But no, they were still wrapped up in their bickering. Not a single one glanced his way.
He would have to worry about it later. It was not hurting him, at least. For now, he needed to run.
Lorcan sprang to his feet and whirled away from the Fomorians. He lurched through the grass, kicking up dirt with his bare feet. Terror stormed through him. With every step he took, he feared he would be shot down at once. They wouldn’t let him get far. Despite whatever strange magic swirled around him, they would see through it.
They were Fomorians, after all. Powerful, strange creatures not far different than the fae. Larger and more terrifying. And they had never experienced the Fall. They still held on to their magic, every last drop.
Lorcan ran through the night, not even daring to glance over his shoulder. He just ran, breathing in the scent of wheat and burnt air. As he approached the village, the sky flickered with an orange red that turned his gut. Sparks shot into the air like a thousand summer fireflies.
Comharra was on fire.
Lorcan slowed to a stop at the edge of the field just outside the tiny village’s wooden walls. Only two hundred fae called Comharra home but theirs had been a bustling, happy, lively place for as long as he could remember.
Every Saturday, the green was crowded with market stalls. Many of the villagers hocked their wares to those who lived in nearby hamlets and smaller villages. Selma, who lived three cottages down, baked bread so delicious that fae would travel hours for the hope of purchasing a single loaf. She always sold out by midday. Jeffrey, the blacksmith, crafted the finest of steel. And old Aoiffe sold pottery good enough for kings.
And now, flames consumed it all.
“Mother,” he whispered as his wide eyes turned toward the cluster of cottages at the other end of the village. Several were on fire. Most had broken doors, gently swaying on their hinges. Windows had been smashed. Bodies littered the ground.
His tiny heart could barely stand the terror of it all.
“Lorcan, son!” A tall, golden male slid into view. His eyebrows were pinched in concern. Decked out in centuries-old, faded leather, he was a wizened old male that Lorcan knew well. Cadman, father of the local butcher, was one of the oldest fae Lorcan had ever met. At two hundred and fifty, he had seen so much more than almost anyone else. The Fall had stolen his magic, same as everyone else, but he still clung to life like a stubborn fingernail.
“Come, son.” Cadman motioned Lorcan forward as he knelt on one knee so that they now saw eye-to-eye. “The fires will burn through the grass quickly, consuming us all. We must make haste to the sea.”
Tears sprung into Lorcan’s eyes, already burning from the smoke. “I need to find Mother.”
“Son.” Cadman sighed and shook his head. “We must go now.”
Lorcan felt his face crumple as he stumbled back. “I have to go find my mother. I cannot leave without her.”
He twisted away from Cadman and raced into the burning village. Cadman shouted from behind him, but his words got lost in the roar of the flames. Lorcan did not care. He had to find his mother. She was here somewhere. She could be trapped. He wouldn’t leave without her.
Lorcan ignored the burning Adhradh and the tavern that had already been burnt to a crisp. Ash and dust filled the air, and Lorcan’s lungs squeezed tight from the smoke.
As he ran, he passed bloodied bodies that looked as though they had been cleaved in two by a great axe. He did not stop to think about it. He ran for the little cottage at the edge of the village, a terrified hope in his heart.
At long last, he found home. The small, white-stone cottage had avoided most of the flames, but the door had been ripped off and tossed halfway down the street. Again, Lorcan did not dare think what that might mean. He wanted to believe his mother had avoided the danger. She would be inside, waiting for him, her brilliant smile lighting up those tawny eyes.
“Lorcan,” came a whisper from the dark, still cottage. It was not the voice of his mother.
Quietly, he stepped through the door. Shadows pulsed all around him. Theirs was a small two-room home, much like most cottages in their village. One room for living, where they cooked, ate, laughed, and played games. And one room for sleeping, where they each had a small cot pressed up against the dull brown walls.
“Mother?” Lorcan called out as he stared into the quiet darkness of their living quarters. His heart trembled in fear at her absence, but of course, she would not be in there. It was Beltane. She would be at the feast. The feast that was on fire.
But still, he felt her presence here.
He tiptoed across the floor, his heart as loud as the drumbeats of the Fomorians. Droplets of blood shone on the floor, highlighted by the glow of the twin moons that slanted light through the windows.
Lorcan swallowed hard.
He reached the archway that led into the sleeping quarters. Every single part of him quivered in fear. He did not want to look inside. He did not want to know what he would find there.
But he had no other choice. Mother needed him.
He sucked in a lungful of smoky air and poked his head inside the room. All at once, the world crashed down on his head. Blood painted the walls. A frail body curled on the floor, eyes wide, breath still. Horror drenched every inch of her face.
Lorcan roared as he collapsed beside her broken body, and his innocent childhood came to a sudden, brutal end.
