Page 76 of Crownless Heirs

Niall scratched his head, considering. The fight had taken most of the anger out of him.

“I don’t believe in fate or that the gods give a shit,” he said.

Lightning struck a tree next to him, although the skies were clear. And then again, the same tree. Niall was now standing very close to Sorcha.

“I don’t either, but I think we can shape our fate,” she replied.

That made him smile. He looked toward the hills, the road winding beyond the village, and let out a breath.

“So what happens now?” As he placed his hand on the back of his neck.

“We try to find the others,” she said. “Whoever’s left.”

He nodded once, his hands falling to his sides.

“It seems the gods are trying to tell me I haven’t got a choice…” he said. “I’ll meet you back at the inn.”

33

Gods

Niall stared out over his busy town from the hillside, watching the sun stretch across the horizon like a yawn. Slow and golden, it spilled warmth into the valley below. His eyes drifted beyond the rooftops, past the cliffs, out toward the sea. His thoughts were louder than the morning.

Why was he trusting a stranger’s word?

What she said was impossible. Laughable, and even more so, dangerous. She could be lying, leading him to his death. The crows, the lightning, her story, everything was odd, and maybe it was a sign. There was conviction in her eyes, the kind you couldn’t fake. And the worst part was that he believed her. He felt it in his chest, in the weight of the silence around him. Something was wrong.

The water upstream was darker and tainted. Animals had avoided certain parts of the woods and mountains. No birds had sung that morning. Not a single one. Even the crows were quiet, and crows never shut up unless they’re listening for something worse.

He felt it in the way the wind slowed through the valley, the way mist lingered in corners. Something had shifted, and it wasn’t just in the mines. Work was harder now, more dangerous. The creatures that once played tricks from the trees had started attacking. No more watchers. Just wild, repeated violence.

It was exhausting just trying to stay alive, let alone mine. He sat still in the morning, letting sunlight seep into his skin. The air hung thick with dew and tension. Not a breeze moved the grass. Even the insects had gone quiet.

BOOM.

The blast tore through the silence as smoke curled upward behind the town. Miners were shouting in the distance. Niall didn’t flinch; he just smirked.

The miners are still at it, he thought.

He pushed himself up, grabbed his hammer from the grass, and started walking. As he walked, the tune found him as it always had, a low, familiar melody he’d recited since childhood.

“The wind runs o’er the bramble hill,

As the blackbirds scatter, the world goes still.

The smoke rises and fire spreads,

For Balor stirs beneath the clay.

Oh Balor’s belly groans again,

The thunder cries of blood and rain

His hunger swells with war and flame,

And none shall sleep who know his name.

The oak splits wide, the rivers churn,