Then the blood began to move. It bubbled where it touched the soil, hissing, spreading in thin veins that pulsed outward. Black moss burst from the cracks, creeping across the road. The stench that hit them was rot and it was enough to choke them.
Rhosyn took a step back, her voice low. “What is happening?“
“Rhosyn, move back!” Drystan shouted, breath ragged.
“Gods,” she whispered.
“Move, now!” Sorcha yelled, Kyron grabbed Sorcha’s arm and ran with her to the horses.
The others didn’t hesitate. The moss reached for their boots, curling like fingers through the frost. Mason vaulted into the saddle, Drystan right behind him. Rhosyn ran beside them, tunic whipping in the wind, while Cat crouched low on his perch, eyes fixed on the spreading darkness.
They spurred their horses hard. The road behind them writhed as the moss swelled, bubbling, spreading like a living wound.
When they finally reached the ridge, Sorcha looked back. The place where the old woman had fallen was gone, swallowed whole. The earth there pulsed faintly red and black, beating like an open sore.
They rode in silence and it followed them all the way to the shadow of Cailleach’s Keep.
The outline of the Keep rose from the frost-laden mist, its blackened walls streaked with veins of ice that caught what little light there was. As they drew closer, the first sounds of the festival began to rise, faint at first, then building like a pulse beneath the wind.
By the time they reached the gates, the quiet of the road had been consumed. Laughter and drums echoed from within the walls, the air thick with the scent of roasting meat and spiced cider. Fires lined the battlements, their glow slipping through the mist and turning it gold and red.
Inside, the courtyards were alive. Bonfires burned high, their light spilling over the faces of those who gathered to celebrate. The Chief Druid stood near the central pyre, preparing to light the sacred fire of Tlachtga. The ritual marked the turning of the year and honored Lugh, whose blessing was said to guard the realm through the dark months ahead. The fire itself took its name from Tlachtga, Daughter of the Druid Mug Ruith, who legendclaimed died upon the hill after giving birth to triplets. Her death had seeded the first flame, a fire that was said to bridge the world of the living and the dead.
Every year the flame at Tlachtga was lit anew, its light visible from the heights of the Keep. Tonight, it burned once more, mirrored by the countless fires within the courtyard. The torches along the walls dripped wax like melted bone, the heat and frost colliding until the air shimmered and wavered before her eyes
People filled the courtyards and winding halls, moving in a restless tide of color and sound. Some wore masks of delicate filigree and fine metalwork, their faces hidden beneath painted porcelain. Others wore grotesque visages, twisted wood and carved bone, teeth filed into sharp, wicked points. Some masks were beautiful. Others were not.
Pumpkins, gourds, and hollowed turnips lined the paths, their carved faces glowing in the firelight. Each one was meant to ward away the spirits said to roam free on this night. Just as the masks hid the living, these small, grinningsentinels were meant to keep the dead at bay. Sorcha watched the crowd and wondered how many among them were truly still human.
Dancers moved around the fires, their silhouettes wild and fluid, cloaks flaring as they spun. Their feet barely touched the frost slick stone, as if they danced just beyond the reach of the mortal world. Voices rose in haunting songs, old as the stones beneath their feet, threading through the smoke.
At the base of the great statue of Cailleach Offerings were piled at her feet: coins, flowers, carved stones, and vials filled with something dark and glimmering that caught the light of the flames. The air was thick with burning herbs and spiced wine, but beneath it lingered a scent of metal, faint and wrong.
A hand brushed hers. Kyron.
She glanced at him, finding his gaze fixed on the revelry before them. He said nothing, but she could feel it too, that ripple of unease beneath the beauty. Samhain had turned Cailleach’s Keep into something both sacred andunholy, a place where joy and dread mingled until they were indistinguishable.
They wove through the crowd together. The deeper they went, the thinner the noise became. Laughter faded to murmurs, the music dimmed, and the firelight weakened. Smoke hung in the air, curling around them in soft grey ribbons.
Cat shifted in his saddle and spoke quietly. “The fairy mound is in the woods beyond,” he said.
At the edge of the festival, Eirin, Kyron, and the others tied their horses to the wooden posts just before the forest. As they moved toward the tree line Sorcha caught movement, just at the edge of her vision. A figure, cloaked in shadow.
It was barely more than a flicker, blending into the shifting dark. The group ahead pressed forward, but Sorcha hesitated, eyes narrowing. The shadows were outfitted in Circle uniforms from the Keep. And that’s when she saw her. Riona. Only it wasn’t her.
Riona had always been vibrant, untouchable in her strength. But now, she looked as if something had hollowed her out. She was wrong, wrong in the way you would describe a reflection in murky waters. She was thinner, but not fragile. Her white hair, always striking, now looked dull and pale. Her eyes the color of ice had dimmed, a red ring outlined the cold blue. Sorcha’s pulse thundered in her ears, and for the briefest moment, their gazes met. But Riona turned and walked away. There was no recognition or hesitation. Just silence.
Chapter 57
Home
Sorcha shook it off and ran ahead to catch up as the group pressed deeper into the woods. The trees growing denser, their gnarled branches reaching overhead.
The festival’s warmth had faded behind them, swallowed by the creeping dark. Eirin had the foresight to mark their path, carving small notches into the bark as they went. It was the only proof they had traveled this way at all. The forest ahead felt untouched, as if no one had set foot here in centuries.
Without a sound, a stark white rabbit landed directly in their path. Its silver eyes gleamed in the unnatural stillness. “Not again,” Sorcha muttered to herself.
The first time it had appeared, she had been on patrol near Lumora, a warning. The second, in Meadowrun,
