The god of death was so quick, she didn’t even see him move.
He was a wraith. A flash of darkness. A forgotten shadow. A puff of air.
He was in her face. She blocked and he feinted, swiftly kicking her in the stomach. She reeled backward, stunned by the blow. Maeve gasped, losing her balance, and he knocked her sword from her grasp.
It clattered against the hard ground, too far for her to reach, the sound of defeat echoing in her ears. When she looked back at Aed, he held the tip of his blade to her throat. The ache of humiliation made it difficult to swallow.
He stepped away and his sword vanished, dissolving like it had ceased to exist. “Perhaps you have more to learn, Dawnbringer.”
“Piss off.” Maeve heaved a ragged breath. Her voice held far less conviction than she intended.
Aed merely smiled, not at all threatened by her. “I’m sure the Nightweaver would be more than willing to teach you.”
Maeve blanched.
The Nightweaver.
She recalled what little she knew about the legendary demigod. He was the other half of the Dawnbringer and together, with the help of the god of death and the goddess of life, they forged the first fae realm. Other than that, she knew hardly anything about the one who could very well hold the key to unlocking parts of her predetermined fate.
“The Nightweaver is here?” Maeve took a cautious step toward the god.
He nodded once. “He is.”
“Will you introduce me to him?” She could have an equal here. Someone who possibly knew more about the myths and folklore of the ancestral beings. Perhaps someone who could even help her return to Faeven.
“Of course.” There was a shift in Aed’s gaze, a flicker of mirth.
“When?” she prompted.
“Right now.” He gestured to the shadows beyond her that swirled and moved of their own accord.
Maeve stared. Waiting.
And then Rowan emerged.
“Maeve Ruhdneah, the Dawnbringer.” Aed inclined his head. “May I introduce you to Rowan Celenae, the Nightweaver.”
No.
Impossible.
Disbelief filled her, clogged her senses, and clouded her mind. It was like a haze had settled upon her, cloaking her ability to discern reality from imagination. Her nose tingled, her heart ached. A terrible, wrenching sensation. Her eyes burned, and she was grateful the rain had decided to fall once more. It would do well to hide her tears.
Unable to meet either of their gazes, Maeve did the only rational thing she could think of—she ran.
ChapterTwo
If Tiernan didn’t know any better, he would’ve sworn he was being tortured.
He had no idea having magic ripped from him could be so painful. The side effects had lasted longer than he expected. His entire body ached—every bone, every muscle, every fiber of his being had been flayed open and exposed. The agony of it refused to subside. If he wasn’t asleep, dreaming about death, then he was awake and damn near wishing for it.
Fever dreams haunted his sleep, leaving him more exhausted than ever. He dreamt of the horrors of war, of Maeve’s mutilated body, torn apart by ravenous dark fae. The sight of it was too real. It destroyed him, bringing him to his knees until his screams of rage echoed to the furthest reaches of the Four Courts. He would wake up in the middle of the night, his throat raw.
On multiple occasions, he’d discovered Ceridwen sitting in the chair by his bedside, murmuring whispers so hushed he couldn’t understand them. Her magic would cover him, blanketing him into a cocoon of lulling tranquility. Other nights, he would awaken to Lir or Merrick, both of whom were usually accompanied by Brynn. In the shadows of the late hour, he could see the worry reflected in their faces. Then the nightmares would return, and in them, he saw the death of everyone he loved.
He attempted to sit up in bed when a wave of nausea slammed into him. His stomach rolled, his vision blurred, and he collapsed back onto his pillows until the sickening lightheadedness passed.
A groan escaped him.
