Day was breaking.
The chanting faded as dawn crept over the horizon, and there before the crowd, Skyre knelt. Across the world, the old king’s body went limp.
“The blood of the Sun, the flesh of fire.” A branding iron was heated, its searing mark stamped against his chest. His teeth clenched back the pain. “The morning will find its sovereign freshly prepared.”
The Oracle lifted the crown.
This moment… the one he had waited for all his life, that he had been promised in songs,finallyhis for the taking. He had grown of age, he hadpassed their tests, and now he had lived to see the sky break golden over the land.His land.
“I crown thee Vaich—king of Cúil Cullach. From henceforth, you will bear the name Cillchéinn—successor to the line of divine lairds.”
The rigid twine of the crown scratched against his brow.
It was done.
The knoll was alive with fervor. Skyre stood, now king—Vaich.
His fingers ached as they reached towards his sword. The man who served it to him, Rask, his lifelong mentor, beamed proudly at him. Skyre gripped the hilt, holding the blade up to the sky. The crowd was insatiable, their voices shaking the earth beneath their feet, lighting a fire in his heart. This was his day—his moment.
A moment shattered by one piercing scream.
Skyre swiveled as the Oracle gasped, her fingers clawing at her throat as if the breath was being stolen from within. She collapsed, and the crowd went silent.
His stomach turned to ice.
The Nytherim rushed to her side.
“W-what is wrong with her?” Skyre demanded.
The air trembled. He desperately searched the sea of onlookers to find Medhin. His caretaker’s face was pale with concern.
The Oracle’s body jerked and contorted, and Skyre’s lip quivered. “Someone do something!”
“It is the Dream,” said a priestess. “It takes her.”
“No.” Skyre shook his head. His pulse, once quickened, now a riot in his veins. “There will be no more names. No more visions.Iam the last Vaich! I shall never die!”
But the Oracle still writhed upon the grass. And she spoke—a tangle of growled words as she fought the unseen.
“Another,” she hissed. His blood ran cold. “The Moon chooses… another.”
“That’simpossible,” Medhin snarled. “The goddess reveals the Sun King. His reign has just begun. Shecannotchoose another!”
The Oracle’s mouth gaped open in pain, then snapped closed, and again she growled, “Far in the north and east will you find the Chosen and they shall carry the pale mark of the Moon. A name…”
Skyre tightened his grip upon the sword, jailing his breath behind grinding teeth.
“What name? Speak it, witch!”
The woman froze, her fighting body going still.
“Cerys.”
The whispers swelled.
“A queen?”
“The prophecy has never named a woman,” said Medhin. “What foolery have you brought us?”
