An arrogant smirk crossed Conall’s face. “Of course I will,” he replied, his voice edged with sarcasm.
Kyron strode through the towering doors of the dome, his boots echoing across the polished marble floor. The scent of damp stone and burning incense filled the air, mingling with the faint hum of voices. Rows of young warriors moved in practiced formations, their blades slicing through the stillness with precision. At the center of the hall, overseeing their training was General Aogan. The Tuatha veteran was an imposing figure, broad shouldered, silver streaks threading through his raven black hair. His presence alone commanded obedience. Even the youngest recruits seemed to stiffen as he passed. When his eyes landed on Kyron, there was no warmth. Kyron approached, bowing his head slightly in greeting.
“Report.” Aogan’s voice was jagged, cutting through the murmurs of the trainees.
Kyron exhaled. “There’s a sickness spreading across the land. It’s affecting both animals and humans. I’ve seen it take hold in the villages. Crops are withering, creatures moving strangely, as if driven mad. And it’s worsening.”
Aogan’s expression remained unchanged. “Go on.”
Kyron shifted. “As for Sorcha; there have been moments when her magic has surfaced, but she doesn’t understand it. It manifests in flashes; it’s uncontrolled. She’s still struggling to accept that it’s part of her. And as of now, she has no idea how to use it.”
Aogan folded his arms. “Have you made direct contact with her?”
Kyron didn’t hesitate. “No.”
Aogan turned, fixing him with a hard stare. “It would be foolish and awfully bold of you to think you can lie to me, Kyron.”
Kyron’s teeth clenched and he went rigid. He considered doubling down but knew it was pointless. “Yes. I’ve run into her.”
Aogan studied him. “And?”
Kyron clenched his fists. “I’ve tried to keep her safe. I know what the council expects, but she’s vulnerable.”
“That is not your decision to make.”
“You wanted a report,” Kyron spat out. “I gave it to you.”
Aogan didn’t react. “Your orders have changed. You’re staying here for the next few weeks. The council will decide when you’re sent out again.”
Kyron’s anger flared. “You’re pulling me out?
When the sickness is spreading? When she—”
“This is not up for debate. You’ve been too close to this. You’re thinking like a mortal. And that is a weakness we can’t afford.”
Kyron’s whole body tensed, every fiber of him wanting to argue, but he knew it wouldn’t change anything. With a slight bow, he turned on his heel and walked away. The weight of his orders settled over him like the storm clouds above. Flowers swayed along the stone walkway. As the scent of rain and cinnamon mingled in the air, wrapping around him. The trees shimmered in hues of violet and deep blue, their leaves catching the light in a dance with the wind.
He continued to the edge of the Tuatha Court, sitting himself in a field of gold grass. His hands sank in slightly as he faced the sky, watching as the clouds rolled by. The puffs of gray and purple held shimmering veins of silver light, illuminating the sky. The smell of rain grew stronger as the wind began to howl. He sat there for a while, looking out onto the Tuatha Court, listening to the rumbling of the hungry storm ahead. Kyron’s thoughts came crashing into a memory with his mother.
The memory was vivid, his mother sitting by the fireplace in a large ornate armchair. He was playing with some books creating structures for his wooden animals when a loud crack filled the air. The tree outside the library window were ablaze in the storm. Watching as ash and smoke floated towards the skies, he dropped everything and ran into his mother’s arms as another crack shook the very ground. His mother’s soft eyes met his. “Do you remember the stories of Balor?” Kyron shook his head no as he buried deeper into her arms.
“It is said that in the fury of a thunderstorm, Balor himself stirs awake. His stomach rumbles through the dark clouds, hungry for chaos and ruin. That his appetite is insatiable, but trapped beneath us all he can do is drown the earth in his tears. So when a thunderstorm comes, it reminds us he is far gone. Try as he might, the only destruction he can cause is that in which we survive every day.”
Kyron looked confused as his mother chuckled. “Think of him like a stinky old troll stuck under a bridge. “
Kyron chuckled to himself, looking up at the clouds, dread slowly filtering in. Maybe something else stirred in those clouds after all as the rumbling grew louder, his thoughts shifted to Sorcha. Her name brought distaste. He was just another watchmen and her the job. Just another forgotten person caught in the game of the gods. Yet Sorcha was different. She didn’t loathe herself or flaunt her power, nor did she act like a victim despite her circumstances. Perhaps it was this quiet resilience that drew him closer. She simply didn’t know how deeply the gods had meddled in her life, and Kyron knew she deserved thetruth about her parents, even if sharing it meant facing dire consequences himself.
Then the sky wept, rain pouring suddenly and fast against Kyron’s skin. He pushed himself off the ground and got to his feet, moving toward his home on the hill, his footsteps unhurried as he began his walk. It took a while for Kyron to reach the hill, and by the time he stood at his door, he was soaked to the bone. His clothes clung to him like weights, and his shoes squished with each step as his toes curled in the water filling them. With an exhausted sigh, he pushed the doors open, warmth spilling out along with the familiar scents of summer. The lanterns flickered faintly, and he could hear his mother and others speaking in the library. Quietly, he crept up the stairs, hoping to slip past the multitude of questions he was sure to be asked.
Chapter 17
The Gathering
Meanwhile, back in Lumora, the meeting room behind the enchanted mirror carried the quiet weight of long standing duty. The glow of runic light reflected off the polished oak table, casting shifting shadows across the faces of those gathered. Leaders of the Circles sat in their usual places, some leaning back, arms crossed, while others rested their elbows on the wood, fingers tapping absently. The air smelled faintly of parchment, old magic, and candle smoke.
Commander Nethran sat at the edge of the table, his arms folded as he scanned the room.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” His smirk was subtle, even warm. “Some of you I’ve known since we were barely old enough to wield a sword. Others joined later, but we’ve fought side by side, broken bread, anddespite the years and distance, here we are, still standing, still answering the call, still putting up with each other.”
