Killing him wasn’t enough. He had to know thatshe’dwon.
“Thanks for testing my new design,” she whispered. “It seems looking pretty can be a useful skill after all, huh?”
She slid the blade across his throat and turned to where the fight still raged.
***
KORDISLAEN’S DEATH DIDN’T STOP THE BATTLE, BUT THEadvantage had fallen to Scáilca’s side without the general to advise his troops from the sidelines.
Niamh had finished her fight shortly before Clía, and together they were quick to return to the front. Clía didn’t letherself think back on the fight on the cliff—reflection could kill a warrior in battle.
Word of Kordislaen’s fall made its way to the enemy troops. The loss of the great general, the man who promised them an easy victory, was a detrimental blow to their confidence. And as their morale fell, so did their warriors.
Clía didn’t know how long she fought. By the time the enemy warriors began to retreat, her muscles burned, and she was drenched in sweat and covered in the blood of strangers. She watched them flee from the gates of Caisleán Cósta.
Her hands shook around the hilt of Ronan’s sword. It clattered to the stones below her with a rattle as she dropped it. Every part of her wanted to collapse.
Bodies littered the castle grounds and the beach below, people who had fought hard and paid the price to protect Inismian.
She helped remove the broken bodies from the battlefield, even while her heart was urging her to run inside and make sure Ronan was okay. That Niamh, Kían, Domhnall—and everyone else she knew—had made it out alive.
With each body, she sent a prayer to Ríoghain that they would be taken swiftly to Tír Síoraí. The god would watch over them.
Then she would send another prayer to Tara that the next body wouldn’t have the face of a loved one.
Her prayers appeared to be answered, until she saw a familiar form on the sand.
MacCraith looked restless in death. His eyes were open, staring up at the sky to challenge the gods. There was none of his reassuring quiet. His hair clung to his face, damp with blood coming from his scalp. She wanted to brush it away, butall she could make herself do was slide his eyelids closed before beckoning another soldier to help her carry him.
There was no gentleness in carrying a dead body, not when there were dozens more left to be brought in. But it was MacCraith, and she wanted to be careful.
He looked no different next to the rest of the bodies. Only a corpse to burn come tomorrow morning.
The wall guarding her heart fractured. There were no sounds of fighting, no sense of danger forcing her to hold it up. It crumbled around her in small pieces.
***
IN THE POSTBATTLE CHAOS, CLÍA FOUNDKÍAN FASTER THANshe expected. They sat in the study, back hunched over a table as they penned a letter.
“Kían!” she called. They jolted in their seat, the adrenaline and fear from the battle still evident in their dark eyes. “I wanted to see if you were all right.”
“Am I ever not?” They smiled, but it wasn’t as bright. Shadowed by the undeniable sadness that lingered through the castle. Kían and MacCraith had been close—they had many friends in Caisleán; more people to lose. “Before you ask—I’ve only seen a few others around. Domhnall and Niamh are bickering in her room about gods know what. Ronan and Griffin are discussing plans in the meeting room, because that boy seems to have won the favor of the Draoi. As for Brecc and Duinn, my best guess is they are entertaining themselves by bossing around the troops.”
A warm sense of relief filled her chest and caught in her throat at the sound of Ronan’s name. For a moment, she worried hereyes would tear up once more. He wasalive. He wasokay. As much as she wanted to run to Ronan and pull him into her arms, verifying those facts for herself, she needed to make sure Kían wasn’t lying when they said they were all right.
She took the seat beside them. “How are you, truly?”
Kían shook their head, eyes glassy. “It seems foolish to mourn one person when so many more are dead, but he was myfriend. I... It’s strange to think he won’t be training with me tomorrow morning.”
Grief had a way of choking someone. Clía had felt that suffocating weight when she killed Ó Connor. She’d tried not to think about it, not let it creep back into her for so long, but in the quiet of the study, she could feel it returning. It was a pain she wouldn’t wish on anyone. Her hand came to rest on Kían’s, a silent understanding passing between the two of them.
When Kían turned back to their paper, Clía took it as a sign to drop the subject.
“Who are you writing to?” she asked.
“Oileánster. The king ought to know what happened here, so he can properly prepare.”
“You think the war might travel that far south?” Clía’s whisper felt too loud in the quiet room.
