“What?” The word slipped out roughly, barely audible, yet thick with indignation.
“The people are afraid, Lord Alasdair,” the priest continued, his voice dripping with sickly, apologetic deference. “Our history with the orc clans is written in violence, death, and blood. Lady Fionnuala has been cursed into the image of our most hated enemy. How can you ask our people to endure seeing her like this every day?”
“I’m not anyone’s enemy!” I shouted, stepping forward.
The change in my voice was startling, deeper, and vibrating with a power that made the guests recoil in unison. The sharp sting of their rejection hit me like a physical blow, nearly making me sway. “I’m Fionnuala Kerridan, daughter of the Lord of Ceilte! You’ve known me since I was barely more than a child, Priest Cian. You blessed my first hunt!”
“My daughter’s right!” My father barked, though the raw edge in his voice betrayed his desperation. “She can’t be punished for a crime she didn’t commit! She’s the victim here, for the Goddess’s sake!”
“It’s not punishment, my Lord, it's a necessity,” Lord Fenric countered, stepping into the fray with a predatory grace. This was the same male my father had slighted, the one whose proposal had been brushed aside for Jameson. He looked at me not with fear like the others, but with a cold, calculating expression. “Think of the message our kingdom would send to the world. Ceilte’s heir turned into an orc. The courts will see it as weakness, or worse—as a secret alliance with Oksha.”
A chorus of murmurs rose into a swell of agreement. Words like “cast out” and “exile” started to ripple through the hall.
My blood boiled with the injustice of it all. All these years of duty and sacrifice, of being the flawless lady they demanded, and this was how they repaid me?
“I refuse,” I declared. The strength in my voice cut through the voices. My body was bigger now, stronger, and I felt the An Talamhthrob more fiercely than ever, answering to my anger. Not like before, unstable, but solid. “This is my home. I was born here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
My mother squeezed me harder, and I understood the warning, yet the ache in my chest burned hotter than the fear.
“Fionnuala, calm down,” my father pleaded.
I spun on him, betrayal crushing my chest.
“Calm down, Papa?” I asked, disbelief thick in my voice. “They want to throw me out, get rid of me like I’m the guilty one. Do they forget I’m the victim? Merith cursed me!”
“It’s for your safety,” Priest Cian tried to justify, but his averted eyes said otherwise.
“Safety?” I shot back, laughing bitterly. “If it were for my safety, you’d be voting to hunt Merith down and make her lift the curse, not pushing me out.”
The hall fell silent.
My father closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his mask was back, firmer than ever, yet a fissure of anguish lingered beneath it. He knew he had already lost the room, and that hopelessness broke my heart more than the transformation ever could.
If he defied them—if he stood his ground and kept me in Ceilte as his daughter—they would question his authority. As much as I hated the cold logic of it in that moment, Lord Fenric was right.
The other courts had always kept their distance from our affairs, watching from the shadows with greedy eyes. This "monstrosity" would give them the excuse they had craved for centuries: a reason to invade our territory and take Ceilte for themselves.
Even knowing the political cost, the realization that my father wouldn’t choose me still hurt.
“My dear brothers and sisters,” he began, more calmly. “In these centuries as Lord of Ceilte, I’ve never asked anything of you beyond what you were willing to give.”
An uneasy stir swept through the crowd as he took a measured step forward. Then, the world seemed to tilt on its axis when he dropped to his knees.
My father. The sovereign Lord. The one who never bowed. The male who had stood tall against kings and stareddown death on a hundred battlefields, knelt before his own people like an ordinary male, a subject begging for mercy.
My throat went dry as he lowered his head, pressing his hand to the floor in a bow so deep it felt as though the world itself was folding. My mother let out a strangled, broken sob beside me.
“I beg you,” he continued, his voice cracking. “My daughter… my dear Fionnuala, is my most precious treasure. She isn’t to blame for the malice Merith unleashed; that blame falls on me and the choices I made long ago.”
He lifted his face slowly, and my legs threatened to give way when I saw the glisten of tears in his eyes.
“Yes, she’s… different now. Changed by an ancient curse that defies our understanding. But I swear to you, she’s still Fiona, the same girl you watched grow, who always smiled at everyone, danced at the harvests, and spoke to anyone with no care for blood or title. The same kind soul you learned to love and admire.”
A muffled sound escaped my throat at seeing my father trying to defend me despite the way I looked.
“If you cast her out, she’ll be alone in the world. As Lord, I understand why you want this in a difficult moment. But as a father, all I can picture is my little girl helpless, without her family or friends. Far from her home.”
A murmur spread through the crowd, no longer of pure shock, but of doubt. The ferocity that once pointed at me as a threat began to waver, turning into discomfort, hesitation, maybe even compassion.
