, Maighstir,” she whispered.

He took it, placing it on the table with a gravity that made the act feel like a vow. She poured the meadhon with careful precision, filling his cup, then lifted it and held it up. “Your cup of Meadhon, Maighstir.”

When his fingers brushed hers, a faint thrill passed between them, not desire, but recognition. She blushed, and the room seemed to brighten for an instant.

“You did well,” he said, setting the cup down. Taking a piece of meat, he broke it in half and offered her one piece.
“For you, my beautiful maiden.”

She accepted it with both hands, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she tasted it , the first true offering she’d ever received without fear. A deep, quiet contentment softened her face.

When he gestured to the chair beside him, she rose and sat, movements small and precise.After a pause, she asked, “If I felt I was ready, would you accept my bond?”

Balgair leaned forward, studying her eyes , not as a man, but as a judge of spirits. Can she be ready so soon?

The air seemed to hum, a gentle vibration threading through his thoughts. She might be, whispered Ananke’s voice, distant and clear.

He nodded slightly, then smiled at Heather. “If you feel you are ready, you can offer your bond and I’ll accept it, then I’ll give you mine.”

The blond blushed again, lowering her gaze. “That voice I hear in my head, who is it?”

“Her name is Ananke,” Balgair said, his tone softening to reverence. “She is our Lady of Chains.”

“Chains?” Heather blinked, biting her lip. “Does that mean she’s the goddess of slaves and bonds?”

He shook his head. “No. Ananke despises slavery. The bonds she facilitates are deeper and sharper than mere words and threats.” He leaned forward and gently cupped her chin. “I would never hurt any of my bonds.”

“Oh, I see,” she murmured, her voice caught between awe and uncertainty.
“You are bonded already?”

She sounded both disappointed and afraid. “May I ask a question?”

“You may,” Balgair replied, reaching for a biscuit. He broke it, layered it with meat and cheese, and took a slow bite, the simplest gesture of mortal appetite, grounding the divine hush that lingered in the air.

The candlelight flickered low, spreading long golden shadows across the timbered walls. The inn was quiet now , the hum of voices below faded to a distant murmur beneath the steady whisper of rain on the eaves. The air smelled faintly of oak smoke and meadhon honey, warm and earthy, grounding the two souls within the small room.

Heather sat back on her heels, her breath a trembling thing as she considered which question might draw him out.

The goddess’s silence pressed gently in the corners, like mist before dawn , unseen but felt. “When you stopped on the street and watched me, how did you know I was there?”

“Lady Ananke saw you first, then pointed you out to me.” Balgair’s voice held a calm certainty that filled the space like a steady flame. He studied her face, the quick flush rising in her cheeks, the nervous tightening of her hands , and felt the goddess’s faint hum at the back of his thoughts.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

Caught by surprise, Heather blushed to her toes and mumbled, “Yes, Maighstir.” Then, with him watching, she mimicked his motion and took a bite.

The bread was coarse but hearty, the cheese sharp. Her hunger betrayed her, and she coughed mid-bite, struggling to swallow.

“Are you okay?” he asked, half-rising, concern softening the edges of his otherwise battle-worn voice.

“I’m fine,” she reassured him once she could breathe again. “I haven’t eaten this much in a while.” Outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the hills, distant, like the echo of some old god turning in sleep.

Balgair frowned, his gaze weighing her words with quiet disapproval. That she’d gone hungry offended something deep within him, a warrior’s sense of justice, or perhaps the goddess’s own indignation whispering through him. Heather caught the look and felt herself shrink inward, her heart tightening.

It should not have mattered , but now, for some reason, his opinion did.

“Was it by your choice?” he asked, his eyes scanning her with the precision of a healer, as if searching for unspoken wounds.
Blonde hair flew as she shook her head, “No, Maighstir. I was trying to avoid some people, and they like to hunt and torment me.” Her words fell like pebbles into the silence that followed.

The hearth crackled, a single ember snapping. “If you want me to leave, I’ll understand.” Her voice was small, like something half-erased by wind.

“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere,” Balgair said quietly. There was iron beneath the gentleness now , the kind that forged oaths and broke tyrants.

For a heartbeat, the air around him shimmered, and Heather thought she saw the faintest glimmer of a chain wrought from light, circling him like a halo. He sounded as if he’d kill anyone who tried to take her away by force.

Heather brushed her arms as goosebumps rose along her skin. “I get to stay?” For the first time in many moons, hope stirred like spring water in her chest.

“Of course,” Balgair nodded. “Milady would expect no less.” His tone softened, and the faint glow in the air seemed to breathe away.

Heather sighed, relief leaving her shoulders slumped. The goddess’s presence lingered faintly, unseen but listening. “Why does your goddess care what happens to me?”

Her voice carried all the bewilderment of a lost pilgrim asking the wind for direction.

“You’d have to ask her,” Balgair said, shrugging. “I do know that Lady Ananke won’t deceive you. She knows your circumstances and that changing your life will help you in some way. Who knows, you could be content, happy, maybe.”

The flicker of candlelight caught the edge of his armor, and for an instant, the reflected light looked like stars shimmering on water.

Heather forgot to breathe. The words sank into her like sunlight on frost. She curled a strand of her hair around one trembling finger. “You said your name was Balgair?” When he nodded, she relaxed. “May I call you Maighstir Balgair?”

“Of course, you may.” He poured her a half-cup of the meadhon and passed it to her. The golden liquid caught the light, glowing like liquid amber. “Take your time eating. We’ve got a bit of time.”

“Until what, Maighstir Balgair?” With a soft sigh, he leaned back. “Until I do my Lady’s work and make the young tavern maiden a happy woman.”

“Oh,” Heather replied, her gaze falling to the table. She watched his every movement, uncertain which of them might mean rejection. The bed in the corner looked impossibly soft, and she thought , not for the first time , that she would trade anything for peace.

“Shhh, calm down.” His voice was firm but kind. “If I need something, I’ll tell you.” He reached across the table and cupped her chin.

His hand was warm and steady. “If you worry about it all the time, you’ll just wear yourself out, then what good would you be?” A candle guttered in the draft, its flame flaring high, as though affirming his words.

She exhaled, a tremor of breath escaping her lips.

Turning her face slightly, she brushed her cheek against his palm, a gesture of instinctive trust rather than submission. “I didn’t know how you wanted me to behave.”
She lifted her cup and shook it. “May I have more Meadhon, please, Maighstir?”

He nodded and poured her another half-cup. “Take it slow. I know it tastes sweet, but you’ll get drunk if you aren’t careful.” He withdrew his hand, and she whimpered softly at the loss of warmth.

When he finished his meal, he pushed the plate away, leaning back with a low sigh. Heather, ever attentive, noticed that he’d eaten only half. Her own meal was barely touched. “Have you had enough, Maighstir?” she asked, reaching for the thin squares of cotan.

When he nodded, she quietly consolidated the food onto one plate, her movements deliberate, almost reverent. The hearthlight caught in her hair, giving it a soft amber sheen.

Balgair hid a yawn behind his hand and watched her with quiet fondness. The last echoes of Ananke’s hum still shimmered in the air, a silver thread twining through the timbers of the room. The hearth’s coals pulsed faintly, breathing warmth into the shadows.

Heather sat motionless for a time, her gaze turned inward, as though listening to something neither of them could see.

Then, softly, she rose. Her steps made no sound upon the boards. When her eyes fell upon his pack beside the bed, she hesitated, head tilted, waiting, perhaps, for the whisper of permission that hovered between them.

The the freedom Ananke granted through choice, not command—was already at work in her. She reached out and brushed her fingers across the weathered leather straps, tracing the scars of travel and toil like runes of a man’s life.

The inn exhaled around them, its beams sighing with the weight of rain. Wind curled against the shutters, murmuring low through the eaves.

Somewhere within that sound came the ghost of laughter—soft, patient, and knowing.

The laughter of a goddess who wove destinies through tenderness rather than decree.

Heather knelt beside the pack. Her hair, a dull gold in the firelight, slipped forward like a veil as she unfastened the straps. Each motion carried the hesitance of one newly unchained, afraid that freedom might vanish if she moved too boldly. She reached within and drew out what lay hidden—first two bundles of folded clothes, which she placed reverently upon the bed, then a leather pouch that chimed faintly when lifted.

The sound of coin startled her; instinct drove her to press it between her thighs protectively, not as a thief, but as one who had learned too well that safety was never guaranteed.

From the depths of the pack, she lifted two daggers in polished sheaths, and two more leather sacks. These, she handled carefully before setting them back, as though she feared to disturb their slumber. When she was done, she lingered a moment, her breath shallow, eyes fixed on the belongings of a man who had shown her neither cruelty nor claim. Then, with deliberate care, she gathered the money pouch and tucked it between two layers of clothing, nestling it into the bedside drawer. It was an act of order, not possession—a small reclamation of peace.

When she turned back, her new maighstir was watching her through half-closed eyes, the faintest smile curling beneath his beard.

Balgair nodded at her. “You’re learning.”

The warmth in his voice drew something unspoken from her, a flicker of pride, still fragile but bright. She crossed the room and knelt again before him, the movement fluid now, less an act of submission and more a gesture of trust. When he crooked his finger, she leaned forward slightly, awaiting his word.

She looked as though she had more questions. When he nodded for her to speak, she asked softly, “Are you a priest?”

He confirmed her suspicion. “No, I’m not a Sagart of Ananke. Based on what you found in my pack, what do you think I do for a living?” He studied her expression as she weighed her answer.

“I think you are a soldier of some sort, Maighstir,” she said, glancing toward the chain shirt and gambeson folded over the chair. “But you don’t serve a church or a king.”

When he raised a brow, she added, “I don’t see a sigil or coat of arms.”

The soldier grinned. “Correct. I am a mercenary and a member of the Black Hills Company.”

She froze. “Do you have your own home?” The question came out too quickly, and she winced, fearing how it might sound.

Balgair laughed—a sound like gravel stirred by sunlight. “Yes, I have a saor-shealbh of my own. It’s not large, but it’s enough for me and my other two bonds.”

The word bonds struck something deep within her. It rang like a bell beneath her ribs. She hadn’t known anyone who shared a bond freely, without coercion or fear. “What are they like? Your bonds?”

His features softened, eyes far away. “Amelia is a firebrand and very outgoing. There are times she has no shame. Nell is a bit more reserved and doesn’t brook stupidity at all.” He looked at her again, a half-smile curving his lips. “You’ll like them. If you stick around.”

The words caught her breath. If you stick around. That was freedom disguised as invitation.

She had lived her life on borrowed ground; now, for the first time, she was being offered a place to stand. The thought sent a tremor through her chest. She looked away, blinking hard, and when the tears came, they surprised even her.

Balgair saw them and said gently, “It’s okay, mo tè àlainn.” He shifted in his chair and drew her up into his lap. “There’s nothing that could make me kick you out.”

For a moment, Heather stiffened, half-convinced he could see her shame written across her skin. But he didn’t probe—he only held her. His warmth, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her cheek, and the smell of leather and steel all blurred into something she hadn’t known in years: safety.

“You’ll like Amelia and Nell,” he murmured. “It won’t be long until you are part of our family.”

The word family unfurled inside her like a sunrise breaking over snow. She sat rigid for a heartbeat longer, wrestling the ache of disbelief, then slowly yielded, resting her head on his shoulder.

Her sigh was a sound of surrender—not of will, but of weariness finally released.

Outside, the wind rose and bent around the inn, carrying with it the faint shimmer of divine laughter. The chains of Ananke did not bind here—they braided, linking souls by choice.

“Maighstir Balgair,” she whispered, her voice steady now, “what did you mean when you said you would make Lucy happy?”

The lamps of The Black Swan burned low, casting amber light upon the walls like honey poured over stone. Beyond the windowpanes, the storm had gentled into a whisper, and the world outside shimmered with rain’s memory. The air in the room still hummed faintly, not with sound, but with presence.

Lady Ananke lingered there, unseen yet palpable, like a thread of light coiled through shadow.

The mercenary closed his eyes, savoring the feel of the woman in his arms and enjoying the feel of her breath against his throat.

“It would seem that the lovely Tavern Maiden wants to be bound to the Tavern Master but doesn’t know if he wants her.” When she exhaled in surprise, he chuckled. “Lady Ananke finds it amusing but wants me to investigate and, if both wish it, bind them together.”

Heather lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “Truly? I have seen the way Lucy looks at Maighstir Brandyn.” She quirked a brow. “I should have guessed that she wanted his bond.” When she saw the amused smile on his face, she blushed slightly. “What is it, Maighstir Balgair?”

“How easily you have called another man Maighstir.” He commented.

She pursed her lips, her tongue flicking out to wet those lips. “Should I not?”

Balgair quirked a brow. “We aren’t bonded, nor are you a slave. There’s no need to call men masters.”

Heather feared that she’d done something wrong and tried to explain. “Is it wrong to do something that feels right?” When he shrugged, she frowned, “You’re no help. You’re supposed to agree with me.”

When he just gave her a disapproving look, she mumbled. “Why won’t you agree with me?”

“Because you don’t really don’t want me to agree with you.” He surmised. “Only you can speak for yourself.”

Heather took a breath, then nodded to herself. “If I feel comfortable calling you Maighstir, then I should feel comfortable enough to call other men maighstir as well.” She absently brushed her fingers through her hair. “If I do, then it is only right that I address them as such.” She looked to him for confirmation, and when he nodded, she smiled, pleased. “When are we due downstairs, Maighstir?”

Balgair was amazed that she had so quickly accepted her new place, at least in her mind. “Probably right about now.” He reluctantly let go of her and growled softly under his breath as she slid off his lap and stood before him. “We should also take our dirty dishware to the kitchen.”

“Yes, Maighstir,” she replied, reaching out for the dirty cups and the one plate they didn’t need anymore. When ready, she looked over her shoulder and walked to the door. “Would maighstir please get the door?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied as he opened the door for her. Then he led the way down the stairs and into the common room. While she disappeared into the kitchen.

The tavern was quieter now, voices subdued under the low growl of thunder in the distance. Lanterns swayed with the draft, casting gold upon the wet beams. Somewhere, far off, a temple bell tolled in the wind , its note carrying like a promise, or a warning.

With Heather safely busy in the kitchen, Balgair closed his eyes and conversationally whispered, “If it were any other than you, Milady, I would not intrude in another man’s happiness.”

At that, the presence that he associated with his goddess seemed to focus on him and he could feel Ananke’s concern for him in the back of his mind. The faintest scent of jasmine and iron filled the air , the sign of her listening.

“I’m no chain maker, Mistress. I hope I don’t mess this up too badly.” He said as he opened his eyes and looked around.

The young lady from earlier was behind the bar, listening to the barkeep with avid attention. She looked softer now, the sharpness of her working day blunted by weariness and hope.

“Whatever I do, don’t laugh, Milady.”

After taking a cleansing breath, he casually made his way to the bar and leaned against it. “My thanks for your help, Lucy,” he said, inclining his head to the tavern-maid.

“You’re welcome, Maighstir,” the brunette said as she watched him.

For a moment, Balgair wondered how to start his conversation. When his eyes fell on the great axe hanging behind the bar, he took a minute to appraise the weapon. Its edge gleamed faintly, as though remembering old wars. “I’ve come across very few men who can wield one of those easily.”

The Tavern Master gave Balgair the once over and grunted. “You might be able to.”

“Who me?” Balgair shook his head. “I like my sword and shield too much to want to pick up one those.”

The barkeep raised one brow. “I saw you when you came in.” He leaned down. “By the way, did you see the sign hanging outside, Captain?”

Balgair leaned back, trying to remember if he had left his shield uncovered. The silence stretched, not tense, but heavy with understanding.

It was apparent that he must have, because the man introduced himself. “Sergeant Brandyn de Rute.” He gestured over his shoulder to the shield hanging on the wall.

Balgair, remembering the sign hanging outside, chuckled. “I was wondering why it was called The Black Swan. I’m Balgair Moeldr,” he said, extending his hand.

Brandyn gave Balgair another long look. “You present the appearance of a man under orders.”

Balgair grinned tiredly. “Aren’t we all? Though I’m not sure what I have to discuss will sit well with you.”

The big man arched a brow. “You’ll never know if you don’t talk about it.” He commented, bringing his mug to his lips to take a drink.

“You’re right,” the mercenary admitted. “Have you ever considered the advantages of having a bhanna?”

Brandyn coughed up a bit of the ale he had swallowed. “Of all the things I expected you say, that wasn’t it.” He admitted. After carefully placing the mug on the bar, he wiped his mouth. “You don’t look like any chain-maker I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m not a chain maker,” Balgair reflexively said. “I’m just a follower of Our Lady.”

Brandyn sniffed. “That has a ring of truth to it, because you don’t look like any priest I’ve ever seen.” When Balgair managed to shrug, the barkeep rolled his eyes. “I feel like I’m being set up for an ambush, but yes, I have occasionally wondered what kind of woman would bond with an ex-soldier.”

He glanced over at Lucy, noticing the blush crawling down her neck. “Might you know of such a woman?”

Before Balgair could answer, Heather appeared at his side and sank to her knees. “I’m done, Maighstir.”

Balgair absently thanked her and turned to continue his conversation with Brandyn. That was, until he heard heavy footsteps behind him and a menacing voice said, “We’ve been looking for you, Heather. Imagine finding you here, dressed like a maid.”

The warmth of the tavern seemed to collapse inward. The laughter at the back tables faltered. Rain hissed against the shutters like whispering serpents. Ananke’s presence vanished, not in abandonment, but in warning.

Balgair’s hand slid toward his sword, and the lamplight flickered like a heartbeat before battle.

Worry not, gentle reader.
The bard rests but a moment to wet his throat and gather the tale. He will return soon with the next chapter.

Should you wish to walk ahead of him, the rest of the saga awaits below.

The Black Swan's Bond

I send forth a call to all who wander our way.

Come one, come all, to the Tavern door.

Sit a spell, and hear the storyteller once more.

The third tale of the Draoidh’s Cearcall now takes accord —

The Draoidh’s Accord is told at last, in word.

And if you would hold these pages in your hand,

You’ll find the story waiting, throughout the land.

The Draoidh's Accord

Year 300 post-founding

The traveler’s cloak was dusted with snow, each flake melting into the worn wool before freezing again. The wind carried the dry scent of pine and woodsmoke , the breath of a hard land that had never truly yielded to the hands of men. Before him, the palisade walls of Eola rose out of the white plain like the bones of something ancient, blackened timbers half-buried in frost.

He paused beneath a leafless ash, the bark silvered with ice, and leaned his shield against his leg. The metal bore the faint mark of his unit almost lost beneath scratches and age, but here, in Eola, such symbols went unnoticed. These people worshipped in silence, if at all.

He unrolled his map, tracing his path with a gloved thumb.

“If I’m not lost, this should be Eola,”he muttered, rolling the parchment again before tucking it under his cloak.

He adjusted the strap of his shield, feeling its weight settle against his shoulder, and set out toward the town. The snow deepened around his boots, muffling the world to stillness. No birds called. Only the hiss of wind along the palisade broke the hush.

By noon, he reached the gates. Two carts stood waiting, oxen steaming in the cold, while a few bundled townsfolk went about their work with the quiet efficiency of people used to surviving on their own.

A guard raised a hand in greeting, or warning. His eyes narrowed as he looked the traveler over: the scarred armor, the easy poise of one accustomed to danger, the sword-hilt peeking from beneath the cloak.

“Welcome to Eola, stranger.”

The traveler inclined his head slightly.

“Thank you,” he grunted. “Where is the best inn in town?”

The guard blinked at the word inn; most here drank where they slept.

“The Black Swan is three blocks west and two blocks north. You can’t miss it.”

A nod of thanks, and the traveler passed beneath the gate.

Inside, Eola felt closer, narrower. Snow had been cleared into neat ridges along the bricked lanes, where water froze in shallow ruts.

The air was thick with smoke from hearth fires and the tang of iron from the blacksmith’s yard. Somewhere a hammer rang; somewhere else, a child coughed.

The traveler stepped onto the wooden walk, pulling back his hood. The roofs leaned inward above him, their second stories jutting out like watchful faces. No temples crowned the streets, no shrines at the corners, only weathered charms nailed above doorframes: a braided cord, a carved stone, a sprig of withered heather. In Saorsa, even the smallest things could serve as prayers.

“Let’s see, he said, three blocks west and two north.”

He raked his fingers through brown hair and started on, the boards creaking beneath his steps.

Halfway down the street, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran through him. A whisper brushed the back of his thoughts.

[Stop.]

He froze, scanning the street. The sense of unseen presence stirred the small hairs on his neck.

[There, hiding in the alleyway.]

His gaze followed the goddess’s intent until he found the shadow, a figure crouched where two buildings met, almost swallowed by the gloom.

“That ragamuffin?” he murmured.

[Keep an eye on her,] the voice breathed, faint as wind through pine.

“As you wish,”he answered quietly, leaning against the cold wall of a shop.

Across the street, the hidden figure stirred.

Feeling eyes upon her, she lifted her head, blue eyes wide and shining in the dim light. Her hair was a tangle of straw and frost.

When she saw the man standing opposite, her breath caught, and fear rippled through her like a shiver in thin glass.

“No, no, no,” she whispered, shrinking deeper into the shadow.

No one in Eola spared her a glance. People in frontier towns learned not to see what troubled them.

[Shhh, little one. See that man over there?]

The wind carried the faintest warmth , a soundless voice she had long ago mistaken for madness.

[He’s my Ridere. He will save you.]

“No, no, no. Nobody wants to save me; they want to hurt me.”

Still, her eyes lingered. Perhaps it was the way he stood , calm, unafraid, as if he belonged to a world untouched by Eola’s hardships.

Snow drifted between them, whispering against the boards.

After a few minutes, the traveler shook his head and resumed walking. The goddess’s errands were never clear at the start, and he had learned to follow without question.

He had been on the road for five weeks. The thought of a fire, food, and a mug of ale felt almost holy.

Behind him, the woman glanced skyward.

“This is a bad idea,” she murmured, but the sky gave no answer, only the distant rasp of a crow and the sigh of cold wind through the eaves.

She followed.

Chapter One

The traveler paused at the threshold, squinting up at the sign that swung in the evening wind. The paint had faded to a ghost of its former brightness, an image of a stylized black swan, its wooden edges worn smooth by years of rain and laughter. A curl of warm light leaked from the cracks around the door, carrying with it the promise of fire and ale. He chuckled softly to himself before pushing the door open and stepping into the glow.

The scent of roasting meat and spilled beer struck him first, thick and familiar.

A dozen conversations blended into a single warm roar,the rise and fall of voices, the clatter of mugs, the low hum of a bard’s lute from somewhere near the hearth.

He slipped through the front room, brushing past merchants in travel-stained coats and farmers too deep in their cups to notice. Beyond that was the common room, louder still, a swirl of heat and human scent that pressed close on all sides.

When the hairs on the back of his neck bristled, instinct urged him to turn. He stilled instead, jaw tightening. “She followed, didn’t she?” he murmured under his breath.

The smugness from the goddess answered him without words, an amused warmth at the back of his mind, like the lingering taste of smoke. He sighed inwardly. Even though he might question his goddess, she’d never steered him wrong.

He willed the short hair at his nape to lie flat again, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension.

His eyes swept the room until they found an empty table near the center, close enough to see every corner, far enough from the hearth to keep his back cool. Moving toward it, he unhooked the shield from his shoulder and rested it on the opposite chair, the iron rim catching a flicker of firelight. His cloak came next, damp at the hem, draped over the back of his seat.

With a careworn sigh, he sat. The bench creaked beneath his weight. The noise and warmth swirled around him, comforting and alien all at once.

For a moment, he let himself breathe, feeling the press of the goddess’s unseen attention soften, like a hand withdrawn from his shoulder. Then he folded his hands atop the table and waited for one of the serving girls to notice him.

Within minutes, he had a mug in his hand and a plate on the table and was enjoying a better-than-average meal. The stew’s steam curled upward, mingling with the low haze of pipe smoke and the drifting scents of ale, sweat, and wood ash. Around him, laughter rose and fell in waves, punctuated by the occasional clatter of a chair or the bark of a barkeep.

The hum of life pressed close , a comfort and a cage alike.

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Steeling herself, the woman paused outside the inn’s door. The glow beneath the threshold spilled over her bare hands, trembling in the chill. Her breath fogged once, twice, and then she pushed forward. The hinges groaned softly as she slipped inside, head low, her cloak dragging in the rush of warm air that smelled of humanity and fire.

Quiet as a mouse, she hugged the walls, slipping through the front room where a merchant’s laughter drowned the music of a lute. The common room beyond was busier still, men leaning over dice, a bard tuning his strings, a fire crackling under the watchful eyes of a mounted stag head.

And there he was, seated near the center of it all, a man in worn leather, eating as if he had all the time in the world.

Her heart thudded painfully. She retreated into a shadowed corner, pressing her back to the cool plaster. The goddess’s whisper coiled through her mind, not words, not quite, but a pressure behind her ribs, insistent and merciful all at once. She murmured her response under her breath, eyes squeezed shut, bargaining for courage. When she opened them again, she caught sight of him lifting his cup, his profile lit by firelight and fatigue.

Gathering what resolve she had left, she slipped from the wall and began her approach. Every step was measured; the worn floorboards creaked beneath her boots like warning sighs.

The space between them felt impossibly long, filled with heat, noise, and her own fear. Her fingers curled tight in her skirts, ready to turn and flee if the goddess’s promise failed her.

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The man heard every furtive step she made. His hand stilled on his cup, but he didn’t look up. Years of travel and worship had taught him how to listen, for footsteps, for lies, for gods. He inhaled quietly, catching the scent of damp wool and river mud, and felt the air around him tense as if the goddess herself were watching.

He held his breath as she sank to her knees beside him and whispered, “Please help me. She said you’d help me.”

The words barely rose above the tavern’s din, yet they cut through it cleanly. He sipped his drink and kept the cup poised in one hand, eyes steady on the trembling figure at his feet. She repeated herself, the same plea, this time in the local Gaelic tongue, the cadence roughened by exhaustion.

She was on her knees, broken, battered, miserable looking, gazing up at him with concern in her blue eyes. A bruise darkened one cheek, and her hair, once fair, hung in limp tangles. The noise of the room seemed to recede, as if the air itself were holding its breath.

For a moment, he wondered if it was a trap. His gaze flicked around the tavern , a handful of patrons watching with mixed disgust and envy. Some women looked upon the kneeling stranger as though she were diseased, others as though they envied her desperation.

No, he thought. No one would stage this. This was real, painfully real.

He exhaled and dismissed the crowd from his thoughts, his attention returning to her bowed head. Her posture, her voice, her trembling , all spoke of ruin and faith entwined. And only one thing could mend either.

“What is it you want, woman?”

The common room had settled into a gentle lull. The fire had burned low, its embers breathing a red pulse through the haze of smoke. Outside, wind threaded through the shutters, sighing in counterpoint to the quiet murmur of patrons half lost to drink. At the center table, Balgair sat in the circle of warmth, his plate half-forgotten, the scent of roasted grain and honey still drifting from his cup.

She looked up at him through her tears and wild hair. “Help me, please, Maighstir. I can’t do it anymore.”

Her voice cracked the hush like a reed snapping underfoot. For a moment, even the fire seemed to draw a slow breath. He studied her—mud on her skirt, scratches across her hands, the faint shimmer of rain still clinging to her lashes. Beneath the dirt, she was a woman who had once known sunlight.

Her dress, though torn, carried the faded grace of freedom: fine cloth now dulled by travel, embroidery unraveling where it had caught on brambles. He imagined how others might have looked upon her in better days—with envy first, and then the cruelty that envy breeds.

“You can’t do what anymore?” He lifted the mug, letting the honeyed scent of meadhon wash over him. The sweetness steadied his thoughts, a small ritual of patience. She whispered something that vanished into the noise of the room. “You’ll have to speak louder, little one. I couldn’t quite hear what you said.”

She buried her face in her hands, shoulders trembling. Around them, a chair scraped, a laugh faltered, and then the tavern sounds drifted back like surf after a wave withdraws. When she raised her head again, her breath came in shallow gusts. “I can’t live like this anymore.” Her hand shook as she wiped her cheeks. “It hurts so much.”

The lamplight trembled in the draft, laying shifting gold across her face.

Balgair felt the air change—an unseen current of grief thickening it, as though the goddess herself had leaned closer to listen. Understanding dawned; he said nothing at first, only watched the quiver of her lip and the weary rise of her chest. The anger he had mistaken for defiance was only sorrow wearing armor too heavy for her frame.

Even without touching her thoughts, he could read the exhaustion spilling from her. It concerned him deeply; he had not seen misery this pure in many seasons.

Somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolled from the harbor, dull and distant—a reminder of the world still turning.

The council of Saor-Shelbs had made laws for souls like hers, laws meant to open doors rather than close them. All they needed was to find a man willing to listen, to bear witness, to help.

“Tell me of your pain, pretty one,” he said, his voice a quiet command that steadied the trembling space between them.

“Please, don’t tease me, Mhaighstir. I couldn’t take it.” She hugged herself tightly, the firelight catching on the torn edges of her sleeve. When he reasserted his command, the authority in it gentle but unyielding, she drew in a trembling breath and met his eyes for the first time.

“They told me I could do anything I wanted. They said that I could do anything a man could do. They said I could carry a weapon and go explore the world.”

Her voice thinned to a whimper as her gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the tavern walls.

“This was not what you wanted, was it?” His question came softly, like a hand resting on a wound to still its bleeding. And slowly, word by word, she began to let the darkness spill out, the way smoke escapes from a shuttered flame.

“No,” she whispered. “I wanted to stay at home, and I wanted to keep a house. I wanted to take care of children.” She babbled like someone would hit her if she didn’t get it out fast enough. “I want to cook and clean. I want to meet a strong man when he comes home at night and welcome him home with food, drink, and I... I want to dress like a courtesan” Her eyes widened in desire as she admitted what she wanted. “I want to dance for my Mhaighstir. I want to make him happy. I want him to take me and use me to satisfy his desires.”

He watched the slow blush that marched across what he could see of her body as she gave voice to her deepest dreams. Before him, her eyes lost their distress and dilated as her body responded to her desires.

“What of the men here? Will none of them help you?” He glanced around the tavern again, judging the men gathered around the tables. With few exceptions, there weren’t many he’d call real men. To a man, they looked as if they’d been domesticated.

He reached out with his prana and shook his head. There was not a single Mhaighstir among them, just the lost.

The woman at his feet shook her head. “No, Mhaighstir.” She shivered as she felt his masculine energy wash over her. “Please, Maighstir, help me. I will do anything you ask.”

“Anything?” He shook his head in disbelief. “We’ll see about that,” he promised, drawing a shiver of ecstasy and fear from the woman at his feet. Without breaking eye contact, he placed the mug on the table and gestured for her to come closer.

The fire had burned low, a red eye watching from the hearth. Shadows swayed across the tavern walls, moving in rhythm with the crackling of the logs. The smell of woodsmoke clung to the rafters, mingled with the faint sweetness of spilled meadhon and rain-soaked cloaks drying near the flames.

The noise of the room had thinned to a muted hum, as though even the air waited to see what would unfold.

She quickly crawled closer to him and sat back on her heels, straightening her body as she lifted her head. Her breath trembled; strands of hair caught the firelight like threads of copper as she brushed them over her shoulder.

For an instant, her movement sent ripples through the lamplight, and it seemed the whole room leaned inward. She nervously brushed her hair again and attempted to display herself to him.

“Not bad,” he commented. “What do you want?”

A faint draft curled through the open door, stirring the candles until their flames bent toward the pair at the table.

The woman seemed to listen to a voice only she could hear. In a quiet voice, she whispered, “She’s telling me that I should offer you my bond,” the woman explained, shaking in fear.

The man shook his head. “You know she’s not ready, milady.” He whispered.

[What would you suggest?] The goddess inquired.

“Give her time to heal, then let her make her own choice,” the man suggested.

The woman stared at him, her eyes wide. “You can hear her too?”

The man nodded. “I can.” He leaned toward the woman. “Now, what is your name, young one?”

The murmuring around them dimmed again, as though the tavern itself held its breath.

The woman froze, wondering if he would like her name. She breathed slowly. “It is Heather, if it pleases you, Mhaighstir.”

“It means ‘Everblooming flower,’ doesn’t it?” he inquired. When she nodded, he leaned down and whispered, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Heather. I am Balgair.”

The name hung between them like a spark caught in smoke. Hearing her name spoken with such tenderness brought tears to her eyes. “Does this mean you’ll help me?”

“You could say that,” he said as he stood up and placed the cup on the table.

The chair scraped softly across the wood. The woman watched as he rose to his full six-foot height, and she blushed slightly. She had expected him to be strong, as his prana suggested, but she hadn’t expected this. Sitting, he was unremarkable. Standing, with his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he was every inch the guardian his goddess had shaped him to be.

The hearthlight caught in the black of his eyes as they traveled up and down her form—not with hunger, but with the calm appraisal of one charged to protect what was fragile. Around them, the tavern seemed distant, its laughter faded to an echo, the world narrowed to the space between them—one heartbeat of stillness before the goddess exhaled and the room came alive again.

The tavern had grown quieter as the evening crowd thinned. Smoke from the hearth coiled lazily toward the rafters, carrying the scent of oak and meat grease. Shadows stretched long over the floorboards, and somewhere a chair creaked under the weight of a dozing traveler.

“Now, for your first task,” he walked toward the bar. “Follow me.”

She rose quickly, her bare feet whispering against the wooden floor as she followed him through the dim glow of lanterns. The barkeep glanced up from polishing a cup, the reflected light glinting off his thinning hair.

“My good man, I would like two plates of food, a water bottle, and two cups. She will take them up to my room.”

The barkeep’s eyes flicked between them—the tall, black-eyed warrior and the pale woman hovering in his shadow.

“Aye,” he said after a moment, voice low and worn. “He’s in room four upstairs. Go to the kitchen and get him what he ordered.”

When the woman hurried toward the swinging kitchen door, the smell of stew and onions followed her. The barkeep turned back to Balgair. “She’s had a hard month, friend. I trust that you will....”

“Treat her as she needs to be treated,” Balgair replied. “Our Lady of Chains has taken an interest in her and won’t condone mistreatment of those under her blessings.”

The barkeep’s expression softened with understanding. The warrior turned toward the stairs, his boots echoing on the steps, then paused halfway up.

“If you can spare it, I would like to borrow a maidservant’s dress for her until I can buy her new clothes tomorrow.”

“I’ll send Lucy up with a spare set,” the barkeep said, already reaching beneath the counter.

Balgair nodded and climbed the remaining stairs, his hand resting on the worn rail. The air grew cooler as he reached the hallway, the noise below fading into the steady hiss of wind against the shutters. He hesitated at his door, the weight of uncertainty pressing briefly on his chest. A wry smile curved his lips.

What would Amelie say? Or Nell? He could almost hear their voices, Amelie’s laughter, Nell’s quiet disapproval softened by affection.

Inside, the small room carried the scent of oil and iron.

He set down his shield and began removing his chain mail, the links whispering like rain as he laid them aside. Through the window, the sky blazed with orange fire that melted slowly into violet. Lady Ananke had never led me astray, he thought, and yet doubt tugged at him like the wind against the shutters.

A soft voice pulled him from thought. “Maighstir, I have your dinner. My hands are full, and I can’t get the door.”

He grunted and crossed the room. The hinges groaned as he opened it. “Place the plates on the desk and come back here.”

The woman obeyed, her footsteps careful against the wooden floor. The silverware rattled faintly as she set the plates down. “What is your will, Mo Maighstir?” Her voice was steady but small, her gaze fixed on the floorboards.

Alone with him, the silence pressed close; the smell of stew and damp cloth filled the space between them. She looked around, as if measuring the distance to the door.

“Heather,” he said. Her head lifted at once. “The bath is through that door. I want you to go clean up, and when you are done, we will eat.”

“Yes, Maighstir,” she whispered. A pause, a shallow breath. “But I don’t have anything to change into.”

“We can’t have that, can we?” he teased lightly, crossing to the bed where his pack rested. The leather creaked as he unbuckled it and searched inside. He drew out a folded bundle and tossed it toward her. “For now, put this on.”

She caught it awkwardly, nearly dropping it. Unfolding the fabric, she found a silk shirt that shimmered faintly in the lamplight, falling to just above her knees.

Her eyes widened; she looked at him once, blinked, and fled toward the bath, the door closing softly behind her.

Balgair exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “What am I going to do with her?” he murmured, half to himself. The goddess’s unseen laughter seemed to echo in the rustle of the curtains. “You would find that amusing, wouldn’t you, My Lady?” he asked, shaking his head with a faint smile.

He moved to the window again, gazing out over the rooftops as twilight deepened. Every time he doubted her, Ananke proved herself through the women she guided to him—souls wounded beyond repair until divine intervention gave them new life. Amelie and Nell, once lost, now bound to him by shared grace and purpose.

A knock interrupted his thoughts—a soft, cautious sound. “Enter,” he commanded, stretching out with his prana and brushing against the warm hum of feminine energy beyond the door.

The hinges creaked again, revealing a young woman in a tavern maid’s outfit, holding a folded bundle. The firelight caught the sheen of sweat on her brow. “May I help you?” he asked, his gaze level and calm.

“Maighstir Brandyn sent me with something for Heather to wear.”

He studied her face—something unreadable there, tension balanced between duty and envy. He didn’t linger on it. “Come on in,” he said, stepping aside.

The last embers of the fire glowed in the hearth, their light licking against the wooden walls.

Outside, rain whispered along the windowpanes, a steady hush that softened the edges of the room. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of soap, candle smoke, and meadhon lingering in the mug beside the desk. Balgair stood by the window, the dying sunset fading behind his reflection in the glass.

When she took a tentative step into the room, he turned. “Oh, the dress, right? She’s through that door,” he stated, gesturing toward the bathroom door. “She might need some help.”

“Of course, Maighstir,” she commented with a nod, then quietly padded to the door and softly pushed it open.

The light from the adjoining room spilled out in a pale wash across the floorboards, glinting against the links of his discarded mail.

“It’s Lucy, sister. Maighstir sent me in to help you bathe and dress.”

There was a softly spoken answer—just the shape of a voice, fragile and unsure—and Lucy slipped inside, closing the door behind her. The latch clicked softly, and Balgair exhaled, lowering himself into the chair near the window. He could hear muffled voices, the splash of water, the creak of floorboards. The rhythm of ordinary care—small, human, grounding.

A short while later, the tavern maid stepped back into the room. “Your Bond will be out in a bit. She’s got a bad case of nerves.”

There was that faint edge of anger in her voice. The air seemed to tighten. Before she could leave, he stopped her. “Enough of this, little one.” The command was quiet but carried weight, like the snap of frost in the air.

He snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor at his feet. The gesture was habitual, ceremonial, a summoning rather than punishment.

The young woman hesitated, glare flaring in her eyes for the briefest instant, then her shoulders dropped.

She sank gracefully to her knees, the firelight painting her silhouette in bronze. Her palms rested flat on her thighs. The candle beside the bed flickered as though responding to his authority.

She looked down, refusing his gaze. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, then raised a hand to wipe away a tear. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, “but your bond has gotten what I’ve wanted for the last five years.”

Her words cracked something in the stillness, and for a moment the rain sounded louder. When she looked up, he gestured for her to continue.

“I’ve been working here for five years and desperately want to give my bond to Maighstir Brandyn.” Her voice trembled. “He either doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t want me.”

“Ah,” he nodded, tone softening. “I understand.” He shook his head slightly, shadows shifting across his face. “First of all, we aren’t bonded, yet.”

Lucy blinked in confusion, brows drawing together. “I don’t understand. We saw you.”

“You saw wrong. She’s not ready to bond with anyone yet.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as though brushing off weariness. “Second, have you approached a servant of the chains and asked for their help?”

“No sir,” she whispered. “There are no servants of the chains here. You are the first we’ve seen in several years.”

“I’m not a chain-maker,” he muttered under his breath.

The fire popped, and a faint, amused chime of laughter stirred the air around him. The candlelight rippled, as if a breeze passed through from nowhere.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression softening in reluctant amusement. “As you wish, my lady,” he replied inwardly, voice barely audible. “When I come down later, I’ll talk to your Maighstir Brandyn and see if he wants to bond you.”

Balgair shook his head. “It seems my lady wants me to do her work.”

The tavern maid’s shoulders eased. She smiled gratefully—an unguarded, luminous thing—and rose to her feet, nearly running for the door. Her departure left a whisper of cool air behind her as the latch clicked shut.

Balgair stared at the closed door, the quiet settling around him again. The laughter of the goddess still echoed faintly in his thoughts. “What is wrong with the women in this town,” he murmured, half in jest, half in weary affection.

Beyond the window, lightning flashed in the distance—silent, brief, like the blink of an unseen eye. He turned toward the sound of movement from the adjoining room as the bath door opened, and the faint scent of lavender drifted through the air. The fire stirred, brightening for just a heartbeat, and the chapter’s last moment hung in that breath between stormlight and calm.

Thank you for listening to the first chapter of The Black Swan’s Bond. If you’d like to hear more, pull up a chair, enjoy the fire, and lend me your ears a little longer.

The rest of the tale awaits in The Black Swan’s Bond, available in eBook and paperback here:

The Black Swan's Bond

For a time, she didn’t move. Not truly.

The world seemed to pause around her, the distant birdsong muted as though holding its breath, the scent of rosemary and lavender from the garden below rising upward but halting shy of the sill, unwilling to trespass. The silence pressed close, weighted, as if listening.

When at last she rose, the air stirred gently around her legs, caressing them like a lover’s parting hand.

She sat at the carved cedar vanity and took up her brush. With each stroke through her golden hair, the rhythm slowed until it was prayerful. Her breath fell into sync with the motion, her chest lifting and falling in cadence with the cedar’s soft creak. She hadn’t meant to count, but somewhere past thirty; she stopped trying.

The silence in the room grew aware of her, charged with expectancy, as though something ripened in the hush.

A warmth bloomed beneath her sternum, as unmistakable as it was unbidden. The stillness thickened, the faint smell of warmed amber rising like a hearth newly lit. She paused.

Without thinking, Flur turned in place, a slow, instinctive pivot toward the northwest wall, where no window lay and no light touched. Shadows there deepened, gathering into a veil. She faced it fully, spine straightening like a drawn bow. A pull, deep and certain, thrummed through her marrow, the air trembling faintly with it.

It was him.

Rhyslin.

The thought bloomed without words, and her lips curved before she knew they would. Not the polite smile of a queen’s daughter, but something older, something sacred, born of marrow and vow.

She did not need to explain the why of her offering. The vow had risen like a tide, and she, a willing shore, had let it crash and remake her. Some women weighed their fate; she had known.

If she had not spoken, he would have vanished, and the part of her that had never fully breathed would have withered.

She stood thus when the door cracked open. The smell of wind-pressed linen and crushed lavender marked Allanagh’s arrival even before her voice.

“Good morning, loth nîn vell,” the queen whispered, stepping into the sun-drenched chamber. Her voice held gentleness, but the silence she entered was not empty, it bent, aware, as though regarding her.

Allanagh paused, hand on her hip, catching the expression on her daughter’s face. Her breath caught. That smile — distant, inward, radiant — she had once worn it herself, in a lifetime before thrones and treaties.

Two knocks, unheard. She moved closer and snapped her fingers sharply.

The pop cracked through the golden stillness, rippling the air like a stone breaking the mirrored surface of a lake.

Flur blinked once, the spell of reverie lifting. “Good morning, Mother,” she said, her voice a sigh woven with blush.

“I saw you at Para’s,” Allanagh said, stepping lightly into the room, her gaze watchful. “With Maighstir Darkblade.”

Flur smiled again, soft and secret. She moved to her chest of drawers and laid the brush in the shallow tray as though setting down a relic. “And?” Though teasing, Allanagh’s voice carried a cautious edge, motherly instinct outweighing curiosity.

“And,” Flur said, turning, the light catching in her hair like fire through wheat, “I initiated a soul-bond with Rhyslin.”

The breath left Allanagh’s lungs as if the walls themselves had stolen it.

The cedar beams above groaned faintly, echoing her shock. She stepped closer, urgency blooming in her posture, the air between them charged like a storm about to break.

“You spoke the vow?”

“I did,” Flur answered, meeting her mother’s gaze without flinching.

A beat passed. Then another. Even the silence seemed to recoil, folding in on itself.

Allanagh took a breath, bracing herself. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”

Flur gave a single nod, regal and sure. And in that moment, her bearing shifted, not just a daughter, but a woman enthralled by a deeper gravity, drawn into the orbit of another soul’s fire. The faintest tremor of rose-petal fragrance lingered in the air, sharp with certainty.

“How did Maighstir Darkblade react?” Inwardly, she was cringing, and in her mind’s eye she saw the treaty falling apart. She wanted to fall to her knees and pray to the gods for help.

Before Allanagh could speak again, a voice answered her question, low and certain:

“Maighstir Darkblade was so shocked he did not react as he should have.”

The smell of beeswax seeped under the windowsills, and the light in the room subtly thickened — as if the air itself acknowledged his presence.

Rhyslin stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Flur, a quiet blaze rising behind them.

Flur rose and moved to him, her grace unbroken. She knelt at his feet, devotion shining from her face. “I could feel you from your room.” She placed a hand over her heart, and the silence answered with a faint, resonant hush.

Rhyslin’s eyes roved from corner to corner of the chamber, as though trying to divine the future hidden in the timber and stone.

But when Flur stretched out her hand and clasped his, the tremor in the air steadied. His heart slowed, his breathing evened, his gaze lowered to the woman kneeling before him.

He cleared his throat, voice roughened but resolute. “Good morning, my bond-mate.”

If it was possible, Flur’s smile brightened even as her blush deepened, the room itself seeming to glow warmer for it. “Good morning, my bond-maighstir.”

Rhyslin returned her smile as he drew her to her feet, pulling her gently to his side. He turned to Allanagh, his eyes shadowed by wonder.

“The last thing I expected when going out to eat was to be ambushed by a bonding rite.”

All color drained from Allanagh’s face and her knees were shaking. She had to grab at the bedposts to keep from falling.

The carved wood felt slick beneath her palms, as though the air itself had grown clammy with her dread. She would have, if the Draoidh hadn’t crossed the room and slipped an arm around her.

The touch steadied not only her body but the quivering hush of the chamber, as if the walls exhaled with relief.

“Yes, that was my reaction last eve.” His voice carried like a low note across taut strings, soothing even as it reminded her of what had unsettled him.

Allanagh held to him just long enough to get her bearings back. Her breath was shallow, edged with the taste of iron as though her body itself echoed judgment.

“Why?” She couldn’t think of the right questions to ask. Her whisper trembled in the air, the braziers’ flames flickering as if straining to catch the meaning.

“Why didn’t I refuse her? or why did I let her?”

Allanagh could only nod.

A self-deprecating chuckle escaped him, and the sound stirred the still air like a breeze in closed drapes. “I would have tried to refuse her, except she took the vow in Ananke’s name, and her desire turned ribbons into iron chains.”

When he leaned closer and whispered in her ear, the chamber itself leaned with him, shadows tightening in the corners.

“You are always welcome in our home, Naneth ven gwedh.”

Allanagh gasped, the word striking her like a bell, and would have fainted had Rhyslin not guided her to the bed. The mattress dipped with her weight, sighing as if bearing witness.

Looking over to where Flur was standing, he raised an eyebrow. “Should I have checked you for these maladies before going to dinner last eve?”

Flur walked across the room, the boards creaking softly in rhythm with her steps, and lifted her hand to his shoulder.

The air thickened with her nearness, carrying a faint sweetness of lavender.

“No, my maighstir. I do not suffer from fainting spells.”

The air seemed to thicken and Allanagh’s spine stiffened as she sat up and glared at her daughter.

The morning light through the shutters sharpened, as though siding with her indignation.

“I do not suffer spells, Maighstir Darkblade.” She paused, each word heavy enough to make the silence vibrate. “At least not normally. Though this is not a normal morning.”

When Rhyslin smiled, the air slowly relaxed, the droning of insects outside shifting into harmony, sounding like nature’s instruments.

“Naneth ven gwedh? Honestly?”

Allanagh took a few moments to restore her equilibrium, her breath evening out while the world around her steadied.

“By my honor, I never thought to sway you by offering my daughter to you. It was —”

“Her idea.” Rhyslin looked into Allanagh’s eyes, seeing her honesty reflected like water stilled after a storm.

“I gathered that.”

Rhyslin’s mind skipped and reeled, like a boat on a choppy bay. Even the shadows seemed to sway with the turbulence of his thoughts.

Allanagh’s mortified behavior raised a valid concern. “Even though it was unplanned, Flur’s actions will not affect the treaty.”

Without realizing it, Allanagh bowed her head. The air bent with her, carrying the faint, almost inaudible hum of reprieve. “Thank nan diathan for small favors.”

“They seem to grant favors in unexpected ways.”

Rhyslin assisted Allanagh to her feet, his grip steadying her as if he lent her the earth’s own weight.

Once on her feet, Allanagh took a shaky step toward her daughter. “So, you aren’t mad about what happened?” She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want Rhyslin mad at her.

Rhyslin barked out a laugh and rubbed his forehead, the sound cracking the solemn air like sudden thunder. “I’m still too much in shock to be mad. The treaties are safe.”

Allanagh stared at him in surprise, while Flur simply smiled at him, her composure bright as sunlight through the shutters.

“Would you care for something for breakfast, my maighstir?”

Rhyslin nodded and reached out his hand for Flur’s. The chamber brightened at the gesture, the bond between them rippling outward like warmth spilling through cold stone.

“I would. Would the same place be open?”

“Para’s?” Flur tilted her head toward him. “I believe so.” She curled her fingers around his hand, and the lavender of her skin warmed to his grasp. “Can Mother come?”

Rhyslin nodded, taking a deep breath of Flur’s lavender drops. The scent seemed to ease the room, smoothing its earlier turbulence.

As the three left the cottage, the morning met them with a softer sky, the air fresher, the world itself lighter—as if in acknowledgment. It suddenly occurred to Rhyslin that he didn’t have his usual early morning headache.

They paused along the way, when a speckled kitten leapt out of the bushes and attacked Rhyslin’s right boot.

Allanagh started to shoo the cat away, but paused when a playful grin crossed the Draoidh’s face and he moved his foot around, teasing the kitten.

The breeze shifted faintly, carrying the grassy-sweet scent of meadow clover as if the land itself exhaled with his smile.

When the kitten pounced again, Rhyslin laughed, dug into his pouch, and dropped a small leather wrapped sphere on the ground.

The kitten pounced at it, then retreated, only to sneak up on the sphere and bat at it. When the sphere rolled away, the kitten yowled, the sound sharp against the morning hush, then chased after the object.

Rhyslin watched the kitten play. At his side, Flur watched attentively, noticing the small smile that danced across his lips, then disappeared like shadows at noon-time.

The faint warmth of buttered bread still lingering from the inn’s hearth drifted on the air, a reminder of time passing. “If we don’t hurry, breakfast will be done and we’ll have to wait for lunch.”

Rhyslin nodded and walked slow enough that both women could walk at his side. The earth seemed to soften its press beneath their boots, as though keeping pace.

They hadn’t taken more than ten steps when a black and white spotted dog came running out of a shadowed alley and started sniffing around Rhyslin. The old draoidh paused and held out his hand, palm up, as the dog sniffed his fingers and then bumped his hand and whined. A faint musk of fur and wet stone rose as the creature pressed closer. Rhyslin blinked, wondering what the dog wanted.

The dog whined again, its tail wagging, as it bumped his hand again.

When Rhyslin turned his hand over and started scratching the dog behind the right ear, it panted, its left foot tapping the ground. Rhyslin watched, bemused, as the dog angled its head in order to have the scratching fingers hit the right spot, then chuffed happily before walking back to the house and curling up on the porch.

Flur watched Rhyslin stand there in amused shock. The air around them felt strangely hushed, as if even the sparrows on the roofline waited to see what would happen next. After a few minutes, he shook his head. “That’s odd.”

“What’s odd, my maighstir?” Flur half-turned toward him, her right eyebrow lifting slightly. The faint scent of mint teased the air, sharp and curious, mirroring his thoughtful mood.

“Two animals in less than half an hour.” Rhyslin reached up and scratched his chin. “Usually animals run away from me, even when I’m around Marcus.” His fingertips curled, almost as if he were itching to write a research paper over something.

Then, as if to make a point, four hummingbirds darted out from a flower garden as they walked by it, circling Rhyslin’s head, chirping at him, before darting off. Their wings thrummed the air with a high, glassy hum that shimmered in his bones. The draoidh tilted his head to the left and blinked.

The wind fell still for the space of a heartbeat, then stirred again. “That was strange.”

At his side, Flur simply smiled, as if she knew the answer. Before she could speak, the two taghta walked up to him. The air seemed to brighten faintly around them, touched by the floral sweetness of their presence.

“What’s strange, Mac Draoidheacd? They were telling you where to find a particularly juicy rose bush,” Lilly commented.

“That’s what’s strange. Animals don’t talk to me,” Rhyslin murmured, trying to apply some kind of logic to it. The words tasted of iron in his mouth, as though logic itself balked at being bent.

The bound taghta, Analise, watched him for a minute, and then made a cheeky inquiry. “How’s your head today?”

Rhyslin started to answer her, froze, his eyes narrowing as he thought it over. A hush passed through the street, as though even the sparrows on the eaves leaned in. “I haven’t had a headache today at all.” He paused, trying to recall the last time he had had a headache. “Come to think about it, I haven’t had any pain since last …” His voice faltered, and a breath of cool lavender threaded through the air, softening the admission. “Mathair will never let me hear the end of this.”

Ana cast a side-wise look at Flur, who blushed and looked down. Her golden hair fell forward like a curtain, carrying the scent of roses sharper now, betraying her emotions.

When the bound taghta looked back at Rhyslin, she was wearing a smug grin. “Maighstir Rhyslin, did you initiate a bond with the princess?”

Hearing that, Chantico’s taghta, Lilly, gave a wolfish smile, sharp as flint sparking.

“No,” Rhyslin whispered under his breath. The syllable carried the weight of disbelief, and his snowy hair seemed to stir though the air was still. “I didn’t initiate the bond. Flur did.” He was still in shock about that as well.

Lilly smirked, leaning in toward the draoidh. “I couldn’t quite hear that. What did you say?”

“I didn’t initiate the bond,” Rhyslin said a little louder, his voice steady now but tinged with awe. “Flur initiated the bond, and she did so in Ananke’s name.”

Lilly chuckled, giving Rhyslin a quick hug that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and sage.

“Animals have always wanted to come up to you. Your pain has always kept them away.” She turned to Flur and offered a half-bow, the air bending with her deference. “Congratulations.” She looked back at Rhyslin. “You’re right, Astinmah would never let you live it down.” The wolfish grin danced over her lips. “But you still need to tell her—it’s only right.”

“I know.” Rhyslin’s grim tone earned him a playful smack on the back of the head by Lilly. His sigh brushed the morning quiet like a weary breeze. “Hey.” He exhaled, then conceded, “You’re right, Lilly.” He looked at Flur.

“You might have to eat breakfast without me. I do need to go —”

“No!” Flur shook her head, her golden hair flying like sunlit flame. “You’re not going to A’ Mathair without me.” Her rose perfume sharpened, almost metallic now, signaling her heartfelt feelings.

When he glanced at Allanagh, her grin said it all. “I wouldn’t miss this for all the sweet bread in the city.” Her words carried the warm yeast-scent of hearth and home, grounding the moment.

Resigned, Rhyslin turned away from the eatery and turned toward the council chamber. The light seemed to tilt, shadows stretching before their path. Before they made it there, several more animals crossed Rhyslin’s way.

One was a flying squirrel which launched itself from a tree, its fur carrying the musk of bark and resin, and landed on Rhyslin’s shoulder for a brief second before launching itself at the black pearl atop his staff.

The draoidh stopped and watched as the volans picked at the pearl, then turned to him and skittered. Rhyslin blinked as the thought of taking the black stone back to its den pulled at him like a whispered temptation.

Rhyslin shook his head in disbelief and waved the staff. “Go away, little one. This isn’t for you.”

The squirrel bared its teeth and skittered back, a dry chitter like crackling twigs, before leaping from the staff and gliding as close as it could to a tree before landing at the base.

In an instant, it was back up the tree and hiding in the leafy canopy, the branches rattling with its scolding.

“This is just too strange,” Rhyslin murmured. “It scolded me for tricking it.”

The bound taghta listened, her hands crossing over her stomach. She tried to keep from laughing, the sound trembling like a brook beneath stone, and nearly succeeded until, with the ruffle of black feathers and an imperious caw, a black raven descended. It landed atop the pearl and gazed down at Rhyslin with eyes like chips of night.

Analise’s laughter rang out pure and joyous, and she dropped to one knee, overcome by the omen.

Flur watched everything in rapt fascination, even covering her mouth with one palm, when the raven landed and croaked at Rhyslin. Her perfume softened, settling into a steady bloom of rose and honey, mirroring her awe.

The draoidh grumbled under his breath, lifted his hand to the raven, which jumped onto it and stepped down his arm with regal weight before settling on his shoulder. The black feathers gleamed with hidden violet in the morning light.

“I think I preferred it more when you all tried to run away from me.” His snowy hair rustled around his shoulders as he resumed his trek toward the council hall, the raven riding his shoulder like a herald.

With a determined look on his face, Rhyslin pushed open the door that he had entered only the day before, only this time, he entered with his bond-mate, the Hîn i-Balanath Queen, and animals in tow. The air inside stirred like a living breath, carrying the earthy tang of loam and the sweetness of sap.

Before he had even taken a step, the crow launched itself into the air with a rush of black wings, making a beeline for the giant Ubhal tree in the center of the rotunda. Its caws echoed sharp as struck flint against the vaulted green canopy.

By the time Rhyslin made it to the center of the rotunda, the crow was dancing around Astinmah, screaming at her.

The goddess looked up, golden-green light haloing her features as Rhyslin and Flur stepped into the boundary of her awareness. The air smelled suddenly of crushed apple blossoms.

“Good morrow, my beloved son.” She paused, her gaze softening before it shifted to Flur. A note of spring rain touched the air with her recognition. “Good morrow, my daughter.”

The draoidh walked over to the goddess and sank to his knees before her. His snowy hair slipped forward, catching the glow of leaf-filtered light. “Despite my every objection, and determination to never bond a woman to my soul. Ananke’s iron bonds have bound me to my bond-mate.”

His voice was rough with surrender, anguish pooling in his eyes. “You have won, Mathair.”

The goddess turned her attention from the crow to her son. Her presence bent the air, warm as hearthfire and cool as shaded forest. “It was never about winning or losing, my son. It was about living to your fullest. Ananke’s life-bonds aren’t punishments, they are rewards.” She acknowledged when Flur knelt beside Rhyslin, the rose-scent of her devotion blooming in the chamber. “Has your pain not gone away? Has the natural world not sought you out, as it should?”

“It has,” he whispered, the admission thin as falling leaves. “Next, I suppose you will try to place that damned crown on my head.”

The forest goddess looked at Dearg, who was watching from her tree, her bark-skin shimmering with anticipation.

At her signal, the dryad scampered up into the top limbs of the tree. Branches swayed as though parting for her, until she gathered five apples, cradling them to her bosom as if they were newborns, then carried them down and placed them reverently into Astinmah’s hands.

The goddess handed the fruit to Rhyslin, her fingers fragrant with sap and spring rain. He in turn passed them to Flur and Allanagh, his gesture both instinctive and weighted with unspoken meaning.

“I do not believe I will try to give you the crown.” The goddess took a bite of the apple. The crisp sound rang through the rotunda like a bell.

A cool breeze wafted down from above the ubhal tree, carrying the smell of warm spring rains and new grass.

Rhyslin raised his head, blinking, trying to decipher the layered meaning behind the gifts. The apple in his hand gleamed as though catching its own light.

“You are now opened to nature. When you leave this place, think about the meaning of the crown you despise. When you are ready, I will speak with you again.” Her words shimmered in the air like a song carried on wind. Then, as quickly as she had transformed the dryad, the goddess was gone, leaving a sleeping Keisha nestled in her place, her breath rising and falling with the hush of leaves.

Rhyslin took a bite of the apple. Sweetness burst across his tongue, sharp and alive, the juice trailing down his lip like nectar. He wiped it away absently, his gaze lifting, lost in thought beneath the endless canopy.

This marks the final free chapter of The Draoidh’s Cearcall.

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The Draoidh's Cearcall

Next week, we begin a new road together with the first free chapter of The Black Swan’s Bond.

Vuuroena and Flur felt helpless as they watched the three old Hîn i-Balanath leaders cycle through ideas with ease, only to discard them moments later. The chamber’s hearth crackled and dimmed in rhythm with their voices, as though the fire itself grew weary of revisions.

Rhyslin eyed the clock, wondering how much longer they were going to take. Draoidheachd curled faintly in the corners, restless, as if the room shared his impatience. To his amazement, he didn’t have to wait long, watching as the three leaders reclaimed their places at the table.

Rhyslin saw the three join hands, offering support to the one they had chosen as their speaker. A hushed stillness spread, even the fire bowing to the solemnity of their unity.

Allanagh stood tall and proud, and looked straight at Rhyslin.

“Lord Darkblade …” When Rhyslin winced, a low tremor stirred in the rafters, like the wood itself rejecting the name. She took a deep breath and started over. “Maighstir Darkblade.” The shadows eased back, soothed, and when that didn’t elicit a wince, she continued, smiling. “We, Henneth Minui i-Ainu, formally petition to join the Saor-shealbhan nan Roaintean Mora as equals.”

If Rhyslin had to guess, she was relieved the discussions were over. The air loosened around her shoulders, as if the weight of decision had finally lifted.

Giving a solemn nod, Rhyslin signaled his agreement. “Very well. When four freeholders are present, we will sign a preliminary agreement.”

The hearth brightened, sparks leaping, carrying the word outward like heralds.

Allanagh and Mayana sighed in relief. Ilyriatri looked like she had expected nothing less to happen, a warm smile gracing her countenance. Behind her, the ubhal crest carved into the high beams gleamed faintly, as if catching hidden light.

“When the full council convenes, we will present your application and put it up for a vote. If a majority approves, the council will grant you membership.” Rhyslin felt the knot in his stomach uncoil, the air warming as tension bled away. This had been the simple part.

Ilyriatri had watched him, amazed at how simple he made it look. Never had she seen a treaty signed without someone complaining. She raised her hand, continuing only when Rhyslin nodded.

“When does the next council meeting occur?” From what she knew of other kingdoms, she figured that they’d have to wait months.

Rhyslin pulled a calendar out of his pouch and consulted it. The parchment gave off a faint herbal scent, preserved with oils. “The next council meeting will be in three weeks.” He checked the calendar again, verifying the date.

“So soon?” Allanagh couldn’t believe her ears. A whisper of wind circled the chamber, echoing her disbelief. “How is that possible?”

Rhyslin grinned, understanding their confusion. His voice carried warmth, steady as the flame. “The business council meets every three months. We discuss and vote on preliminary contracts here. From there, the business council forwards major treaties to the Freeholders council. It takes place at the summer solstice.” He waited for the three leaders to get over their shock.

The quiet seemed to lean toward him, eager. “If you wish to be present, you may attend as my guests.”

Allanagh’s only concern was for her people, and she had already decided her course of action. She approached Rhyslin with her arms folded across her chest. “I will take you up on your invitation.” The floor beneath her boots creaked once, as though affirming her resolve.

“So will I.” Ilyriatri joined Allanagh, her arms crossed under her breasts, her eyes meeting Rhyslin’s. In them, he saw her determination, her strength, like the unwavering glow of embers refusing to die.

Rhyslin met her gaze, his own burning just as bright. The room seemed to hush, suspended between them. “Very well. When you are ready, you can send word.” He strode toward them, meeting them halfway. “Depending on your location, I can either send a cutter or ask Mathair to provide power to open portals.”

If it came to the second option, he would enjoy a measure of satisfaction using his mother’s power. The air cooled at her name, as if the chamber itself remembered her hand. It would be the least she could do for trying to entrap him.

Mayana chose that moment to join her bond-sisters. The three women stood together now, their unity palpable. “If you will send a ship to meet us at Garth i Loth-laeg at the appointed time, we will be ready.”

Rhyslin ran his finger across the calendar and then used the quill to make a notation. The ink shimmered briefly, as though acknowledging the binding of intent. “It shall be done.” When no one argued, he felt the anxiety flow away. Even the fire in the grate exhaled, settling to a steady glow.

All he needed were the two freemen he sent Marcus to find.

Rhyslin felt the seconds ticking down. The air in the chamber thickened with each heartbeat, the scent of resin from the torches sharpening as though the flame itself shared his impatience. If Marcus would just get back, he could move on to the next part, the part he was dreading.

As if they were waiting to make a grand entrance, Marcus and Natolie returned, the two freemen in tow. The door creaked wider with a hiss of draoidheachd, and the chamber seemed to inhale at their arrival.

The Hîn i-Balanath trio reacted differently to the entrance.

Allanagh paled, withdrawing, her aura flickering like a flame caught in sudden wind, as she saw the lumbering Infernal that followed Marcus into the room.

Ilyriatri leaned forward, her eyes lighting up like dawn upon water at the sight of the cloaked Hîn i-Balanath who brought up the rear.

Mayana, calm as always, had met the two before and offered both a half-bow, her serenity grounding the air between them.

Marcus walked up to Rhyslin and saluted, his fist over his heart, opening to an upturned palm as he extended his arm.

The gesture carried a ripple of respect, echoed faintly in the timbre of the chamber’s silence.

“Are we too late?”

Rhyslin returned the salute, the draoidheachd in the room answering with a subtle pulse. “You are right on time.” He turned to the two freemen. “Gentlemen, if you will step this way, I have need of your help.”

The nine-foot-tall Infernal took careful steps forward, each one sending a dull tremor through the wooden floor, as if the building itself adjusted under his weight. He stopped out of arm’s range, mindful even of his breath.

“Seann-mhadaidh says there is something for us to sign.” He pointed at Marcus.

“There is indeed.” Rhyslin picked up the rewritten treaty and handed it over. The parchment seemed to hum faintly at the prospect of binding hands upon it. “

The Hîn i-Balanath delegation wants to join the Saorsa. You’ve spent three days living among them.” He brushed his fingers through his hair, weariness stirring the lantern flames. “If you feel that they’ll make good neighbors, let your sign be your bond.”

“I understand.” The Infernal removed his helmet, the motion releasing a wave of heat that prickled against the skin of those nearest, and looked around the chamber. His eyes glowed dim, burdened yet steady. “Where do I sign?”

“Anywhere on the bottom of the page.” The order didn’t matter, only the four signatures. Rhyslin handed K’Tek the quill and watched as the Infernal accepted it with care, claws held steady as if cradling something fragile.

“The Hîn i-Balanath have treated me as I expected.” His voice carried sorrow, and the air dipped cold at the sound.

Some had treated him with kindness. Others had reacted as Allanagh had, with fear and suspicion. That wasn’t enough to stop him from signing the treaty.

Allanagh, hearing the sadness in K’Tek’s voice, reassessed him. Her aura, once drawn tight, softened like thawing frost. She realized she had let her recent trauma color her perceptions.

Shame colored her face as she watched the massive Infernal, and the torches guttered faintly as though echoing her remorse.

Rhyslin turned to the cloaked Hîn i-Balanath standing behind the Infernal. “It’s your turn, Torval.”

Ilyriatri watched the cloaked Hîn i-Balanath, torn between thinking she knew who he was and denying the thought. The draoidheachd coiled near her skin, restless

It wasn’t until he reached up and uncovered his face that she knew she was right. It had been years since they had spent time together.

She recognized Torval, though time had aged and tempered him, his presence carrying the weight of stone weathered by storm.

After he accepted the quill from his companion, but before he could sign, Ilyriatri stepped forward. Her voice wrapped his name like silk on steel.

“T’or’val.” She drew his name out the desert way, each syllable sparking memory into the air. “Years have passed since our last encounter. Has time treated you well?”

Not expecting to hear his name spoken thus, Torval turned, his eyes falling on the woman who stood before him. The chamber held its breath. As he beheld her, his mind flew back to the past.

“Ily’ria’tri? I never thought to see you here.”

A hush fell over the room, so deep the scratch of flame on oilwick sounded like thunder.

At Ilyriatri’s side, Allanagh wore an awestruck expression. Never had she seen a Hîn i-Balanath of such stature or coloring. She couldn’t help but glance between him and Ilyriatri, as if trying to place Torval’s dark skin tone, her thoughts rustling like leaves.

Ilyriatri caught the glance and saw the look on Allanagh’s face. She groaned, though she knew Torval wouldn’t let it bother him. Her aura dimmed in brief irritation, then steadied.

Torval watched the emotions cross Ilyriatri’s face and let out an amused chuckle that reverberated warmly against the stone.

“Ask, fair lady, and I will answer.”

Allanagh, realizing she got caught, blushed, heat flushing her cheeks so strongly that the flame nearest her stretched taller.

“Where are you from? I have never come across one of us with dark skin.”

“You would not know my birthplace, as it has been devoured by Anfalg i naur.” His words fell heavy, like stones into still water. Turning to the table, he signed his name with a flourish that left the ink shimmering faintly.

“Will that be all, Mac Draoidheacd?”

Rhyslin accepted the quill with a nod and set it down on the table. The parchment seemed to settle, binding itself to their fates.

“You have my thanks.”

Marcus glanced at Rhyslin but a moment before affixing his name to the treaty. The scratch of quill on parchment rang louder than it should.

“That was painless.”

Rhyslin scrawled his name on the parchment. Shadows leaned in closer as he did so.

“True. I fear the hard part is yet to come.”

“Ah, the infamous tribute clause.” Marcus couldn’t hide the amusement he felt. A faint breeze stirred as if the word itself called for witness.

“How will you handle it?”

“I know not.” In truth, Rhyslin knew how he wanted to handle the tribute. He wanted nothing to do with it. The torches flared, then dimmed, mirroring his resistance.

“Le a diathan. Why am I constantly ending up in these situations?”

He pretended to shuffle the parchment as he tried to think of a way to escape what was to happen next. No escape came.

Finding none, he looked heavenward, shadows thickening above him.

“I know you orchestrated this, Mother.” He could imagine the smile on her face as she wrote the tribute clause, her presence lingering like smoke on the air.

Turning, he picked up the second part of the treaty and waved it around. The parchment caught a faint draft, edges fluttering like restless wings, as if even the air knew what weight the words carried. “Out of curiosity, who invoked the tribute clause?”

When a blushing Flur raised her hand, Rhyslin blinked. The room itself seemed to lean toward her, torchlight softening around the golden-haired princess as though Astinmah’s breath lingered in her aura. Of all the things he expected, this wasn’t one of them. The pulse in his throat quickened, betraying him.

He thought about seeking help from Marcus, but the ranger had departed, leaving him adrift.

For once, the seasoned draoidh longed for an ally’s intervention and found none.

Rhyslin needed time to think. At least one night, if possible. Feigning tiredness, though his heart thundered against his ribs, he watched the blushing princess. “Might we resume on the morrow? I am more tired than I thought.” His voice was steady, yet the draoidheachd in the chamber quivered faintly, responding to the undercurrent of unease.

Mayana, knowing him longer than the other Hîn i-Balanath, looked upon him with suspicion. The sharp tilt of her head and the glimmer in her eyes betrayed that she saw past his mask. The others took him at face value.

“Of course. You may stay at Allanagh’s cottage tonight. We can finish tomorrow.” She had never known Rhyslin to run from anything.

The air near her lips shimmered with restrained laughter as she glanced over, saw the confusion on Flur’s face, and hid a smirk. So, that’s why Rhyslin was running.

In his rush to get out of the council chamber, Rhyslin neglected to grab his pouch, the signed treaty, his quill, and the piece of paper that had Flur’s proposal. The objects lay on the table, heavy with unspoken meaning, the quill’s ink drop spreading like a dark eye.

“I can’t believe that anyone would — Stupid, irresponsible people — of all the inane ideas.” His muttered words carried into the hall, trailing behind him like shadows.

Astinmah looked up as he walked past her. Her gaze, cool and ancient, followed his retreat, though she made no move to stop him. She would have chased after him, but couldn’t, because Dearg was re-braiding her hair.

The dryad’s nimble fingers paused mid-braid, her moss-scented breath catching as Rhyslin passed. “What is wrong with Mac Draoidheacd, Mara-Astan?”

Dearg wasn’t totally self-centered; she just enjoyed being the center of attention. Yet, even she felt the ripple of dissonance as the draoidh stormed past, the chamber’s wooden beams creaking faintly, as though absorbing his agitation.

As she resumed re-braiding Astinmah’s hair, she was already thinking about making her goddess a new laurel crown, vines and blossoms curling in her mind’s eye.

Dearg frowned as she did something she rarely did. She stopped re-braiding Astinmah’s hair and put on a brave face. The flickering firelight softened her bark-like skin, giving her the look of a child masking worry.

“Do you want to pursue Mac Draoidheacd and find out what’s wrong?”

The forest goddess shook her head, her voice carrying the hush of leaves at twilight. “I think I will stay here so you can finish my hair.” She glanced over her shoulder, the bronze of her eyes glinting. “When you finish my hair, I would like to take care of yours.”

Dearg’s face brightened, the chamber’s shadows bending back as though to frame her joy. “Mara-Astan, Dearg would be honored.” With thoughts of her goddess pampering her, Dearg concentrated on doing the best job she could, her fingers weaving rhythm and devotion into every braid.

Flur watched Rhyslin retreat from the council chamber. The blush on her face had subsided, leaving her confused.

She wondered if she had done something wrong. The chamber’s high rafters seemed to sigh with her, the lingering warmth of torchlight dimming as if embarrassed on her behalf.

Unsure of herself, she walked over to the table where Rhyslin had left his supplies. After gathering them up and putting them in the pouch, she looked to her mother.

“Did I do something wrong?” She clutched the pouch to her chest, her thoughts somewhere between shame and pain.

The leather thrummed faintly against her skin, carrying the draoidheachd-stain of his touch.

“No, you did nothing wrong.” Allanagh hugged her daughter. “I think Maighstir Darkblade found something he didn’t want to believe.” Her silver hair caught the lantern-glow, casting little halos across the stone wall, as if the goddess herself whispered reassurance.

The golden-haired princess tightened her hold on the pouch, pouring all of her heartbreak into it. “Do you think it would be agreeable if I took his things to him?”

“I think it is only fitting that you take him his property,” Allanagh said as she pulled her silver hair forward over her shoulders.

The golden-haired princess kept Rhyslin’s pouch clutched to her chest for a moment, then shook her head. This wasn’t like her.

She didn’t pine after men, but Rhyslin was different, and she wanted to be his. With a nod to Allanagh, she left the council chamber and walked back toward the cottage she shared with her mother.

Behind her, the doors shut with a wooden groan, like the hall itself releasing her into fate.

Flur stepped through the front doorway and into the foyer of the small, cozy cottage that the villagers had let Allanagh and her daughter borrow for the duration of their stay.

With Rhyslin’s pouch still firmly in hand, the golden-haired princess stared down the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Five days earlier, the cottage had been comfortable.

Now, the hallway seemed foreboding, cold, and made Flur nervous.

The hearth’s banked coals gave off a tired sigh of smoke, shadows pooling along the hallway like doubts stretching long fingers.

Earlier in the day, she had waited for the draoidh to wake up. She had been excited, wanting to meet him. In the council hall, he had paid her the ultimate compliment when he said he remembered her taking care of him.

Flur watched Rhyslin win the three Hîn i-Balanath leaders over with his charm and knowledge. Then he read Flur’s proposal and had excused himself from the council hall, saying he was tired.

Her heart replayed the word tired as if it had been aimed at her.

Flur clutched the pouch to her chest as she crept down the hall to the room she knew Rhyslin had retreated to, her room. She stood outside the room, gathering her courage to knock on the door.

The timber under her feet creaked like an elder clearing its throat, urging her to speak her truth.

She was just about to knock on the door when it opened to reveal Rhyslin standing there.

For a moment, he stared at her. “Princess Flur. Please come in.” He took a step back and swept his left arm out. “I’d ask what brings you here, but it’s your house.”

She held out his pouch. “You left this. I thought you would want it back.”

Rhyslin took the pouch, setting it by the door. “Thank you.” He couldn’t help but notice the way she stood inside the door, as if she expected to be requested to leave.

The air tightened between them, thick with unshed words.

Flur brushed her hands down the front of her dress, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles. “May I ask a question?” She waited for Rhyslin to nod before asking her question. “Why did you run away?”

Her voice wavered like a candle-flame tested by a draft.

For the first he could remember, Rhyslin was at a loss for words. He backed away from Flur until he felt the edge of the couch behind his knees. When he sat down with a thump, Flur took the chair opposite him and waited for his answer.

The wooden frame groaned beneath him as if registering his retreat, while the chair she claimed straightened, proud to hold her courage.

Rhyslin had never lied to anyone and didn’t intend on starting now. “Would you believe that your proposal caught me by surprise?”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Flur looked into his eyes and fell into those hazel orbs. All she wanted to do was run her fingers through his hair.

Her pulse beat like a drum against her throat, echoing faintly in the draoidheachd-rich air.

Rhyslin’s breath caught as he watched her. “‘Tis true. I was not expecting a tribute clause, and it …”

“Sent you running for cover?” Flur fought the desire to reach out to him.

The air between them grew hot, as if the room itself teased him with her accusation.

Rhyslin coughed, trying to hide his thoughts. “In a manner of speaking.” When the thought of spending time with her crossed his mind, he smiled.

“In a manner of speaking?” Flur almost laughed out loud. “You were in such a hurry to get away that you left your things on the table.”

The floor seemed to chuckle with her, loosening the tension.

Rhyslin smiled, admitting defeat. “I would ask you to stay for dinner, but there doesn’t seem to be much in the pantry.”

Flur accepted the intended peace offering. “My mom and I frequent a small eatery nearby. Would you care to come along?”

Rhyslin weighed the benefits of accepting her offer, then nodded. “I would be honored to dine with you.”

Within five minutes, the two were sitting outside the little cafe, eating a light lunch. The wind stirred, playful, tugging at Flur’s golden hair as though it conspired with her boldness.

“Why the tribute clause?” Rhyslin leaned forward. He was curious about why anyone would sell themselves so cheaply.

Caught in mid-bite, Flur coughed up part of her bread. When she could breathe without coughing, she glared at Rhyslin. “Because I want to go with you.” When he arched an eyebrow, she rolled her eyes. “I saw what you did to the ogren. I want to learn what you know.”

Rhyslin eyed the golden-haired Hîn i-Balanath. “My skills … If all you saw was the interrogation, you haven’t seen my skills in action.”

When Flur gestured with her slice of bread for him to continue, he hid a grin behind his left hand. “What’s there to tell? I can draw from the ambient draoidheacd and use it for gealdor.”

Flur raised an eyebrow, finished her mouthful of food, took a sip of wine, and pointed her finger at him. “I saw what you did to the Ogren. You created a creeping vine out of nowhere.”

Rhyslin shook his head. “It was hardly ‘nowhere.’ I dropped a seed on the ground and used draoidheacd to force it to grow.

The vines in the trellis behind them rustled faintly, remembering the echo of his will.

She blinked, awestruck. “That’s amazing. All I can do is pray to Astinmah and heal people.” She leaned forward. “Can you do that?”

“What? Heal people?” The draoidh had to think about it before he answered her question. “I’m no sagart. When I heal, it is by intent.” He shrugged, snagged a piece of fruit, and took a bite. “I don’t pray to Astinmah when I heal someone.” If she only knew there were times when he didn’t use draoidheacd at all, she’d have a fit.

Flur took another bite of her food as she watched him. Rhyslin had the feeling she was judging him for something he had done. He felt an itch form over his left eye and rubbed it with the edge of his finger.

After another bite, she leaned toward him. “Do you know the old ways?” When she rested her hand on his, Rhyslin blinked. What was this woman after?

The draoidheachd quickened in the air, curling around their joined skin like invisible smoke.

Moments later, he felt the warmth of her touch sinking into his skin and quirked an eyebrow. He had lost his train of thought. “What were you asking?”

Rhyslin could feel Flur’s giggle along every nerve and held his breath.

“Do you know the old ways?”

Rhyslin turned his hand under hers, his fingers curling around hers. “I do.” He traced her fingers with his. “I can tell by touch what is broken, what is out of place, what muscles are tense.” He watched her face as he drew a spiral on her palm.

The air hushed, wine-dark silence folding over them, the spiral carrying weight older than words.

Her breath quickened, her skin warmed, her eyes dilated, a dusky glow crept up her throat, she licked her lips, and she softly moaned.

Even the breeze stilled, as if unwilling to interrupt.

It was too much, too quick. Flur pulled her hand away from his, heaving deep breaths. “Do you know how to make poultices and potions?”

“I know every root and petal and how to compound them to alleviate pain.”

The golden-haired Hîn i-Balanath leaned forward. “Would you teach me the old ways?” Her unspoken please twisted around Rhyslin’s heart.

“It doesn’t require that you be a tribute to become an apprentice. All you have to do is ask.”

Her blue eyes sparkled. “Can I go with you?”

Rhyslin pretended to think it over. “You can. If your mother agrees.”

Flur froze as his words sank in. The firelight flickered across her hair as she quivered, her eyes narrowing, her voice turning cold.

“I don’t need Maither’s permission. I am past the age of majority.”

The air thickened with her defiance. She poked him in the chest, and when he laughed, the hearth crackled in mirth with him. Flur growled, teeth clenched. “You’re mean.”

The draoidh chuckled, his amusement clear, the sound rippling through the rafters like a teasing wind. It made Flur that much angrier. She sought a way to retaliate, her own heartbeat drumming in her ears. Slowly, a toothy grin spread across her face as memory surfaced, her mother’s story of how she had once brought her husband to heel.

Flur leaned toward Rhyslin and cupped his hands in hers. The warmth of her palms pressed against his calloused skin, and in that charged silence the room seemed to hold its breath. She gazed into his eyes, her voice serene and steady, carrying ritual weight:

“Rhyslin Darkblade. I, Flur Rionnag Shoilleir, ask the Lady of Chains to be witness as I give to thee, my soul-bond, my very self. In return, I ask that you teach me the old ways.”

The air shifted, heavy with unseen chains; the scent of iron and roses lingered where no flowers grew.

At first, Rhyslin listened as if spellbound. Then, realization struck — his eyes widened, his breath quickened, and he yanked his hands back. The room shivered as if in protest. He tried to retreat from her.

“Do you know what you are —?” He could not believe what she had done.

He could tell from her expression that she didn’t understand.

Flur’s eyes widened as she felt something heavy settle around her heart, a binding weight that was not entirely her own. She blinked as alien fear coursed through her, then resignation, but it wasn’t hers. She gasped, seeing the haunted look on Rhyslin’s face.

“What have I done?”

Rhyslin shook his head as the ethereal bonds wound around them both, settling into place with all the weight of an iron chain. Invisible links pulled taut, glinting in the mind’s eye. “You’ve initiated a soul-bond.”

Closing his eyes, he felt the tether digging into his soul, threads of draoidheachd twisting with strands of fate.

This was what he had feared for most of his life, that a woman would invoke Ananke’s name in binding, tying her very life to his. The gods themselves had leaned close to listen.

He had always thought that should such a thing happen, he could control it. But now he knew he had been wrong. There was no controlling such a bond. Should anything happen to him, it would echo into Flur as well.

“For better or worse, you are now bound to me, and I to you. I can only hope you don’t come to despise it.”

Rhyslin took Flur’s trembling hand, the bond thrumming between them like a living thread, and brushed his lips across her fingertips. A faint spark flared at the touch, as though Ananke herself approved.

“Well,” he said, with a weary tenderness, “that’s one way to guarantee that you get to come with me. I hope you’re ready to go.”

The story continues in The Draoidh’s Cearcall.
If these opening chapters drew you in, the full journey is waiting for you here.

The Draoidh's Cearcall

I wanted to take a moment to share a few updates with you.

The Draoidh’s Cearcall and The Draoidh’s Gambit are now available in EPUB format. You can purchase them for a modest pittance of $8.00 from my Turtilio author page, Joseph L. Wiess – Author.

If you scroll through the purchase links, you’ll find my preferred channels. Dreams of Crann Na Beatha will take you to my Payhip page, while Trickster Tales leads to my Bookshop listings—purchases there also help support independent bookstores. If Bookshop isn’t your preference, the next link will take you to my IngramSpark page.

The Black Swan’s Bond will be available as soon as I finish converting it to EPUB format. It may take a few weeks, but it will appear.

Going forward, as new books are released, they will be available through Amazon, Ingram, and my author page.

I work hard, gentle readers, so that you may have a world to step into when life grants you the chance to breathe.

In the course of converting my books to EPUB, I’ve also been testing reading applications that can serve as alternatives to Kindle. Thus far, I’ve been pleased with Thorium (available through the Windows Store) and Moon+ Reader for Android tablets. Both allow you to import and read EPUBs directly, and I’ve found them more agreeable than either Kindle or Nook.

Till next time,
Far þú vel

The ground cover was short grass, cool and damp underfoot, with flower beds interspersed throughout the space.

Subtle shifts of air carried layered fragrances—earth loam, rainwater clinging to petals, and the sharp sweetness of Rosan blooms. At four points equidistant from the ancient tree, the enterprising Hîn i-Balanath had planted smaller ubhal trees whose crowns tilted inward, as though bowing to the elder.

“The council chamber is this way.” Vuuroena led them toward the ancient tree. Rhyslin could sense the sleeping dryad that lived therein, her slumber a soft hum beneath the bark, and suspected who had been tending the lovely garden.

Rhyslin took a deep breath and savored the scent of the well-tended Rosan bushes as they passed by. A gentle tremor in the air sent several blossoms opening wider as though to greet him.

Rhyslin brushed his fingers across the coarse bark of the tree trunk, circling the ancient tree, complete with the crafted wooden benches. Somewhere above him, a gentle sigh reached his ears, causing him to pause as dainty hands clasped around his, and a vine descended to snatch his hat.

“Greetings to thee, Mac Draoidheacd.” The dryad squeezed his hand, her fingers curling under his palm. The bark around her pulse point warmed at his touch, tiny motes of light seeping from her skin into his. “You honour me with your presence.” Her sultry voice would have sent tingles down the spine of a lesser man. Rhyslin knew how to handle dryads and had known since he was a child, growing up in Astinmah’s grove.

Rhyslin returned the affection as he turned and looked up to where a busty red-headed dryad with cat’s ears was leaning halfway out of her tree with his hat perched atop the wild curls. The glass dome overhead caught the flare of her hair, scattering red-gold across the rotunda like sparks.

“Oh, sweet tree maiden.” He bowed at the waist, his free hand sweeping out to the side in an exaggerated court bow. Earthly royalty would have snickered behind their hands at his display. “How are you doing on this fine day?”

Vuuroena watched as the dryad accepted the bow at face value. “I am well.” She nodded. “The Spréotha Daraen have built a wondrous enclosure for Dearg’s grove.”

She withdrew one hand from Rhyslin’s and gestured all around her. The Rosan bushes seemed to exhale at her words, sending a ripple of fragrance outward.

Rhyslin turned in a circle, never letting go of the dryad’s hand. “They have provided you with a Coille-Shìtheil.” Turning back to the dryad, he rested the living staff on his left shoulder and reached up to retrieve his hat from her.

The busty dryad giggled as she leaned back out of his reach. Her laugh sent a rustle through the smaller ubhal trees, as though the grove itself enjoyed her play. “Dearg likes this hat.” She used her free hand to push the Rhyslin away. “Do you think it looks good on me?”

She gave him a brazen smile as she puffed out her chest, emphasizing her ample endowments.

Vuuroena watched as Rhyslin continued to play the dryad’s game. She couldn’t believe that a nature spirit could be earthy and full of life.

“Yes, it looks good on you.” Rhyslin allowed it, playing along with the flame-haired cat girl. Then, Rhyslin turned the tables on the cat-eared dryad. “It’s just such a shame, though.” His words brushed the air like a cold current in warm water.

The dryad’s eyes widened in surprise, and she leaned toward him as she watched his face. A Rosan blossom dropped a petal at their feet. “What is wrong with Dearg?”

She watched his jovial smile fade into a frown. “Mac Draoidheacd. Why are you sad?”

Rhyslin had shifted the dance, and the dryad had willingly joined him.

The draoidh reached up and caught a lock of Dearg’s lustrous red hair that had fallen from under the hat. The air pulsed faintly with heat as though the dome trapped summer inside. “My hat does look good on you, but it covers your magnificent hair.”

Vuuroena watched as the dryad became putty in Rhyslin’s hands, delighting in the feelings as he traced a strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear.

“Oh, Mac Draoidheacd, that feels so good.” Her eyes closed as he cupped her cheek, and the grass beneath their feet shivered. “Dearg was resting when Mara-Astan graced us with her presence.” Like Rhyslin, Dearg could change the dance-steps. She opened her eyelids to reveal liquid green eyes, which she batted at him. “May I go with you and meet her?”

Rhyslin used his thumb to wipe away a trace of the moisture around the dryad’s left eye. His touch left a faint glow that sank into her skin like sunlight into leaves. “I would be delighted to take you to Mara-Astan. It will be the highlight of her day.” The draoidh took a step back, watching as she stepped out of the tree and stood beside him.

Vuuroena couldn’t believe that the busy dryad only stood as tall as Rhyslin’s shoulder. The glass dome above them gleamed brighter, as though the hall itself approved her choice.

“Thank you, Mac Draoidheacd.” Dearg handed Rhyslin’s hat back with a small bow. “I will be as silent as a dealan-dé.”

The faint brush of wings whispered overhead, unseen, as though the promise had already taken root.

A cool ripple of air stirred through the rotunda, carrying the resinous tang of ubhal bark and the sweeter breath of Rosan blossoms.

The dryad’s gaze slid from Rhyslin to Vuuroena, green eyes tracing every stitch of the young woman’s dress.

“Dearg thinks she must change her appearance.” She circled Vuuroena with a feline grace, her bare feet brushing soft grass, fingertips prodding at seams, tugging at fabric as though testing its worth.

When her inspection ended, Dearg returned to Rhyslin’s side. Her leaves rustled like sighing branches as they shifted—broadening over her chest into a short, low-cut blouse that left shoulders and stomach bare, narrowing below into a skirt of green fire that hugged her hips and rode high above her knees.

She tilted her head toward him, expectant, the scent of crushed leaves sharp in the air. “How do I look, Mac Draoidheacd?”

Rhyslin’s gaze softened as he watched her pirouette, sunlight catching fire in her auburn curls. “You look as lovely as the fruits of your tree.”

The dryad’s face lit with joy, a blush of rose across her bark-pale cheeks. “Mathair will be pleased.”

Vuuroena froze mid-step. A gasp slipped from her lips as color flared over her skin. Rhyslin turned at once, one eyebrow arched, curiosity alive in the air between them. “What is it, young one?”

Her hand fluttered upward, tugging her raven hair across her shoulder as though it could shield her face. “She’s… well, her clothes are… very revealing.”

The blush deepened, and with it came a heat that seemed to press outward, rippling through the garden.

Rhyslin only smiled, his tone light as falling snow. “You must not spend much time around dryads.”

Dearg giggled, leaves trembling—but her mirth stilled the instant Rhyslin lifted his left hand. The garden hushed with him. The dryad’s shoulders curved inward; bark-colored lashes lowered. “I’m sorry.” She bowed her head, contrite, the grass at her feet curling in sympathy.

Both men’s attention slid back to Vuuroena. Her blush burned darker, her voice tentative. “There are very few trees where I come from.” Her eyes caught the pond nearby, reflecting blue fire from its rippling surface. “Before coming here, I had never seen a dryad.”

Her words carried the faint rasp of sand swept across stone. “The only spirits I knew lived under the desert—sand-walkers, hiding all day, covered head to toe even at night. A sand-walker would never be seen like this.”

Rhyslin and Marcus exchanged a knowing glance. They had walked those deserts, felt that same barren silence. They nodded, their agreement grounding her confession.

“Dryads seldom conceal themselves,” Rhyslin explained. He gestured to Dearg, whose leafy garb still shimmered faintly with light. “They reveal their bodies as thanks to Mara-Astan—for their lives and for their trees.”

He pressed one hand over his heart, the other rising skyward, prana stirring like breath through the branches.

Vuuroena inclined her head in acknowledgment, though her cheeks still burned.

Dearg had lived her whole life in the forest, with water flowing freely, shade abundant. The girl’s words struck her like drought. Her eyes widened. “A place with no trees?” She staggered back against her trunk, vines quivering as though stricken. “Oh, poor little one. I am so sorry.”

Sorrow spilled from her in waves; the garden itself seemed to sag. She darted to Vuuroena and enfolded her in an embrace, leaves brushing against silk, sap-scent and moss enveloping desert-dry linen.

Vuuroena stiffened, helpless, her arms pinned to her sides. She shot Rhyslin a look, her eyes begging rescue.

The draoidh took pity. Stepping forward, he wove his fingers gently through Dearg’s auburn hair, grounding her. “That’s enough, Sweet Dearg.”

The dryad released Vuuroena with a breathy sigh, bowing her head. “Yes, Mac Draoidheacd.” She pressed closer to his side, smiling when he slipped an arm lightly around her waist. The ubhal tree above them released a contented rustle, approving.

“Come along, Dearg,” Rhyslin coaxed. “Mara-Astan is waiting.”

Vuuroena exhaled in relief and turned quickly, leading them on toward the council chamber. The dryad followed with lingering glances, green eyes mournful. “Do you think Mara-Astan knows about the treeless wastes?”

────────── ✦ ✦ ✦ ──────────

“Are we going inside, Mac Draoidheacd?” Dearg tugged on Rhyslin’s duster as she watched Vuuroena.

The young spellblade stood in front of a plain wooden door, beyond which lay the council chamber. She stared at the door, wondering what her mother would think when she escorted the draoidh inside.

The oak grain seemed to waver in the torchlight, as if listening to her hesitation, the iron bands humming faintly with the weight of what lay beyond.

Rhyslin watched her for a few minutes before moving up behind her. “If you would like, we can enter without you.” He was perfectly willing to wait as long as it took for her to work up her courage. The air about him stirred, prana faint as a slow tide, brushing the stone walls until moss curled toward him.

Vuuroena started as she felt his hand on her shoulder. “No. I am just …” She didn’t want to admit that she worried about how her mother would react. She had always worked hard to get her people to notice her as something more than just a girl who wanted to play with swords.

It had taken her learning how to be a spellblade to get her people to take her seriously. Her breath came shallow, the candle nearest the door guttering with each exhale.

Sensing Vuuroena’s fear, Rhyslin leaned forward, resting one hand on her shoulder. “Fear is the mist before the dawn. It blurs, it bites, but it fades. Let it wash over skin and sinew. Let it pass, unheld. When it falls away, thought awakens, and calm stands in its place.”

His words seemed to draw the smoke in the sconces into stillness, the air pausing with him, waiting.

Vuuroena’s brow furrowed as she listened to him. She wasn’t sure that leading him into the council chamber was her biggest fear, but it came close.

Not only was her mother in there, but so were her aunts, both Allanagh, the one she’d met, and Mayana, the one she had only heard her mother talk about. If it were just the three of them, she wouldn’t mind being seen as a worried child, but Astinmah, the forest goddess, was present as well. Her fear receded as she took a slow, deep breath and released it. The prana about her steadied, shadows drawing back from her face. She nuzzled her cheek against his knuckles. “Thank you, mo aon socair.”

At her slight nod, Rhyslin withdrew his hand and watched as she opened the door and walked inside. The hinges creaked like old voices, the rush of warm air carrying the scent of resin and hearth smoke.

────────── ✦ ✦ ✦ ──────────

He had only known Vuuroena for a short while, but she had already impressed him. Not many young soldiers would challenge him to a duel. There weren’t many spell blades that had her raw talent for draoidheacd. He gave her a few minutes to notify the women of his presence outside. She must have told them he was outside because when he entered the council chamber, he found the eight women staring at him. The chamber itself fell quiet, fire snapping once before dimming, as though testing his resolve.

Vuuroena stood in front of her mother with her head bowed.

Ilyriatri finished her conversation with Vuuroena and looked up to find Rhyslin standing there.

She gazed at him for a moment before taking her daughter’s hand and pulling her back behind her.

Natolie saw Rhyslin’s expression, then looked Marcus’s way. Seeing the slight frown on his face, she lowered her head, a blush spotting her cheeks as she hurried to his side and dropped to her knees. Her movement stirred the rush mats beneath her, the whisper of reed on stone loud in the still air.

Allanagh blanched and slipped out of Rhyslin’s line of sight. She was still raw from the Orcan raid, and she couldn’t tell if his silence meant anger. The chill of his prana ghosted over her skin, making her shiver—it stirred a memory of Garion’s quiet disappointment.

A knot of unease formed in her chest, the creeping sense that she’d done something wrong. Flur stiffened as well, the fine hairs at her nape rising with the same unspoken fear. The flames of the chamber hearth bent low, smoke curling toward the floor. In the span of a breath, she felt it—the sharp, helpless fear of prey caught in a predator’s stare.

“No!” Allanagh tried to draw Rhyslin’s attention back to her and away from her daughter. “Please, Mac Draoidheacd, don’t hurt Flur. She — She —” She almost knelt as his eyes settled on her.

“I will not hurt women without due cause. Especially not one who watched over me for three days.” Rhyslin’s voice held disappointment and contained anger. Without looking away from the Hîn i-Balanath queen, he spoke to Flur. “Go, stand by your mathair.”

The golden-haired princess nodded, shaken, and moved to stand behind Allanagh. Her skirts brushed the flagstones, the faint static crackle of prana clinging to her hems.

Sensing furtive movement to his right, he looked over his shoulder and frowned at Lilly and Ana. “Have a seat.” Both froze, heads bowed, hands crossed over their chests. “When I’m through with whatever this is, we will discuss the proper roles of the chosen.” From his tone, they could tell that they’d stepped beyond their obligations.

“Of course, Mac Draoidheacd, it shall be as you wish.” The hearth-maiden of hearth-maidens turned to face him, cringing under his prana. The glow of the chamber lamps dimmed further, her shadow lengthening across the wall like a bent reed.

The bound taghta, on the other hand, scurried and knelt before him, her knees parted, her head bowed. “Forgiveness, please. Mac Draoidheacd.” Her jewelry chimed as she fidgeted, each metallic note sharp in the silence, as if the chamber itself scolded her.

Catching sight of a familiar face, he ignored the taghta. “Mayana. Don’t tell me you’re part of this travesty.”

The red-haired Queen of the mountain Hîn i-Balanath offered him a weak grin as she spread her arms out toward the others. “I had no choice, my protector. Mathair Astinmah summoned me.” Mayana had come to him months earlier, requesting aid and protection from the strange people on the other side of the mountains. People, she said, wanted to invade her lands and enslave her people.

“I see.” Rhyslin strode into the center of the chamber. The rushes underfoot rustled, the air parting like a tide around him. “At least tell me that you attempted to dissuade them from this foolishness.”

Mayana’s strained smile provided the answer he expected. She had tried, and failed.

Rhyslin turned from Mayana as he caught movement from his right side. “Don’t even think it, Mathair.” He finished the turn, watching the goddess’s raised hand.

Astinmah, the forest goddess, Mara-Astan, daughter of Eru, caught in the act of tracing a rune in the air, looked embarrassed. The light of the torches bent toward her fingers, eager to obey, before she stilled them.

Rhyslin walked toward her, his mouth straight, determination in his voice. “Why do you seek to work behind my back?”

It hurt him not to praise her, but she needed to know how much her attempt would cost her, both in his pain and trust. He could tell that she felt it keenly because she bowed her head in shame.

A breeze that smelled faintly of pine swept through, then faltered, as though the forest itself winced.

“I want what is best for you, my son.” She always had, and Rhyslin appreciated her for it. As usual, she had taken over a situation she knew nothing about, and turned it to her own purpose, namely finding him a mate.

“Maybe what is best for me is —” The thought crossed his mind, but remained unsaid. He held his tongue until his anger faded away, leaving only the ever-present disappointment. The weight in the room lightened, the hearth flame rising as if relieved.

Rhyslin distracted himself by picking up a piece of parchment and reading it. The crackle of vellum was loud as thunder in the silence.

As he read, one brow rose—then the other. The fire crackled unevenly, a log splitting with a pop that made the shadows leap against the council chamber walls. “I’m — confused.” His voice was low, strained. He read it a second time, though the parchment seemed to blur as though resisting his comprehension. The inked letters swam; the words refused to take root. He still couldn’t grasp what he read. He glanced over at Marcus. “Didn’t we wipe out an Orcan war-band?”

“Yes, why?” Marcus leaned in, the leather of his jerkin creaking as he reached for the pages. The shadows clung to him, as if his cloak wove him deeper into the wall.

“Because according to this” Rhyslin tapped the parchment, the sound echoing sharp in the stillness “the Hîn i-Balanath have surrendered to the Saor-Shealbhan and are offering me tribute.” The air in the room thickened, as though the walls themselves held their breath. Rhyslin handed Marcus the document and pressed his fingers to his brow, pain flaring behind his eyes like a furnace banked too long.

When he read what the tribute was, he shook his head. A whisper of cold swept the chamber, lifting the edge of his sleeve.

How did they ever expect him to choose one woman from among many? The weight of it pressed against his temples, as though unseen hands tugged at him from every side. He massaged the spot between his eyes with the heel of his palm until the pain receded to a dull throb.

“This will never do.” The quill in his hand trembled as if sensing his unrest. He reached into his bag, fingers brushing parchment that smelled faintly of cedar smoke and old ink. When he found it, he spread the sheets out on the table. The lamplight gleamed off the fresh vellum, promising clarity. “Shall we try again?”

The three women leaned toward each other, their voices weaving into a hushed chord. Their bracelets chimed softly, like the distant tinkle of river ice.

When they nodded, he said, “I want to rewrite this so that it makes sense.” He gestured to the three Hîn i-Balanath queens and then pointed at the table. “Ladies, please have a seat and make yourselves comfortable.”

He reached for a chair and sank into it. The wooden legs groaned as though under the weight of more than one man’s burdens.

The three women gazed at Astinmah before seating themselves opposite Rhyslin. For a moment, Flur and Vuuroena hovered, uncertain, the air thick with indecision. The hearth popped again, as though impatient. After exchanging glances, they settled with their mothers, roots drawing them back to their lineage.

Astinmah looked up at Rhyslin, and her heart went out to him. She saw the source of his pain and how it rippled outward into the chamber. She saw the tightness in his muscles, the tremor of his hand as it gripped the quill. A faint shimmer of light gathered at her shoulders, restrained divinity pressing against the mortal air. “Where would you like me to sit?”

Rhyslin fought the desire to grumble and covered his right eye with the palm of his hand.

The vein behind it throbbed like a drumbeat, the firelight swimming red at the edges of his vision. “Honestly?” He threw it out as a peace offering.

Astinmah accepted, her breath releasing the faintest scent of myrrh into the room, hoping he would forgive her. “Yes, my son. I will sit where you wish.”

Rhyslin eyed her, saw the sorrow that softened her divinity, and took her at her word. “I would like you to go sit under Dearg’s tree. She wants to spend time with you.”

Astinmah gazed at him for a minute, then nodded. Her light dimmed, gentling to mortal hues. She rose from her seat and held out her hand to the dryad. “Come, little one.”

Dearg jumped up, her leaves rustling faintly, and took her goddess’s hand before dragging her toward the door.

Rhyslin stopped them before they crossed the threshold. “Mathair, please let me take care of this first. I promise I’ll talk to you after I’m through.”

“Very well.” Her voice was like velvet stretched thin. She wished she could help him, that he’d listen to her. “I’ll be sitting under Dearg’s tree.”

The door closed softly, and with it the air in the chamber lightened, as if the walls sighed with relief. Rhyslin watched the two leave, then looked over his shoulder at the two taghta.

“What do you want us to do?”

“Stay.” Rhyslin’s voice was tinged with pain, his breath fogging briefly in the cooler draft that slipped through the stone seams. “I may need your advice.”

Neither spoke as they moved to his side. Lilly picked a chair, wood creaking as she settled, her ankles crossed with quiet dignity. The air was filled with the chiming of Ana’s jewelry as she crawled to Rhyslin’s left side, her movement stirring the candle flames, and knelt with her derriere resting on her heels.

When both were in place, Rhyslin looked for Marcus and found him leaning against the wall near the door, a silent sentinel. “Marcus, would you do me a favor and find Torval and K’Tek?” His voice was low but resonant, drawing the shadows closer. He would need them to act as witnesses later.

Vuuroena watched as Natolie started to complain, her voice sharp against the hush of the chamber—only stopping when Marcus’s frown silenced her like a blade sheathed.

“Be silent, mo chridhe. In your hurry to make history, you forgot how many freemen are required to sign treaties that bind the Saor-Shealbhan to a particular action.” His voice carried iron beneath it, striking sparks against the air. Unlike Rhyslin, he didn’t hide his feelings. His voice held barely controlled anger. “Come, let’s find our wayward freemen.”

After casting a look in Rhyslin’s direction, Natolie followed Marcus out of the council chamber. Her footsteps seemed too loud, jangling against the stone floor. She needed to apologize to Rhyslin.

She had allowed Astinmah to fill her heart with pride and glory, and the air itself seemed to close behind her with a whisper of judgment.

Rhyslin rested his head in his hand as sharp pain wound through his nerves, making it hard to move. The chamber’s light dimmed with his wince, shadows lengthening across the polished table. Then, as the pain faded, the air steadied, and he raised his head. His eyes fell on the three women sitting across the table from him.

He wondered if they recalled him from Rig Garion’s kingship. He hadn’t remembered them, and it was only when they were together that he realized who they were. The pain of loss hit him hard.

The torches guttered as though the room itself grieved with him. Garion had been his friend, a decent ruler, and a great family man. Shame followed pain as he recalled forgotten promises never kept.

“Á avatyar nin i rahtainenyar Forgive me my broken promises..” His whispered entreaty spiraled heavenward, and the rafters seemed to echo the syllables with a hushed breath. He was glad that Astinmah had left with Dearg. She would have seen through his shame and called him on it.

He shuffled the parchment, the rustle carrying like dry leaves in the still air, only

looking up when one of the ladies delicately cleared her throat. Of the three,

Ilyriatri thoughtfully gazed at him, her eyes holding a weight that pressed against his chest like a silent test.

“If you are ready to begin. Tell me what you want from the Saor-shealbhan nan Roaintean Mòra?”

Allanagh and Ilyriatri looked at Mayana, the mountain queen, who responded with a raised brow. Her silence rumbled in the room like distant stonefalls.

Allanagh cleared her throat and leaned toward Rhyslin. The fire behind her eyes flickered in the torchlight, casting her face in sharp relief. “Mayana said …” she stopped and started again. “Could you please tell us about Mayana’s treaty?”

He had not expected to talk about Mayana’s petition and had to think about it. He looked at Mayana and saw her nod, as steady and immovable as granite. “She has petitioned for Clann nam beann to join the Saor-Shealbhan as a member state.”

Ilyriatri frowned. The air around her seemed to cool, sharp as the edge of a blade. “Mathair Astinmah didn’t give us that option.” She cast a dark look at the door through which the goddess had left. Not for the first time, she wondered what Astinmah had been thinking.

Rhyslin glanced at the door, hoping that his mother was enjoying her conversation with Dearg. “Of course she didn’t.”

He tried to hide the disappointment he felt, though the lamps above dimmed with his words. “She’s always thought of me as a king.”

Allanagh, her fear forgotten, leaned toward him. Sparks seemed to leap unseen in the air between them. Her people owed Rhyslin a life-debt, but she wouldn’t let that lead them into slavery. “I wouldn’t dare criticize a goddess, but you will have to convince me that joining you is the right thing.” She had fire in her eyes as she stared at Rhyslin. “Why should my people join your Saor-Shealbhan? What do we get out of it?”

Rhyslin grinned, savoring her fire. The torches flared brighter, as if in answer. It was no wonder that she was a leader.

He glanced at Ilyriatri and tried to assess her intelligence. When he found her staring back at him, her gaze was like a steady current beneath the surface, and he saw fascination in her eyes. He wondered why that both thrilled and concerned him.

“There are many benefits to joining the Saor-shealbhan,” he said, his voice resonating with the cool weight of truth. “You will be free to travel throughout the country; you will be free to work for whomever you wish, or you may start your own business, and you may live wherever you wish.”

“What if we suffer another attack?” Allanagh’s voice cut like flint on stone.

The memory of Orcan war cries still clung to her words. “Will you come to our aid?” She knew that they would; she just wanted confirmation.

Rhyslin was only too happy to give her that confirmation. The air warmed with certainty, his prana folding over them like a shield. “Once the treaty is signed, you’ll be under our protection. Anyone who attacks you will face the full might of the ten companies.”

“That’s all and good.” Ilyriatri lifted her right eyebrow. Her words rippled through the chamber like a testing wind. “What will your protection cost us?” She was very careful when she interrogated him. His disappointment had left with Astinmah, and his prana now settled over them like the surface of a cool lake, calm and assuring. She watched him as she considered her daughter’s position.

Rana was correct. This man was exceptional, and that excited her. It had been a long time since she’d been interested in a man — almost too long.

Seeing the smile playing on her lips, Rhyslin leaned back, the chair creaking under him as though it knew the weight of what passed between them. He wondered what she was up to. “It will cost you nothing. In fact, by the time we pay for the land to build a fortress, the supplies to build the fortress, as well as equipment and supplies for the soldiers stationed there, we’ll be paying you.”

Hearing that, the three women held a quick conference, voices like low streams intermingling in the chamber. One that brought more questions.

“Will we be required to merge our armies?” came from Allanagh, her voice sharp with concern.

The draoidh shook his head. His refusal spread through the air like a quiet wind easing the heat of battle. “No. You may keep your military separate if you wish. We will give you as much or as little help as you need.” He relaxed in the chair as Allanagh and Ilyriatri pulled Mayana into a huddle and interrogated her, their presence stirring the air like three elements converging.

When they were through, Ilyriatri stood. The air shifted with her, silks whispering like a question on the wind.

“What if one of your citizens breaks our laws, or one of our citizens breaks Saor-shealbhan law?”

Rhyslin wished that one of the legates were here. The thought of them seemed to stir the chamber’s shadows; even in absence, law carried weight. Legates were the Saorsa’s answer to the court.

They took the evidence gathered by the law-keepers, appointed courts, juries, and determined if Council edicts held the power of law. Any of them would have answered Ilyriatri more concisely than Rhyslin could.

“All free people bear responsibility for their choices—and must accept the consequences that follow. We won’t second-guess your court system. We just ask the same from you.”

His answer must have satisfied them. “That’s most enlightened.” Allanagh kissed her fingertips.

Her gesture released a faint sweetness into the air, as though unseen flowers stirred. A gesture that was copied by Ilyriatri and Mayana, the sound of their silk cuffs brushing like water over stone.

The desert-born Hîn i-Balanath looked at him strangely, and again he saw the smile that promised him everything and nothing. A dry warmth lingered about her like desert wind pressing against cool stone.

“What if, at some future date, we wish to leave your Saor-shealbhan? What will happen then?”

For some strange reason, the thought of her leaving filled him with a strange mixture of sadness and longing. The candles quivered, as though the room shared his hesitation.

“When that day comes, we will allow you to leave. We won’t try to force you to stay.” He pointed to the stylized map on the wall, the parchment edges curling faintly as if the ink remembered old boundaries. “Joint military forces would disband and, depending on the terms of our contract, we will either withdraw to our forts or withdraw to our borders.”

Allanagh looked thoughtful. The air seemed to cool with her silence.

“That is not what I expected.” She turned to Mayana and Ilyriatri. “Can you give us a few mionaidean to discuss this?”

“Of course.” Rhyslin used the opportunity to lean back. The chair groaned softly, echoing his weariness.

“Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here.” He winced as the pain in his head sharpened. A candle guttered as if in sympathy. He was thankful that it had allowed him to conduct the first part of the treaty negotiations.

His discomfort did not go unnoticed. The two taghta had been observing him. Their gazes pressed like warm hands against the air.

“How bad is the pain?” Lilly shifted in her chair to brush her fingers through his hair, probing for the source of Rhyslin’s pain. The moment she touched him, the air grew taut, expectant.

He endured her touch, not pulling away as she found the tender bundle of nerves just behind his ear and prodded. The chamber held its breath.

“It’s just another day. It comes and goes.”

Lilly shook her head. The movement sent a ripple of unease through the stillness.

“Has Astinmah revealed what it takes to get rid of this pain?”

“She has.” Rhyslin had not liked her remedy for his pains.

“And?” Her fingers found where the nerves bundled and deftly pressed down. His hiss became a sigh of relief, and with it the tension in the rafters seemed to ease.

“It’s never going to happen.”

Her fingers stopped, and he cracked an eyelid to find her staring at him. Shadows leaned closer around her.

“Why not?”

He was not ready to deal with that question. He cast around for the words to explain. “My pain comes from gathering too much ambient draoidheacd. In order to get rid of the pain, I must form life-bonds with several women.” The very mention of bonds sent a low hum through the room, as if fate’s loom pulled at hidden threads.

Ana suppressed a giggle as she stood and stroked the back of Rhyslin’s head. Her touch was a spark against the fabric of the air.

“You find that distasteful?”

The tortured draoidh sighed when the bound taghta found the spot where most of the pain originated. Candles brightened, answering his release.

“Ana, you don’t have to …” At her touch, pain receded, leaving the silence strangely tender.

“I don’t have to, but I choose to, maighstir.” Ana sounded pleased with herself. The title carried a subtle resonance that curled like smoke in the corners. “I live to serve.”

“You don’t get off that easy,” Lilly admonished with a pointed finger. Her voice rang like steel on stone. “I’m still waiting for your answer.”

Rhyslin just didn’t have it in him to fight it. Instead of trying to trick her, Rhyslin shook his head. “I don’t find it distasteful at all.”

“Then why aren’t you following your mother’s advice?” Lilly raised one brow in challenge. A draft pressed against the map behind her, as though old boundaries leaned forward to listen.Rhyslin could never explain it. Instead, he gazed around the room. The chamber answered with hushed silence.

“It’s unfair to expect a woman to devote herself to a man like me, someone who is hardly ever home.” He held his arms wide. The gesture lifted the room’s weight like a plea. “Show me the woman in her right mind who would consider me a suitable partner?”

The two taghta hid tight smiles as they looked around the room. The flicker of their glances stirred the air like sparks catching kindling.

“You’d be surprised, Rhyslin,” Lilly let her hand fall onto his shoulder. Her touch drew warmth into the space. “I see two women who would consider you a wonderful mate.” She purposefully looked at Flur and Ilyriatri. Fate’s threads seemed to hum between them.

“Three, more like,” Ana pointed out, watching Vuuroena. Her senses detected fate’s strands around the young spellblade, strands that shimmered like heat-haze.

Under the touch of both taghta, Rhyslin’s pain diminished to manageable levels. The oppressive weight in the rafters loosened.

“Thank you.” He opened his eyes to find Ilyriatri staring at him, her gaze bright with unspoken knowing.

“It was our pleasure,” Ana responded as she came back to his side and again knelt. The sound of her knees against the floor was like an oath being sealed. Lilly echoed her assertion as she leaned back in her chair, the wood sighing as if in relief.

The story continues in The Draoidh’s Cearcall.
If these opening chapters drew you in, the full journey is waiting for you here.

The Draoidh's Cearcall

Flur never left his side for long.

Tonight, she sat by his pallet, her fingers damp with the chill cloth she had wrung into the waste bucket.

A faint tremor shivered through her hand as she touched the cool rag to his forehead, yet his skin seemed to warm beneath her care. The water dripped into the bowl with a hollow cadence, and with it came a prickle at her nape.

Something was moving in the shadows.

Her ears twitched, betraying her tension, though she pressed her breath low in her belly, forcing calm. Not for herself—for him. She smoothed the damp cloth over his brow, every motion measured, every nerve alert to the new presence edging near. The chamber’s silence thickened as two women entered.

The first made her blink twice: Allanagh’s likeness lived in her bones, yet younger, dusk-brown of skin, chestnut hair rippling like polished grain, and green eyes alive with scrutiny.

The second shadow at her side moved softer than a leaf falling, blue eyes too keen for her tender years.

Their clothes set them apart—tan blouses, turquoise skirts brushing knee-high moccasins. No green and brown of the woodland queens. No comfort of the known.

Flur rose halfway, shielding Rhyslin with her body. “Aunt Ilyriatri?”

“Afternoon, Flur.” The older woman’s step was as light as pine-needles settling, her gaze fixed on the draoidh. “Is this the one?”

The younger halted at her mother’s side, her voice like the hush before rainfall. “Yes, Mathair. That’s him. Can you not feel it?”

Ilyriatri studied Rhyslin’s chest, the shallow lift and fall. Her brow furrowed. “Odd. Is he the reason for our summons?”

Flur steadied herself. “Mathair Astinmah invited you and Aunt Mayana here to work on the treaty.”

Her aunt’s eyes narrowed, sharp as flint. “You shade the truth, Flur Rionnag Shoilleir. Garion Cridhe Leòmhann’s disappointment would be heavy upon you.” She paced a step, then turned, skirts brushing the stone.

“Why should Mathair Astinmah have us yield our freedom to this Saor-shealbhan nan Roaintean Mòra?”

“That is not what is asked.” Flur’s hand lifted, palm trembling but open. “Mathair Astinmah offers us free travel through their land, the right to dwell and work beside them without fear.”

“We have always had these rights.” Ilyriatri’s voice cut like a raven’s cry. “Our blood, first-born of the gods, grants them!”

She pressed her hand against her own breast as though steadying her heart. “Forgive me, Flur. These days have been vexing, and the forest Mathair’s riddles are no balm. I mistrust this treaty. Perhaps too much.

There is one clause I cannot bend my mind around—why speak again of tribute? We buried such things centuries ago.”

A low chuckle broke Flur’s lips before she thought better of it. Her fingertips brushed Rhyslin’s white hair as if staking her claim in silence. “The tribute is me.”

Ilyriatri blinked. “I do not understand.”

“What’s not to understand?” Flur’s brow arched. “I will be the tribute.”

Her aunt’s voice softened with disbelief. “What could have driven Allanagh to consent?”

“Because I asked her to,” Flur answered. She let her fingers coil a strand of his hair around her forefinger, unable to resist. “Look at him. He’s not Fire-Borne, but his prana burns steady as a forge. Can you not feel it?”

Ilyriatri hesitated, lips parting. She reached out, and the air itself seemed to recoil—then shiver under the weight of the draoidh’s dormant power.

The younger one spoke, eyes bright as mountain sky. “I can feel it. Though he sleeps, his prana runs deep and unbroken.”

Ilyriatri’s head snapped toward her. “Vuuroena, what are you doing?”

The girl lowered her lashes. “Even in his silence, his thoughts ripple. He is calm, like a deep lake.” Her eyes opened again, piercing. “Are you going to bond with him, cousin?”

Flur paused, her breath catching. She hadn’t framed it so bluntly, yet the truth shimmered in her chest. “If he’ll have me. He’s a draoidh. Beloved of Mathair Astinmah. I want to learn from him. To serve him.” She lifted her gaze, golden hair falling across her shoulders like sunlight on water. “Please, Aunt, tell me you understand.”

Ilyriatri’s resistance faltered. She let her senses stretch and shivered as raw power swept through her, a force greater than Garion’s, greater than any she had touched. Fear, awe, and hunger braided together until she drew her hand back.

Vuuroena whispered, fierce with longing. “I understand, cousin. I would bond with him in a heartbeat.”

“No!” Ilyriatri’s voice cracked, sharp as breaking wood. “You are too young. You will not.”

The girl bowed her head. “You’re right, Mathair. Not yet.” The prophecy she carried pressed against her ribs, but she swallowed it down. She leaned close to the draoidh, breath warm against his ear.

“Please help me when I call.” Her fingers brushed his brow with reverence before she stepped back.

She turned to Flur, her hand extended. “Farewell, cousin. I wish you joy.”

Flur lingered by the bedside long after her kin departed, the hush of their footsteps still clinging to the air.

The chamber felt heavier for their absence, the silence pressing against her chest like the weight of an unasked question. She dipped the cloth once more, wrung it out with practiced motions, and brushed it across Rhyslin’s brow.

His skin was cool, his prana steady, but even that rhythm seemed fragile when measured against the storm she sensed gathering beyond these walls.

“Mixcoatl’s Suilean!” Marcus’s oath rasped into the stillness. The ranger staggered back, nearly colliding with the two women as they swept out into the hall. They brushed past him with hurried grace, skirts whispering like leaves in a desert wind.

Marcus retreated into shadow, the folds of his cloak swallowing him until he was part of the stone itself. He watched, ears keen, catching half-finished phrases and the quickened cadence of their voices. Concern laced their words, sharp as flint. Concern for Rhyslin. His brows drew together. Why are they so invested in him?

The two disappeared down the corridor, their footfalls dissolving into the hush of the stronghold. Marcus exhaled slowly, then turned back.

Inside, Flur sat where he had left her, her hand moving absently as she lifted the damp cloth from Rhyslin’s forehead. She looked dazed, as if her thoughts lingered on another shore.

“How is he today, Princess Flur?” Marcus asked gently, stepping from the shadows.

Her head jerked up, a blush warming her cheeks before she mastered herself. “Um… still asleep. I hoped he would waken by now.”

Marcus’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat, then shifted to Rhyslin.

Even unconscious, the draoidh’s chest rose and fell in a rhythm that tugged at the air, each breath drawing shadows nearer before releasing them again.

“I hadn’t realized how much power he carried,” Marcus murmured, half to himself, remembering the interrogation of the Ogren. The memory coiled in his gut. “Enough to burn through a lesser man.”

He shook himself, then changed tack. “We expect the Dawn-Breaker tomorrow morning. Will you be ready to leave?”

At his words, Rhyslin’s breathing altered — from the slow tide of sleep to a quicker, shallower pull, as though his spirit strained toward wakefulness. Marcus stiffened, watching carefully.

Flur smiled faintly, smoothing Rhyslin’s hair as if coaxing him to rest. “I only need to finish packing.” She hesitated, then bent close, brushing her fingers across his brow.

“Do you think he will be angry when he sees me aboard his ship?”

Marcus’s mouth curved wryly, though his thoughts did not match his expression. Anger? No. Confusion, certainly. Concern, yes. And when he learns his goddess-mother interfered again… betrayal.

But he only said, “No, not anger.”

Flur brightened, her relief as clear as sunlight breaking frost, and left the room with quick, eager steps. Her presence carried warmth with it, leaving the chamber colder in her absence.

Marcus let his shoulders sag, retreating once more to lean against the wall. The stone seemed to drink his weariness, shadows gathering thick about him like old companions.

He reached into his pouch, fingers curling around the stem of his pipe.

The thought of Saorsa mint stirred a pang of longing, but the healers forbade it. He grunted and let it go. Patience was the only balm he was allowed.

And patience, at last, was rewarded. Hours later, a deeper breath stirred the stillness, followed by a groan of pain. The shadows shifted with it, as if the stronghold itself roused. Marcus straightened, all fatigue forgotten.

Rhyslin was waking.

Rhyslin lay still, breath shallow, letting strength pool back into his limbs. When at last he pressed his palms to the mattress and pushed, every muscle trembled as if reluctant to remember the art of rising.

His body leaned forward, elbows braced, head cupped in his hands. The room tilted, shadows sliding like water across the walls.

“That was strange,” he muttered, rubbing his brow. “Why did the spell fight me?” His lashes fluttered; vision swam. The mattress sighed beneath him, warm but foreign. “This isn’t the Dawn Breaker, is it?” Already the thrum of a familiar prana stirred at the edge of awareness, steady as a heartbeat.

From the corner, Marcus stepped out of the shadows. His cloak shifted with the light, shedding its darker hues until it rested in quiet browns and tans, as if the very fabric obeyed the room’s warmth. “How are you feeling, Rhys?”

“I feel like Ifrinn’s been gnawing at me,” the draoidh groaned, fingers combing through silver hair. His gaze sharpened, suspicious. “You didn’t answer. Why aren’t we on board the Dawn Breaker, halfway home?”

Marcus shrugged, though his eyes betrayed hesitation. “Because the Dawn Breaker had to evade a storm.”

Rhyslin blinked, confusion flashing across his features. “Storm? I remember no storm.” His brow furrowed, memory clawing backward. “The sky was clear… too clear.”

Marcus nodded grimly. “What’s the last thing you do recall?”

“The Ogren.” Rhyslin’s voice darkened. “I tried to let go of the power… but it clung to me, fought me. Then—” a shiver of vertigo sent him gripping the bedframe, “—nothing. Until now. What happened?”

“Your mother showed up,” Marcus said flatly.

Shock tightened Rhyslin’s shoulders. “Astinmah? When?” The very air seemed to constrict, walls pressing closer. His prana shivered with unease.

“Midway through the interrogation,” Marcus explained. “She took over the eldest dryad. Matured her.”

Rhyslin’s breath hitched, then softened. “Poor Keisha… gods help her.”

“That’s not your greatest worry,” Marcus murmured. He listed the names one by one, each a stone dropped into Rhyslin’s chest: Mayana. Lilly Ann. Analise. Natolie. “All sequestered with the two Hîn i-Balanath queens. Plotting something.”

Rhyslin exhaled, a whisper of defeat. “Why does this feel like being led to the pyre?”

“Because even wise men dread when seven women weave,” Marcus replied, placing a hand on his shoulder. His voice lowered. “The storm broke the instant you fell—your mother’s doing. Came so fast, Captain O’Cuire had no choice but to run before it.”

Rhyslin’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “The ship comes first. Always. But without her guns…” He shook his head, resolve setting in. “It will be a hard road if she doesn’t return.”

Marcus grunted, unwilling to argue. His gaze followed Rhyslin as the draoidh searched the room.

“Now, where’s my caretaker hidden my clothes?”

When Marcus sputtered, Rhyslin only smirked. “I was unconscious, Marcus, not dead. I felt her hands. Each touch. Each cloth laid across my brow.” He paused, memory flickering—a whisper, soft as a prayer, breathed by a young, dark-haired hin i-Balanath into his ear.

“There.” His garments lay folded neatly by the bedside. “Someone even cleaned them.” He dressed with steady care, every motion accompanied by the creak of weary joints.

His gaze fell upon the staff leaning by the wall. A grunt, and he pushed himself upright, staggering forward.

Pain lanced his knee; his ankle crackled in protest. “Hush,” he muttered at his own body, blood roaring back into long-starved muscles. Step by step, the world steadied.

When his fingers at last closed around the staff, the wood thrummed to life. Images surged—Keisha’s transformation, her first breath in a woman’s form, the song of power binding flesh to spirit.

“Oh, I see.” His lips curled. “Marcus, your words don’t do her justice.” The staff answered in a soft trill, vibration humming into his bones.

“So, you sang for her?” he asked gently.

Another ripple, tender, proud.

Rhyslin chuckled, forehead pressing briefly to the wood. “Aye. I would have praised her too.”

After communing with the spirit in his staff, Rhyslin adjusted the brim of his hat. The air around him hummed faintly, as though the woodgrain itself still whispered secrets from the communion.

“Come on, Old Wolf,” he murmured, the words lined with resignation. “Let’s see what Mathair’s up to.”

Marcus fell into step beside him, lips quirking. “Still feel like a condemned man?”

“Without a doubt.” Sunlight flared against Rhyslin’s hat as he tipped it lower, though the staff tugged his hand to the right with gentle insistence. He followed its pull, boots crunching over snow-hardened ruts.

The streets were sodden with melt and shadow; the unnatural storm had left the air unsettled, heavy with iron. Rhyslin shook his head as if dismissing the very sky. “It will take months for the weather to right itself.”

“Can you mend it?” Marcus asked, though he already knew the weight of the answer.

“With the proper ritual and enough voices, perhaps. But I won’t unravel the skies just to soothe pride.” A breath left him in a curl of frost. “I’m not a god.”

“Are you sure?” Marcus’ brow arched, voice sharp with mischief. “Your mother would argue otherwise.”

“That’s what she keeps telling me,” Rhyslin sighed, rolling his eyes, though a shiver of unease coiled in his chest.

They needled each other with barbs until they reached a three-story brick hall, its stained glass windows ablaze with green forest light.

Vines curled where no vine had been planted, and for a moment Rhyslin felt Astinmah’s eyes on the back of his neck.

“This must be the place.” He reached for the door—only for it to swing open on its own breath.

“You are up,” a voice said.

A young Hîn i-Balanath woman stepped out, placing herself firmly between him and the threshold. Her presence pulled the air taut. She was youth still tempered with steel: black braid over her shoulder, desert-dyed leathers clinging to her frame, the scent of sun-baked sand carried in with her. One hand fell, steady as ritual, to the hilt of her sword.

Marcus stilled, shadow-sharp, watching.

Rhyslin met her gaze, noting the spark of resolve. A small smile touched her lips. “Why are you here, aon socair?”

The title washed over him, settling like cool water through his chest. Calm one. Very well, if calm was what she demanded, calm she would be given.

“I am here to see Mathair Astinmah,” he answered, grounding his tone until it matched the steady weight of stone.

“She is here,” the girl admitted, blue eyes glittering, “but you may not enter unless you pass me.”

Marcus only shrugged, wolf-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Let’s see where this goes.

Rhyslin felt draoidheachd coil around him like hounds straining on a leash. The shadows reached for his fingers; the trees beyond the street rustled though no wind stirred.

He centered himself with a breath, tracing a grounding rune into the staff until the world stilled. “Before we begin,” he said, voice steady as a river stone, “may I have your name?”

She dipped her head with a dancer’s grace. “Vuuroena Seilmatt, daughter of Bereth Ilyriatri of Clann an Fhàsaich.”

“Very well, Vuuroena Seilmatt, Guardian of this hall. First touch, or first blood?” His stance mirrored hers, staff angled like a blade, body braced in patience.

“To first touch. The Forest Mother would be angry if I broke you further.” A half-curtsy flashed like a knife’s smile.

“So be it.”

He sketched a rune, and the ground answered. Shadows curled upward, fingers grasping for her ankle. She leapt, blade flashing, severing the darkness. The cut bled light into the snow.

“Dall!” she cried, brilliance bursting around her. He blinked, barely sparing himself, staff already rising as her point drove toward his chest.

He caught her blade under his arm, fingers closing warm and inexorable around her hand.

Her breath caught. She looked for a victor’s grin, but found only the deep, icy calm of his hazel eyes. Prana coiled through her, her ears burning scarlet. Lasadh. Her sword blazed with heat, pressing against his ribs until he hissed and freed her.

“Reothadh.” His voice dropped to winter’s pitch. Frost spidered across her fingers and hilt. She yanked free with a cry, flexing stiffened hands, fury flushing her cheeks.

“What you are doing is not fair,” she growled, circling back with a predator’s grace.

“Life is seldom fair.” His staff remained upright though his hands fell away, standing sentinel in defiance of gravity. Draoidheachd shivered in the air like the promise of thunder. “Pain will find us whether we choose it or not. We walk into it because we must. And when we cry out, our Mother will hear.” His eyes pierced hers. “Astinmah will save you.”

Her throat tightened. For an instant she swore he had glimpsed her dreams. Tears burned unbidden.

When her sight cleared, he was there—so close his prana wrapped her in glacial calm. His hand rested lightly atop her head, fingers threading her hair.

“What do you know of Despoina’s prophecies?” she whispered, her blade lowering. Her head bowed until it touched his chest, heartbeat steady beneath her cheek.

“Only what she shares,” he admitted, voice a warm hush. His palm settled between her shoulder blades.

She trembled when his lips brushed the curve of her ear. “I’m scared.”

“I know.” His prana enfolded her, an embrace of winter stillness. She breathed it in, drinking calm until she steadied. Her hand rose, resting over his heart. His soul answered, vow written in its pulse.

“If I ask, will you save me?”

“If I can, I will.” His words rang like iron, carrying truth into the marrow of the air.

At last, she stepped back. The blade slid into its sheath with a whisper. “Come with me. I’ll lead you to the council chamber.”

Marcus rejoined them, his eyes bright with things unspoken. He lifted the ebonwood staff and passed it back to Rhyslin. The draoidh’s hand closed around it, weight and world settling into place.

The story continues in The Draoidh’s Cearcall.
If these opening chapters drew you in, the full journey is waiting for you here.

The Draoidh's Cearcall

300 Years Post Founding

The clouds shifted, and the moon broke free, spilling argent light across a fortified village crouched upon an island

where three rivers braided together. The waters whispered against the banks, their currents weaving a song of watchfulness. Above, a galleon hung against the night, her sails pulled tight against the spars until she lay adrift in the frozen air. The ship’s timbers creaked softly, as though even wood and iron were holding breath.

Within the captain’s cabin, lamplight trembled across polished maps and the sheen of a crystal orb.

Two men leaned over it, their reflections wavering in the glass.

“How long do we have?” asked the first. He stood a shade under six feet, hair dark but salted with gray at the temples. His eyes, brown as tilled earth, swept the forest canopy and riverbanks as though the land itself might yield its secrets. His cloak shifted hue with every pass of cloud across the moon: shadow, moss, stone, flame. Such cloaks were rare; only the First Dreamer wove them for chosen rangers. The fabric seemed alive, mirroring the sky’s restlessness.

His companion, thinner, with shoulder-length white hair, raised his gaze from the crystal. “Three days.” His voice carried like a whisper across grave soil.

Black leather clothed him, long as a duster, and the mage-staff in his left hand throbbed faintly with power, its runes reflecting the orb’s glow. The scent of resin clung to him, as if the staff bled sap.

The ranger’s mouth twisted. “It doesn’t look like much. Why is this place so important?”

“You know Rowena,” the Draoidh replied softly, almost reverently. “She would not say much.” At her name, the lamplight guttered once, and the crystal’s glow deepened, as if her goddess, unseen, had leaned closer to listen.

The ranger grunted, the sound of stone against stone. “Sometimes I think she uses that goddess of hers as an excuse. Where do you want us?”

The Draoidh extended a hand across the orb. The rivers shimmered in miniature, silver threads winding through a dark landscape. He touched one glowing patch. “That clearing. If we move quickly, we’ll have time to prepare before they arrive.”

The ranger’s brow arched, the cloak at his shoulders rippling as though stirred by more than wind. He gave his friend a measuring look, then nodded. “Alright. Let’s get going.”

Beyond the cabin walls, the still night air thickened, as though the forest itself had overheard—and was waiting

.

Chapter One

The Staff and the Storm

The watchfires along the wooden palisades guttered as the villagers lifted their eyes to the heavens. From the parting clouds a shape descended, vast sails furled, hull gleaming in the moonlight, a ship that had no business in the sky. It broke through the mist like a vision from old tales and came to rest above the place where the three rivers met.

The waters below surged restlessly, braiding together in froth and current, as though the earth itself resisted being bridled.

Archers along the wall raised longbows in unison, their fingers trembling only slightly as they nocked arrows, fletching to string.

The air grew taut with the creak of wood, the thrum of tightened bowstrings, and the sharp tang of resin and river-cold iron.

From the ship’s belly a line uncoiled and fell, hissing through the air until it struck the river with a slap and vanished into the depths. The villagers murmured. They saw shadows hauling it upward, hand over hand, as though the waters themselves yielded a tether to the sky.

Slowly, ponderously, the galleon turned until her prow faced the coursing waters, aligning herself with the current as if acknowledging the will of the rivers.

Timbers groaned in protest, anchors plunged with a heavy splash, and chains rattled until the ship settled into the embrace of the confluence. The smell of wet rope and tar drifted across the banks. With a resonant crack, the gangplank extended, reaching shoreward like a wooden tongue.

The Hîn-i-Balanath archers drew back to full draw, arrows brushing their cheeks, eyes hard. No command was needed; the village had seen invaders before.

A dozen figures crossed the plank, dark shapes descending into the tree line. The forest swallowed them without a sound, branches knitting shut as if to conceal what paths they took.

For an hour, the magnificent galleon lay still. Not a voice carried, not a footstep stirred.

Even the villagers ceased whispering, for it seemed the ship itself held its breath, and the rivers, the night, and every watchful heart held theirs with it.

“Do we know who they are?”

The question came soft but sharp from the silver-haired woman hidden in the shadows of the wall’s highest perch. Moonlight slid across her pointed ears as they twitched toward the strange ship below, drinking in every creak of timber and hiss of anchor chain. Her eyes never left the vessel, as if willing it to give up its secrets.

“No, Bereth nín,” her companion answered, voice low, report trembling in his gloved hand. He was lean, his body honed for the hunt, yet even he found his throat dry in the ship’s presence. “No one has approached since the first group vanished into the forest.”

Movement stirred below. Eighty men filed out in flawless black-clad formation, their boots striking the gangplank with the rhythm of war drums. The villagers on the wall stiffened. Some of the soldiers melted into the tree line, shadows within shadows.

Others bent to the snow, shoveling and hollowing until white plumes rose like breath from the earth itself. The scrape of spades on frozen ground carried up through the night air, sharp as blades drawn from sheaths.

“What are they doing now?” the Bereth asked, though fascination already gleamed in her eyes.

Her companion swallowed. “Blinds, it seems. See how they cover the openings with tarps? They hollow the snowbanks, dump the waste into the river, and turn the white skin of the world into hiding places.”

Indeed, the strangers worked with grim silence, their breath steaming, their motions mechanical. Snow fell in sheets into the rushing river, hissing as the current dragged it away.

The blinds faced the village like patient, waiting mouths. When the work was done, the soldiers slipped into them and were gone, as if the night itself had swallowed them whole.

The Bereth lingered in thought before descending the stairs, her hand brushing the frozen wood. The torches guttered as she passed. “Keep lookouts posted. Report to me if any soul nears the gates,” she commanded.

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

~◌~◌~◌~

By morning the blinds were empty. The clearing lay pristine, the riverbank undisturbed, save for faint impressions where anchors had kissed the earth. No ship, no soldiers, no trace but the lingering scent of tar on the wind. Even the birds seemed uneasy, flitting restlessly from branch to branch.

Concerned, Allanagh turned inward to the gods. She knelt before the altar in her hall, the air thick with pine resin and the smoke of smoldering sage, and whispered prayers to two powers: the Forest Mother, who ruled her people’s land, and the Veiled One, goddess of mysteries. Her auguries came muddled — branches casting runes that shifted in the firelight, water bowls that rippled with no wind, whispers threading through her ears only to contradict one another.

“The Forest Mother does not fear the strange ship,” her priestess reported.

“The Veiled One bids us stay within the walls,” said another.

Allanagh’s silver hair gleamed as she rose, lips twisting in frustration. “I despise it when na Diathan hide behind riddles,” she spat. The fire flared with her anger, sparks leaping like startled birds.

~◌~◌~◌~

For two days trepidation pressed upon the village like a storm refusing to break. Allanagh’s temper frayed, her words striking like blades even against her closest companions. On the walls, soldiers held their bows half-drawn, the oil-scented strings creaking in the frost, their breaths rising in pale ghosts. The river’s roar deepened, the trees groaned as if burdened with secrets, and even the stones beneath the palisade seemed to hum with waiting.

On the third day, the forest exhaled—and hell came with the river’s surge.

The forest grew deathly still, as though breath itself had been stolen from the trees. From the walls, the sharp-eyed Hîn i-Balanath leaned forward, their cloaks stiff with frost, eyes narrowing into the shadowed timber.

Then came the breaking: chilling howls rolled through the trunks, followed by explosions of raw power, and the ragged screams of dying throats.

The chief among the scouts did not hesitate. His cry rang across the ramparts, summoning Bereth Allanagh Rionnag Shoilleir, speaker for Gwaith i-Taur[1], to the walls.

She arrived in time to see the tree line tear open. Grotesque, thick-muscled creatures stumbled into the clearing, harried by unseen foes.

Allanagh’s eyes widened, her breath catching white in the air. “What is an Orcan war-band doing here?” Her voice trembled as she turned to Sloan.

“Unknown, your majesty,” he said, lifting his gaze from the damp parchment of a report. “The scouts swore all was clear out to six leagues.”

“Apparently not!” The words tore from her throat, sharp with fear, as more Orcan broke into the open. When their number swelled past eight score, her hand gripped the parapet until her knuckles whitened. “Is this what they were hunting?”

Sloan’s jaw tightened. “If so, how did they foresee it?” His eyes tracked the ragged banners rising above the horde. He wondered if the strangers had enough men to hold.

Despite their retreat, the Orcan gathered into grim formation, ranks and files stamping the snow. Their battle-cry thundered against the palisade:

“Blut und Sklaven für den Welterschütterer![2]” The sound shook loose frost from the timbers, echoing across the valley.

Allanagh’s thoughts turned bitter. Had the strangers already abandoned them, slipping into the night with their ship? She swallowed hard. “Do they remain?”

“I believe so,” Sloan murmured, though his voice carried little certainty.

Allanagh forced her gaze back to the clearing. The Orcan pressed forward, their tread pounding the earth like war drums.

Then—at some invisible threshold—the snowbanks erupted. Black-clad strangers burst forth in a storm of steel and fury, their answering cry tearing heavenward:

“Airson saorsa agus na Diathan![3]”

Caught unprepared, the Orcan froze in disbelief as the snowbanks erupted, and the strangers closed like a tightening noose.

The ambush was clean, disciplined, without a wasted step. Snarling, the Orcan turned, axes raised, their guttural growls shaking frost from the branches.

What followed was not a skirmish but a storm. For six hours the clearing rang with steel and roared with hatred. Snow turned to red-streaked slush beneath stamping boots; the river’s voice swelled as if to drown the screams.

Smoke and breath mingled in the frigid air until the forest itself seemed to choke on the struggle.

Neither side yielded—mercenaries in their black, moving with grim precision, Orcan pressing forward with raw, bestial fury—each consumed by a loathing older than the trees.

The draoidh lifted his gaze from the twitching corpse at his boots as a wolf’s call split the silence, long and mournful, rolling through the black timber.

Hazel eyes swept the treeline, searching for any remnant of the foul Orcan that had dared march upon the Hîn i-Balanath. The stench of iron and smoke hung in the air, mingling with the raw bite of frost.

The ambush had unfolded cleanly, as planned, the war-band caught and broken by the tightening jaws of a pincer. With a low snarl of disgust, he loped toward the answering wolves, staff in hand. An Orcan lurched from behind a leaning pine, axe raised. The draoidh leveled his staff.

“Lúxar-Pyrith! Kaelor! Rûnath! Throgar![4]”

Lightning forked from the black pearl atop his staff and cracked into the beast, hurling it headlong into a trunk with bone-snapping force. The draoidh stretched his senses outward, touching bark and root. The tree shuddered, its limbs curling as though with wrath, and four branches wrapped the

senseless Orcan, rending it apart until nothing remained but dripping tatters.

He exhaled, adjusted the brim of his weathered hat, and quickened his pace as the guttural cadence of Infernal war-cries drifted across the snow. The clearing opened before him, scarred by fire and trampled earth. A crude campaign tent sagged in the middle, but it was not canvas that held his eye , it was the beast pinned between two towering Infernals.

Nine feet tall they stood, their horned silhouettes backlit by firelight. Between them, writhed something no Orcan could match: a massive figure, tusks gleaming, fur matted with sweat, muscles ridged like stone. The ground seemed to recoil under its weight.

On the far side, the ranger emerged with his wolf-pack, breath misting from man and beast alike. The draoidh raised a hand in summons.

“Report.” His voice carried the weight of command.

“Two Orcan squads destroyed,” the ranger replied, his tone clipped. “Nat hunts the leader of the third.” His eyes fell on the tusked creature straining against its captors. “By the gods, that’s an ugly Ogren. Do you take it for their leader?”

The draoidh’s shoulders rolled in a slow shrug. “That,” he said, eyes narrowing, “is what I intend to learn.”

~◌~◌~◌~

The Orcan ran blind through the trees, lungs burning, heart hammering like a war-drum. He had faced kings and warlords, fought through campaigns that left rivers swollen with blood — yet nothing in all his years had carved terror into him like this.

He had seen his squad die, one by one, their flesh shriveling, their screams clipped short as the very shadows drank them dry. What hunted him was no mortal foe.

No matter how he darted through the undergrowth, she was there.

She of the flame-red hair and the green eyes that glowed like emerald fire. She whom the shadows obeyed. The ranger’s companion — the one they whispered of already. Nat.

She slipped from darkness to darkness, each stride too fluid, too inevitable. It was not pursuit; it was a dance. Shadows curled with her movements, whispering of enemies long dead, of old wolves that never lost a trail. Fear tightened around the Orcan’s mind until even his own breath betrayed him, ragged and loud.

He stumbled, root catching his boot. The forest itself seemed to conspire against him, pitching him to one knee. The moment he fell, she was upon him.

Tendrils of shade stretched long and thin, snaring his limbs, dragging him into the night that clung to her like a mantle.

Her voice was soft, cruelly tender. “It is time to die, young one.”

His eyes flared wide, a hardened soldier reduced to prey. The shadow-blade slid clean between his ribs, black edge puncturing his beating heart. For an instant her eyes flared green, brighter than firelight. Then the Orcan collapsed inward, his life drained, skin shrinking against bone until only a husk remained at her feet.

Nat inhaled once, savoring the taste of fear that lingered in the air. The shadows coiled closer around her shoulders, as if purring their approval.

It took her but a few heartbeats to find them. She let the shadows gather thick at her heels, folding one clearing into the next until she stepped into the open ground where her companions waited.

The night seemed to recoil at her passing; behind her, the dark closed like a door.

Her red hair streamed loose, catching the pale light like tongues of fire, an ember burning against the cold. The draoidh inclined his head in a half-bow, staff angled lightly across his chest.

“I take it your prey was not spared.” His tone carried wry respect.

Her green eyes gleamed as she answered, voice low and edged. “That squad will trouble no soul again. The shadows feasted well.” She turned then, gaze falling upon the hulking captive.

The Ogren strained between the Infernals’ grips, tusks gleaming wetly in the firelight. “And what beast have you snared in your forest weave?”

A chuckle rumbled from the draoidh’s chest, warm against the cold night. “The leader of this band, if fortune has teeth.”

~◌~◌~◌~

From the walls the Hîn i-Balanath had watched the battle unfold, six hours of fury grinding beneath the winter sky. They had whispered of tactics, compared maneuvers, and loosed shafts at any Orcan that slipped the noose, ensuring none came within two hundred yards of their gates. When at last the last cry faded and the field lay still, silence pressed heavy upon the village. The stench of blood mingled with snow, and smoke drifted in slow, accusing spirals.

“All healers, to the field,” Bereth Allanagh commanded, her voice carrying. Below, a small contingent passed through the gates to tend the strangers.

Out beyond, the black-clad mercenaries moved among the slain Orcan, stripping banners and spoils with cold efficiency.

“Bereth nín.” Sloan’s low voice pulled her aside. He extended the spyglass.

“What is it?” She brought the glass to her eye, following his gesture.

Through the shifting haze she saw it. not Orcan, not man, suspended as if in mid-air, arms stretched as though bound by unseen cords. Her breath caught.

“What is it?” she murmured, adjusting the glass for clarity. She missed Sloan’s shrug, but when she lowered the glass her silver brows were knit tight.

Without another word she handed back the spyglass and gestured. Three soldiers fell in behind as she descended the wall.

Sloan matched her stride, unease written across his face.

“Allanagh—Bereth nín—are you certain?”

Her silver hair caught the torchlight as she shook her head. “No. But we would be rude not to thank our benefactors.”

Her tone was iron. Sloan glanced at the others; he knew they shared his doubt, but her word was law, and they walked on.

At the gate they paused as the healer-party returned, bloodied but unbowed. Among them strode a golden-haired woman, eyes the same piercing blue as Allanagh’s. She raised her hand, then broke rank to embrace her mother.

“Mathair—are you going out there?”

“I am.” Allanagh’s nod was simple, unyielding.

“Then I will come,” her daughter said quickly, eagerness bright in her eyes. She fell into step beside Allanagh, voice lowering. “I have heard it whispered—their leader is a draoidh. I would see him with my own eyes.”

Allanagh slowed, frowning. “That does not sound right. I have never known a draoidh to leave his woods, let alone lead a host.” She studied her daughter’s face, the certainty there. “Are you sure of this?”

Flur’s golden head dipped, her voice firm. “Yes, Mathair. I am certain.”

Allanagh said nothing for a moment, her gaze lifting to the waiting field. “We will see.”

With that, she pressed on, step by step toward the suspended creature in the clearing. They crossed the battlefield in silence. Allanagh paused mid-stride as two hulking shapes of stone and loam lumbered past, faceless and inexorable.

With slow inevitability, the earth elementals drew the Orcan dead beneath the soil. The ground closed over them with a muted sigh, as if the land itself sought to forget.

A little further on, the Bereth watched in quiet astonishment as a pair of young girls, flaxen-haired, no older than ten, guided a tree-ent. Its roots churned the ground, overturning blood and ash until the battlefield looked like winter field again.

For long moments Allanagh could not name the disquiet prickling her skin. Then she realized — the girls were twins. For an instant she wondered if she had stumbled on dryads in disguise.

Her nerves tightened the closer they drew to the strange clearing. A guttural tongue, harsh and dissonant, carried through the smoke. She stilled her guards with a raised hand.

Ahead, two armored giants hefted sacks of plunder as if they were feathers.

When one unlatched his helm, Allanagh felt her blood run cold. Black eyes glared out from a face too perfect, too cruel. An Infernal.

She shrank back unconsciously toward Sloan, pulse drumming so hard she thought the soldier might hear it.

The Infernal’s gaze swept her way, and for a heartbeat she feared it could.

Beside her, Flur stared with unguarded wonder. “Mathair… I have never heard of Muinntir an Dorchadais [5]serving a draoidh.”

Allanagh’s throat tightened. The words of caution rose to her lips, and she nearly ordered her daughter back with an escort. But memory stilled her:

Flur had already walked among these strangers, binding wounds and offering Saorsa’s grace.

“Please, Mathair,” her daughter whispered, almost a prayer. “Let me not be wrong.”

The tips of Allanagh’s ears twitched at a soft chuff. She spun, fight-or-flight seizing her body, only to find a massive gray wolf standing behind them. Taller at the shoulder than any mount she had ever seen, its muzzle lifted, breath steaming in the night air.

“By the Mother…” Flur breathed, awe filling her voice. “Never have I seen a wolf so great.”

Allanagh blinked. The beast’s jowls curled in what looked almost like a grin before it turned and padded forward, glancing back once as though beckoning. With dread pooling in her gut, Allanagh followed.

The hum reached her first, a low, bone-deep thrum that rose from the earth itself, vibrating through her soles.

The clearing yawned before them, and unease flooded her chest. It felt less like entering ground than trespassing upon a shrine.

Two more Infernals loomed in plate to her left. Wolves ringed the opposite side, their eyes glinting in the firelight.

Between them stood a man, cloak rippling like water across stone, his stance as fluid and wary as the great wolf they had tracked. For a heartbeat she thought man and beast shared the same eyes.

A woman leaned close to him, whispering at his ear. Allanagh’s breath caught. She had never seen such beauty.

Tall and lithe, her curves carried like a weapon, her braids of fire-red hair tumbling nearly to her waist.

No armor shielded her, only a loose blouse and leather skirt — and yet it was her presence, not steel, that disarmed.

Green eyes lifted and found Allanagh’s. They sparkled, alive with knowing. She whispered something to the man beside her, and the spell rippled outward.

Sloan gasped audibly, shaking his head as if to clear it. The soldiers with them fixed their gazes on the red-haired woman, rapt as moths to flame.

Allanagh swallowed hard. The truth struck her like a blow. Sealgair Aisling — Dream-Huntress. Her unearthly beauty was no mortal gift. And for the first time since the battle ended,

Allanagh feared she had doomed her people by consorting with these strangers.

“Be at peace, daughter of the forest.” She heard behind her. “Nobody here will harm you or your people.”

Another voice agreed. “You’re where you belong.”

When she felt two different hands rest on her shoulders and the peace of the gods flowed through her, stilling her racing heart, she slowly turned to find two women watching her.

The one on her right was wearing a green tunic with intricate brown and red spirals that adorned the loose collar and continued down the long sleeves. One large silver and gold spiral curled around her stomach and under her breasts.

She wore a knee-length teal skirt loosely wrapped around her hips, and her brown moccasins were of the finest elk hide, or so Allanagh gathered. Her light brown hair framed her face in soft ringlets.

The one on her left was wearing a red silk tunic that fell to rest just above her knees. Her auburn hair flowed over her shoulders and pooled down the center of her back while curling around to caress the underside of her generous bosom. A silver choker adorned her throat, silver bracelets her wrists, and silver anklets drew attention to her bare feet.

Allanagh took a calming breath. “Lady Lilly, Sister Analise.” A cold chill inched its way down her spine. “Why are you here?”

The brown-haired woman smiled. “The stars spoke of this moment. We chose to come and observe.”

Allanagh almost fell to her knees as something flickered in the corner of her eye, and she glanced over to see two men standing directly opposite the horned hulks.

A six-and-a-half-foot giant, red-haired and green-eyed, watched the contest. The chain mail he wore over his gambeson caught the light as he listened to his companion.

His companion was shorter by a head and not nearly as muscular. His black hair barely crept out from under the wide-brimmed hat he wore.

Unlike his armored friend, he wore a white long-sleeved shirt, brown pants, and brown boots under a leather duster. He fixed his single, golden-tinged eye on the scene before him.

“Are they?”

“Aodh and Rennar, yes.” Allanagh could feel the taghta’s contentment.

Allanagh took a deep breath. “How close did we come to disaster?”

Lilly made a calming sound, drawing attention to her shirt’s intricate spirals. “The moment approaches.”

Up close, tree limbs and vines held the giant beast in place. It was at least nine feet tall, heavily muscled, and heavily furred, with huge tusks draping over a jaw that looked like it could grind bones to dust.

“What in the world is that thing?” She whimpered. She would gladly take her daughter if she could disappear into thin air.

“It’s called an Ogren.” Lilly shivered in disgust.

A calm voice rose above the hum, distracting her from the monster.

“What brings you into our lands?” The man asked the Ogren. A flat-brimmed black hat rested atop the head of white hair that fell about his shoulders. From the neck down, he wore a black leather duster that almost hid the tops of his black leather boots.

“Am following my nature.” The Ogren tried to fight against the vines holding him in place. “The strong prey on the weak. Planned to destroy this place and make the Hîn i-Balanath Bereth and her people slaves.”

Allanagh looked at the man. He towered over her by a head. His well-kept beard and mustache were as white as his hair. His face was careworn and ageless. She wondered how that could be so.

His eyes hazel flecked with gold, caught her attention.

He looked at the Ogren. “So much for well laid plans.”

The Ogren strained against the vines that entrapped it. “You were acting on your nature, the strong protecting the weak. There is no dishonor in failing.”

Those hazel eyes pierced into the Ogren. “Who sent you?”

“Not telling.” The Ogren growled as it strained to pull its arms down.

The man watched the Ogren’s muscles knot. His right eyebrow arched slightly.

Without looking away from the beast, his left hand moved from the middle of the black wooden mage-staff to a spot eight inches higher, where he traced his fingers across a silver rune carved into the wood.

“You can’t, or you won’t?” He inquired as he reached into the right pocket of the duster and withdrew a gray seed, which he flicked onto the ground beneath the Ogren.

Magic flowed from staff to earth, transforming the numbing hum into a single pure note; A vine then spiraled, coiling around Ogren like a snake, stopping beneath his nose.

As Allanagh watched, it formed a violet flower and released a spray of pollen.

The Ogren instinctively drew in a deep breath, his face growing slack as the pollen made him more susceptible to interrogation. The beast growled under its breath, hesitated, then opened its eyes. “Cannot.” As the two spells deepened their hold on him, the Ogren relaxed into the grip of the vines and branches.

“He will throw me from the great wheel if I tell.”

A look of revulsion crossed his face; he recoiled. “That’s not possible.” The draoidh wanted to spit the foul taste out of his mouth. “Only Mathair Astinmah can deny people rebirth. I can name on one hand those she’s refused.”

“I just tried to versklaven [6]a village of her chosen children.”

The man shook his head. “You were following your nature. Astinmah won’t deny you rebirth because of it.”

The beast tried to reach up, and when he couldn’t, he growled in annoyance. “Your word on it, Maighstir Draoidh?”

As the beast attempted to make its bargain, one of the Hîn i-Balanath dryads at the edge of the clearing changed.

She grew almost two feet taller, and her lightly tanned skin deepened to a deep chocolate brown. Her teenage-looking body slowly matured into a lush, ripe woman with medium-sized breasts, wide hips, and long black hair with streaks of gray.

Her once-brown eyes changed to a startling vivid green.

Her twin watched the transformation, eyes wide in awe. When the change was complete, she fell to her knees before the older dryad, who winked at her, before raising her right hand, making a swirling motion with her wrist. Off to the east, storm clouds gathered, grew heavy with rain, and started drifting towards the fort-city.

One by one, everyone around the clearing noted the transformed woman, starting with the taghta nan diathan[7], those whom the gods had chosen as servants. Each sampled her prana and guessed her divinity.

The four sank to one knee before the forest goddess’s avatar. The goddess’s approach to the clearing’s center held everyone’s attention, save for the man and Ogren. She stopped at a respectable distance from the two and patiently waited for the staff bearer to decide.

Despite her role, she respected her servants’ decisions.

The man briefly observed the Ogren, then nodded. “You have my word, Mathair Astinmah shall not deny either you or the Orcan rebirth.”

The beast sighed in relief. “May I ask one more thing before I give the name?” Following a nod, the Ogren inquired, “May this one know who defeated him?”

Hazel eyes met Black. “I am Rhyslin Darkblade.”

The goddess glanced skyward, willing the clouds to stream overhead, blotting out the sun.

Taking a deep breath, Ogren stated, “I’ve heard of you, but never expected to fight you. The one you seek is Saldren Halber Drache.” The beast offered with its last breath.

The goddess nodded and snapped her fingers, willing the storm to hit with all the ferocity of a wild beast.

Rhyslin exhaled and turned to the brown-haired man and his woman. “Marc, would you and Nat please bury him with honor?”

The ranger nodded. Rhyslin let go of the spell he’d sustained and managed only two steps before he collapsed.

He would have fallen if the goddess hadn’t caught him on a cushion of air.

The staff hung there for a glorious moment before it fell earthward, the goddess catching his staff before it hit the ground.

Once in her hand, the staff hummed like a child singing to its mother. The goddess responded in song, then addressed the others.

“Take him to Allanagh’s cottage and make him comfortable.” The goddess commanded, handing the unconscious man off to the younger dryad.

Hearing that, Flur’s ears pricked; She immediately went to the dryad. “I’ll show you where to go.”

“Just a moment, child.” the goddess brushed her fingertips across Rhyslin’s forehead, easing the pain on his unconscious face.

“Thank you, my child.” She caressed Flur’s right cheek, drawing a timid smile from the woman.

Flur and the Dryad removed the Draoidh from the battlefield.

Dismissing them, the goddess instructed Renner and Aodh, “Go tell Quetzalcoatl and Huitzilopochtli what happened here.”

The two taghta nodded, vanishing into the shadows as they followed her command.

The goddess faced the ranger and Sealgair Aisling. “Seann Mdadadh-Allaidh, Neach Slanachaidh Bruadar.” She formally addressed Marcus and Natolie by their titles.

“Gather your troops and move them inside the walls. The Clann an-Coille will host them in the barracks.”

The ranger bowed his head. “As you wish, Mathair.” He gestured to one of the hulking Infernals, who lifted a brass trumpet and blew three sharp notes.

All around them, the black-garbed mercenaries gathered their kits and headed toward the sound of the horn. When the soldiers stood in a loose formation behind the ranger, the goddess gestured to Sloan and Allanagh’s guard. “They’ll ensure your comfort.”

When neither Sloan nor the queen’s guard made a move, the goddess looked them over.

Seeing Sloan’s look of concern, Astinmah nodded in understanding.

“Zered Sloan, I need to speak to my daughter alone. Will you entrust me with keeping her safe?”

“Where her life is concerned, I trust very few, be they gods or men.” The soldier eyed the goddess as he took a half-step toward Allanagh, stopping only when she whispered.

“I’ll be okay, Sloan. Just do it.”

The soldier faced the goddess, choosing to obey Allanagh. “Yes, Bereth nin.”

Turning to the ranger, he examined him from head to foot. With his eyes fixed on the knotted red cord at the man’s right shoulder, he offered a salute, placing his fist over his heart and extending it. “First Spear?”

“Ranger Commander, actually.” Marcus offered his hand. “You can call me Marcus.”

Sloan blinked at the implied informality. “Marcus — Ranger Commander. If your men will follow us, we’ll find space in the barracks for you.”

“Lead on, my friend.” The ranger commented as he followed Sloan. Natoli followed him, stopping as the goddess lifted a hand.

“Natoli, would you stay a moment?” As the Sealgair Aisling lifted a brow, the goddess continued her explanation. “The five of us have something important to discuss.” She gestured to the two remaining taghta. First, she looked at Allanagh. The Hîn i-Balanath queen was still on her knees at the goddesses’ feet, her head bowed, and her face hidden beneath her long silver hair.

“Rise, my daughter.”

Allanagh looked up from the ground, her right hand moving up to tuck her silver hair behind her.

“Is what the Ogren said true? Did the Ogren tell the truth about enslaving us?”

Allanagh felt the goddess’s hand on her head. “Yes, I believe the war-band was sent to attack this village and enslave your people.” Watching for Allanagh’s reaction, the goddess posed a question. “Would your soldiers have succeeded in protecting the town and keeping you safe?”

“No.” Allanagh admitted with a shake of her head. “The scouts did not show any Orcan within four leagues. We wouldn’t have known about them until they were at the wall.” She paused and looked at the goddess. “Were you aware of their plans to attack?”

The goddess shook her head. “Their intentions didn’t disturb the balance. Their attack and your defense wouldn’t have created an imbalance any more than their killing some of you while taking some of you as slaves.”

She gazed down at the queen and read the thoughts roiling in her mind. “And no, I didn’t send the mercenaries to help you. They came on their own.”

“Why would they do that?” Allanagh inquired as she slowly rose to her feet.

“You should ask them.” The goddess replied, as she handed the six-foot-long ebon wood staff over to the queen.Allanagh scrutinized the staff for a moment. Ten silver runes ran the length of the staff, and the black pearl at the head was perfectly formed, without a noticeable defect. Was the staff humming to her?

“I would, except that their leader has been hustled off to my cottage by my daughter and is probably tucked safely in her bed.” Allanagh looked toward the town, wondering what Flur was doing.

“Don’t worry overly much,” the goddess stated. “Will Mayana and Ilyriatri come here if you ask them?”

Allanagh shrugged, “Probably.” Gazing into the goddesses’ eyes, she felt a bit of peace return to her soul. “Telling them you, Lilly, and Ana are here would encourage them to travel more.”

The goddess blinked once and looked toward the village. “Then do so.” A tender smile crossed her lips. “Should you need any help opening portals, I’ll apportion some power for you.”

Allanagh noticed Astinmah’s cryptic smile and followed the goddess’s gaze toward the village. “Oh, my sweet Flur. What are you doing?” She prayed that her daughter was behaving herself.

[1] People of the Forest

[2] Blood and slaves for the World-Shaker!

[3] For freedom and the Gods!

[4] Light burn, flash, crash, smash!

[5] People of the Darkness

[6] enslave

[7] the chosen of the gods

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Coming Next Week, Chapter Two.