Page 53 of Crownless Heirs

The entire room fell into silence. The only sound was the thunderous beating of Sorcha’s heart and she was certain they could all hear it drumming away.

The Dagda composed himself, smoothing out his cloak before sitting again. “As you were saying.”

Sorcha swallowed the lump in her throat, leaning over the emerald table. “The Fomorians are already crawling across the mortal earth, poisoning the land. Vaelric means to consume both realms entirely. I am going back there to find your children and warn them before he can reach them. But I can’t protect them if I don’t know who they are.”

The council erupted into whispers once more.

The Dagda eyed her carefully. “What do you ask of us, Child?”

Sorcha looked the God King dead in the eyes. “I need their names. And I need to know exactly where you abandoned them.”

The room filled with voices some loud, others cautious.

Sorcha slowly sat, allowing the discussion to unfold. She knew what she asked was not only an invasion of their privacy, it would unearth long buried secrets and alter countless lives.

The Dagda rose, “We must deliberate. This matter is now for us alone. You may return shortly but for now, you are dismissed.”

Without another word, they turned and left. The doors shut behind them, and all three exhaled loud, exaggerated sighs in unison.

Maelan grabbed Sorcha’s shoulder, spinning her to face him.

“That was incredible! Look at you, all Queen like and commanding. Morrigan looked like she was ready to fight the entire damn room.”

Sorcha let out a laugh, and Kyron joined in, shaking his head. “Seriously, Sorcha. That was brave. It took a lot of courage.”

She shook her head, still grinning. “Guys, I thought I was going to die in there, so I just spat out everything before my head was lopped off.”

25

Forgotten

For hours, the heavy walls of the grand hall had vibrated with booming voices. Even out on the riverbank, the sharp, biting cadence of the gods’ deliberation bled through the stone, a low, rhythmic rumble that made the air feel thin.

Sorcha crossed her legs and sank into the riverbank, the earth giving way beneath her weight like a plush cushion. She pressed her palms into the cool turf, letting the smooth blades slide between her fingers while the western breeze tugged at her golden hair. Behind her, Maelan’s boots thudded softly against the grass as he paced. He dropped beside her with a dull thud, his shoulder slamming into hers. He let out a jaw-cracking yawn, threw a pack over his eyes to block the blinding afternoon sun, and drifted off. Sorcha and Kyron kept their voices to a low murmur, planning their return to Lumora over the distant noise of the council. Sorcha’s eyelids grew heavy under the baking sun, her thoughts blurring until a sudden shadow blocked the light.

“Sorry to interrupt this moment,” a voice chimed from behind, “but we’ve come to a conclusion.”

Sorcha bolted upright, her spine snapping straight alongside Kyron. Beside them, Maelan didn’t stir, merely letting out a rhythmic, soft snore. Sorcha drove her elbow straight into his ribs.

“What the hel—” Maelan wheezed, curling inward as his eyes blinked open. He glared at her, groggy and scowling, until his gaze flickered up past her shoulder. Danu stood over them, her divine presence luminous against the trees.

“... o,” Maelan finished, the fight draining from his face. Sorcha and Kyron pinched their lips together, cutting him a sharp, unified look that practically screamed shut up.

“If you’d follow me, the council awaits,” Danu said, turning back toward the fortress.

Their feet thudded hard against the stone steps as they hurried after the goddess, leaving the bright afternoon behind for the shadows of the grand hall. Inside, the massive chamber felt hollow. Half the heavy oak chairs sat empty, some pushed back hastily or left crooked. Stained goblets and forgotten parchment littered the long table. At the head of it sat the Dagda. He slumped forward, rubbing the bridge of his nose where deep lines had formed, his broad shoulders weighed down by an invisible anvil.

They slid into their seats, Sorcha’s eyes darting to the empty spaces, her chest tightening as she wondered what kind of storm had raged here while they were outside.

“We will give you the names and locations of eight of the children,” the Dagda continued, his voice heavy as a falling stone. “There are many others. Some we do not know of. Some refuse to be named.”

A cold weight dropped into Sorcha’s stomach. Eight. The number felt devastatingly small against the vastness of the realm, yet the prospect of finding them felt like trying to gather scattered grains of sand in a storm. She pressed her knuckles into the edge of the wooden table to keep her hands from shaking. They were scattered far and wide, vulnerable and hidden.

“They are scattered far and wide across the realm, Sorcha,” the Dagda said, echoing her rising panic. “If what you say is true, it will be dangerous for you to cross the sea.”

At the mention of the sea, a draft of crisp, salty air cut through the stagnant smell of the grand hall. From the deep shadows near the tall, arched windows, a figure shifted. Manannán stepped into the light. He wore a cloak that rippled like deep ocean water, the fabric shifting from stormy gray to sea foam green with every movement. The faint scent of brine and rolling tides followed him. He didn’t speak immediately, but his ocean dark eyes locked onto Sorcha,

“Manannán has volunteered himself to aid you,” the Dagda announced, gesturing toward the sea god.