His commander lifted his head, and a torrent of rage consumed Tiernan.
Where Lir’s left eye should have been, there was nothing but a gaping wound of torn, bloody flesh. It had been gouged out completely.
“Brynn!” Tiernan whipped around, searching for his healer. “Brynn!”
He saw a tumble of burgundy curls as she shoved her way through the courtyard, her eyes shifting from gold to green to black. She darted over to them, then drew up short, the back of her hand flying to her mouth.
“Shit.” She dropped down beside Lir, snapped her fingers, and a leather-stitched satchel appeared on the ground next to her. “Don’t worry, Lir. I’ll get you patched up in no time.”
“Is that some kind of pun?” Lir grumbled.
Brynn laughed, but it was weak. “Fucking fae.”
She rummaged through the satchel at her feet, pulling out glass bottles filled with questionable ointments and an assortment of jars containing some of her best homemade salves. She twisted off the lid to one of the bottles and held the amber liquid out to him. “Drink up. Let’s give you something to help ease the pain.”
Lir scowled as he inspected the bottle. “What is this?”
The corner of Brynn’s mouth lifted. “Whiskey.”
He downed it in one gulp.
“Good work, commander.” Brynn opened one of the jars, revealing a thick white paste. “Now, this might sting, but I’ve got to heal the skin and prevent infection before I can do anything else.”
She scooped a small amount onto her fingers, lightly spreading it across the wound. Lir didn’t even flinch. Sitting back, Brynn blew out a small breath. “Once the flesh is no longer inflamed, then I can start work on the…repair. It might take a day or two.”
Lir stared at the empty bottle in his hand, and Merrick crouched in front of him. “Can I get you another, commander?”
Lir only grunted.
Merrick grabbed the bottle and stood. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Tiernan was vaguely aware of Rowan hovering near them, just outside his line of sight. Not speaking, just watching. Tiernan reached for his thoughts, just for a glimpse, to see if they coincided with his own. He didn’t have to venture too far into the Nightweaver’s mind to know that Rowan’s primary concern aligned with his—if this was what Lir had suffered, there was no telling what Maeve would be forced to endure.
Fists coiling at his sides, Tiernan withdrew his magic.
Brynn gathered her supplies and stood, lugging the satchel over her shoulder. “We need to get him to a room so he can rest. I’ve got a tea I can brew for the pain, and I’ve got a few ideas to possibly help restore his missing eye, but I’ll have to do some research first.”
“Understood.” Tiernan reached down and clasped Lir’s hand, slowly hauling the commander to his feet.
Lir didn’t release his hold on him. His good eye flared, the silver of it swirling like a cloud of storms. His voice was low as he spoke. “She’s got her.”
The ground beneath Tiernan gave way, rupturing out from under him. He’d been holding onto that one singular thread of hope so tightly, gripping it with every fiber of his being, but now it unraveled in his hands. Fraying. His heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach, hollowing him out completely. It was his worst fear come to life, like walking right into a nightmare and knowing there would be no way out.
Tiernan dropped back, his strength wavering.
“Tier?” Ceridwen looked up at him sharply. Her eyes were swollen and red, her cheeks flushed. Lines of worry knitted across her brow. “What’s wrong?”
There was a blur of shadows. Rowan. They swarmed him. Tiernan’s gaze slid to the Nightweaver. “Parisa has Maeve.”
A cry of anguish and retribution tore from Saoirse, and her blue eyes flashed with the promise of death. The Furies raged,snarling like the feral cursedfaolanof the Kethwyn Woods. They moved in unison, shifting, pacing, ready to snap the neck of anyone who dared to look at them the wrong way.
Tiernan rolled his shoulders back, his crafted exterior of calm composure ready to crack beneath the pressure of his anger. Storm clouds brewed along the horizon, roiling like a deadly sea across the darkening sky. Lightning slashed, splintering the heavens. He would not lose Maeve. Not again. Not ever. He swore once that he would rip through the realms to find her, and he would hold true to his word. Nothing would keep him from her. He would kill every fae who stood in his path, and when he had Parisa in his clutches, he would ensure she suffered the full extent of his wrath, more severe and vengeful than even the god of death could inflict.
Images of Maeve’s carved body, bloody and bruised from Fearghal’s blade, slammed into him.
His magic roared with vehemence, a maelstrom of untempered fury.
He would go to the Pass of Veils himself. Once inside Parisa’s shroud, he would be able to locate Maeve through the witch thread binding them. Besides, the mark had been branded onto him by that damn hag herself. Certainly her magic was far more powerful than Parisa, considering she was the one who created thevirdis lepatite.Then he would cut down every dark fae and he would unleash the extent of his might upon the whole of the Spring Court.
