I was grateful for the rotten weather. Golden summer was all languid temptation—long days and endless warmth creating the illusion of unlimited time. But the looming clouds reminded me that this season—like all others—was transient. I knew it would pass more quickly than I expected. Samhain was but a bare handful of months away, and I was no closer to breaking Eala’s geas, finding magic for Fódla, or saving Irian from his doom.
I blamedhimfor that. He was too captivating—and I, too susceptible to his charms. I constantly reminded myself of all the reasons I couldn’t—mustn’t—pursue our shared attraction, but every argument grew flimsier by the day.
He was wicked.I’d met humans far more violent, arrogant, and selfish than he.
He was a monster.If magic made a monster, then I was one too.
He’d likely be dead by Samhain.I was no stranger to death. And I found I was not one to begrudge him the desire to live fully, ifonly for a few more months.
And maybe he’d been right—maybe I was still bleeding where I’d cut Rogan from my heart. But I’d begun to wonder whether Irian’s scorching kisses might be the very thing to cauterize the wound.
That, and smoothing over the jagged edges lingering between me and Rogan. Part of cutting him out of my heart had to be forgiving him for the choices he was always going to make.
“Princeling.”
Rogan jolted at the sound of my voice. He was training bare-chested in the dún’s echoing great hall—rain lashed at the windows and hammered at the door. And yet the trousers hanging low around his hips displayed the golden, sweat-slick topography of someone who was no stranger to sunshine. He stopped moving through his sequences, sheathed his claíomh. His hands flexed, then fell loose at his sides.
“Changeling.”
“I have something for you.” I laid a leather-bound notebook stuffed with folded pieces of parchment on the table. “Well. For Eala.”
“What is it?” Wariness darkened his eyes. “Folk spells?”
“It’s no grimoire—there are no spells or incantations. But it does speak of magic and how power is bound up in the natural balance of growth and rebirth. It speaks of binding and unbinding.” I tapped the cracked leather, still unsure whether I was willing to give away any of the ancient warrior’s precious words, even to free my sister. But I had to put what I’d learned to use—otherwise I had truly wasted my time. “And it speaks of the power of a heart given in love. The kind of magic that might be accessed even by a cursed human, trapped amongst the Folk.”
Rogan was staring at me like I’d lost what precious little sanity I had left. I patted the book once more.
“It’s all in there. Just give it to Eala—perhaps she will find use for it.”
“I will.” He looked down at the book. Hesitated. “Are we still friends, changeling?”
“Always.” My breath caught on a splinter of sorrow. I smiled past it. “As promised.”
“Then as a friend, let me extend you a warning.” Rogan’s eyes were still lowered; on the table, his suntanned hand curled into a fist. “Stay away from the Gentry tánaiste who holds the swans captive. He is too dangerous to… dally with.”
The thorn in my chest grew into a thicket, scratching my ribs with acrimony. Those were Eala’s words—I knew they were. Yet they bothered me even more coming from Rogan than they had coming from my sister. I had never been Rogan’s peer in the eyes of the world, but between us we had always stood as equals. I could beat him in a fight, drink him under the table, match him easily in wit. How dare he patronize me, as if I did not know my own mind?
“Is that a warning?” My voice was cold. “Or a command?”
His gaze jerked up to mine, bitter blue and jealous green. “If it was the latter, would you obey?”
“You are in no position to command me,” I snapped. “You are neither my brother nor my father. You will never be my husband. And you are not yet my king.”
“You’re right—I am none of those things.” His eyes flashed with resentment. “But if a heart given in love is indeed powerful magic, then I beg you, Fia—guard yours. I understand how bewitching Tír na nÓg can be. Especially for… someone like you. But you do not belong there. You do not belong withhim.”
“Stop.” His words sharpened my resentment to a knife’s edge.Someone like you.There it was—the truth at the heart of everything. No matter how much I’d changed myself to be loved, I would never be anything more than a changeling—not even to Rogan. Once, I would have lashed myself into a frenzy trying to prove how human I was—how little my Folk blood mattered.
But I wasn’t human. And my Folk blooddidmatter.
Tír na nÓg was bewitching. But no longer in a way that felt dangerous—in a way that felt familiar, like a long-forgotten dream painted in sweeps of fading color. Not home, perhaps—but neither was Fódla. Perhaps I was born of two worlds. Maybe I didn’t belong anywhere. But that meant I was free to claim either. Or neither. Or both.
Regardless, the choice was mine—and mine alone.
“I appreciate the warning, princeling.” I forced icy calm into my tone. “But I will hear no more of it. Give that book to your princess. Giveheryour love, your attention, your concern. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The storms had ended by the full moon, but Tír na nÓg echoed with their memory—heavy branches fallen over the path, trunks darkened with moisture, beads of water sliding down the veins of leaves. The brook beneath the willow was swollen and white capped.
