Day 18 of Midwinter, Sunrise

Leic na Beatha, The Deep Realm

Annwn

The haze of disharmony clung to me well after the culmination of the Red Parade—someone’s grim name for my march through the streets with Corb’s head on display. I hated it. I knew how barbaric my actions had been, and how it changed how others saw me. I worried especially about Bren, knowing my lighthearted brother would recoil in horror when he discovered what I had done.

But appearances mattered, especially in the Fomorian culture. For years, I had been tolerated as a trusted advisor, but never fully embraced, despite the backing of my adoptive father. Now, in their eyes, I was truly one of them. I had proven my strength to these unforgiving, warlike people… my people. With Dubhlinn’s unspoken consent, I had gambled that usurping the usurper in a brutal and undeniable way would carve out my own position within the Fomorian order, and the savagery of my actions had borne the expected fruit.

The army stirred around me as we prepared for war. Soldiers assessed weapons, sharpened blades, and adjusted armor. The murmuring of voices, the scrape of steel, and the restless shifting of feet filled the air like the low growl of a beast waiting to be unleashed.

Earlier today, I had named my generals—Ethlinn and Oirneth—my first official choices. Ethlinn still looked at me with coldness, but she had the respect of both the soldiers and the Mná na Mara. Her desire for victory, I hoped, would outweigh her desire for vengeance. Googlᴇ search novęlfire.net

At last ready for our march to war, we gathered at the training grounds. I paused before the dueling pit, my heart aching for Tethra. I gazed into the Abyss, the memory of her body falling, hit me like a spear to the chest.

To my surprise, the entire army gathered in as well, each pausing to honor her in their own way before stepping aside to let their fellow warriors through for their own quiet moments of grief and respect. Some whispered silent prayers, others cast trinkets or tokens into the Abyss. Watching the solemn procession, I felt pride swell within me—pride that I had known her, pride that I had mattered to such a fierce woman, beloved by her people. For a fleeting moment, I longed for a world where stories ended with reunions and miracles. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining her hand rising from the pit to clasp mine. But I knew better, and I opened my eyes as quickly as I had closed them. Tethra was gone. She would not return.

From the grounds, the army wound down into the bowels of the city. If any soldier doubted where I led them, none gave voice to it. They followed in a long zigzagging line, silent, steady, determined. The tunnels grew darker, the air colder, until finally we emerged at the water’s edge.

This place, Tethra had said, was called the Ledge of Life, a name passed down from Neit himself. It was a fitting name for the cavernous space. The army paused, so quiet that the sounds of the waves lapping against the stone echoed from the damp walls.

I turned to face my generals and the Mná na Mara who had pledged to fight beside us. “Wait here. I need to prepare the way.”

“We will wait,” Oirneth said. Her face still bore the dried streaks of tears she had shed for Tethra at the dueling grounds. I nodded and stepped forward alone.

“Let’s see if this works,” I murmured, more to myself than to them. I had yet to attempt this without Tethra’s guidance, though I remembered that she had said she focused on intent, on the need itself, when opening the portal.

I waded into the shallows, the water cool against my boots, and pressed my palm to the stone as she had done. My enlarged hand—still foreign to me—spread wide across the surface. I focused on my purpose: to bring this army through, to reach the plains of Mag Mór, to defend our people from those who sought to crush us.

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The stone thrummed beneath my hand. Power pulsed outward in a deep vibration, a magical dweomer I knew that only I felt. The soldiers gasped as the glowing doorway appeared in the rock face, and I stepped through it into Tir fo Thuinn.

I had expected the chamber to be empty, but four figures stood within. Bren supported a gaunt man I recognized instantly as the smith god, Goibhniu, though he appeared pale and weak. In his hands, he clutched a steaming mug that appeared to be restoring his strength sip by sip. Beside them stood the sea gods, Lir and Manannán. Stranger still was the huge gray warhorse prancing in place behind the group, its coat shimmering faintly in the room’s unnatural light.

“What’s up, Broseph?” Bren grinned, clearly delighted to see me. “Check it out. Made some new friends.”

I couldn’t help smiling back. Though his odd Ériu words escaped me, I understood their meaning well enough from his tone. “So I see…” A thought struck me. “Any chance your new friends want to summon a few thousand soldiers?”

Lir studied me, then glanced into the portal still glowing behind me. “It is good to see you again, Cai Maccán.”

“While I hate to correct a god,” I said carefully, “that name no longer fits me.”

“Ooh, that’s a shame,” Bren interjected. “Cai Maccán rolled right off the tongue. Problem with epithets—they trap you. No room for character development…”

Manannán sighed at my brother’s levity. “Our armies are already mustering on the battlefield. They await yours.”

“And they shall not be disappointed.” I gestured toward the portal. “Bren…though now is not the time, we have much to discuss.”

“Seriously? Like what? You can’t just drop that and not give me a hint,” he protested.

Relenting, I tried to summarize. “We are descendants of Prince Elatha…and the rightful heirs to the Fomorian throne.”

Bren stood stock still, clearly trying to decide if I was joking. “Um…no thanks.” He shook his head. “That one’s all you.” His lightness was maddening and grounding all at once. He made everything less dire, less heavy.

Feeling mischievous, I added, “We also have a sister.”

Bren’s eyes widened. A huge smile broke across his face, splitting from ear to ear. “That’s awesome! When do I meet her?”

Lir held out a hand. “Bren. Cai. There will be time for this later.” He gestured, and a regal woman I hadn’t noticed stepped into view from behind him. She was slim, with white hair and features pale with the weight of countless ages. Her face was pinched with what looked like a bone-deep weariness.

Bren and Goibhniu shuffled to the side to make space for the woman. “This is Eiocha,” Bren explained. “One of the old gods. And I didn’t mean old-old—just, you know…”

“Another Síorláidir,” she murmured, her voice distant. Her eyes shifted from me back to Bren. “And you must be the duality. Yes… It makes sense.”

“She turned herself into a stick!” Bren blurted. At my confused look, he added, “They all did. The Síorláidir.”

Eiocha’s solemn gaze settled on the spear strapped to my back. She extended her hand. “May I?”

At Bren’s nod, I unshouldered the Spear of Victory and offered it to her.

“Camulos,” she whispered reverently, her graceful fingers gently holding the spear. “God of War. The duality with Teutates, the Protector.”

Manannán shifted uneasily, his eyes flicking between the portal to the Deep Realm and another portal shimmering at the far side of the chamber. He cleared his throat. “I must remind us all that while loose ends remain, the war will not wait.”

“Tactful as ever, son,” Lir muttered.

“Will it be enough?” Bren asked, his normal bravado seeming to falter.

“No,” Lir admitted, his gaze resting on me. “The Fomorians cannot defeat the united cities alone. But there is a chance. When Nuada sees me upon the battlefield, he will seek parlay.”

“Bren,” I said, turning to my brother. “Fíadan has the Stone and the Cauldron. She travels with someone else, a dark-haired woman unknown to me.”

“Fern?” Bren gasped, his hope plain.

Manannán frowned suspiciously. “How would you know this, Fomorian?” he demanded.

“He has a name, Manny,” Bren snapped. “And they’ve got a Blaze Diviner in the Deep Realm.”

The sea gods exchanged a glance, then both nodded, letting my words sink in.

“Then the pieces are indeed falling into place,” Lir said softly. He looked to Goibhniu. “Are you well, brother?”

“No,” the smith answered, his voice painfully hoarse. His cracked lips quirked in a smile. “But all the same, I would not for anything miss the look on Nuada’s face when he sees the two of us standing with the Fomorians.”

Despite the thick tangles of haze swirling from my Divination of Balance boon—thicker than ever, threads weaving and knotting themselves around Bren—I found myself smiling. Ominous as the haze around him was, my brother’s presence had steadied me.

“You best retrieve your army, my lad,” Lir said to me, clapping a hand to my shoulder. “This war can’t start without us.”