“You cannot deny what a powerful pairing it would make,” she continued.
“If he does not wish it, you will sow more loyalty by respecting his choice,” argued the druid.
"It isyourdecision, my liege. But it is a defining one,” Hirí said. The druid glared, but her smirk was immovable. “The hour grows long, I shall take my place, and you your own. I wish my Majesties a happy day!” With that, she went off, the druid’s venomous gaze following in her wake. He turned back to the Vaich, seeing his golden eyes steeped in thought.
“You should not consider such things. This is a ceremony of diplomacy, not strength.”
The Vaich gave him a look. “As if you understand either.”
“I understand enough. If you wish to be a mightier king—”
“Then this will make me mighty.”
“It is short-sighted!”
“We’ll see whose sight is short.”
The druid scoffed as they ascended the dais. He could argue no more. The Sun Matron watched in judgement, and Othrik was at her side.
The Vaich settled comfortably in his throne, far too at ease for the decisions before him.
All the druid could do now was wait.
The hall trembled with the boom of drums. They beat like a pulse, as if something teemed beneath, deep in the bowels of the castle. Everyone stood still. Waiting. The druid’s eyes traced the crowd, finding faces feverish with excitement.
With a roar, the doors swung wide and through the smoky arch came dancers. Beasts of passion they were, their bodies canvases of crimson and gold, sinewy torsos glistening with blood and oil. Their masks, fierce and horned, cast long shadows over the stone, and they moved as if possessed by the creatures they invoked.
Stag.
Bear.
Bull. They moved not as men but as fire itself. Bodies twisted, limbs arced as though driven by a single, ravenous will. Through their dance, they told the story of the Crús Crúnach—the day Æon’Righ brought the sun. They spun, holding their torches high, praising the Eternal Flame as it poured over the land; a gift of heaven that would burn forever. It warmed their hearths, made strong their blood, forged their weapons of fire.
Their naked feet pounded the floor, as if they could shake the very bones of Rhyd-hal. The crowd was enraptured, lost within the spell. None more enrapt than the king himself. The Vaich’s molten gaze followed the dance with childlike wonder, and he smiled as if he thought to rush down and join them.
But to the druid, it all rang hollow.
Heat filled his chest—not passion, but disquiet. This was worship turned wild, raw in its hunger; a prayer hurled towards an empty sky.
As the drums reached their fever pitch, the dancers surged forwards, hands extending towards the braziers. With a collective cry, their voices called out:
“King of Sky, rider of Suns! Thí nárn, du bráthail!”
“Du bráthail!” roared the men of the hall.
The room constricted, the frenzy threatening to consumehim. The druid’s fingers instinctively sought the comfort of his staff—long shorn from him—as he found himself stranded upon shores of fire.
These were the men of Sun. Desperate and misguided. And in the flame, they sought a power they would never find.
After the dance, the chamber grew silent. The herald read off names, and one by one, men came before them. They knelt and swore fealty on their blades. Those who owned land—or tír—committed a record of holding to the chamberlain, detailing their finances, policies, and military contributions. These were spoken aloud to the court and were subject to judgement.
“Clan Finnaigh of Dubmírn,” said the chamberlain, “submits to the Vaich’s hold—a sounder of fat sows and three fine hens; two hundred gilds and a cow.”
“We’re quite pleased with the cow,” said the Vaich and the room clucked with laughter. “And what of your muster?”
“A fyrd of fifty men,” said Finnaigh. “And more come to His Majesty’s kiern.”
“They’re good measure?”
