Crown of Iron

Chapter One

The screams of his people dying are deafening. She had told him that the second war would be twice as bad as last. There would be no survivors. Not this time. There would be nothing left but ash and ruin, and the hollow shell of an empire that had once stood tall and proud. His kind do not die so easily, but theirs... Their bodies line the streets, broken, bloodied, battered, washing the cobblestones in a sea of blood. This isn't war. This is a massacre.

And where is she?

He whirls around desperately, unable to take in the carnage even for a moment. All of this is nothing but a distraction, keeping Ruadhán's forces busy while he... No. No, he wouldn't be that foolish. He'd heard that Ruadhán's old allies had been telling the boy, but it would be suicide.

It would condemn the Daoine Sidhe forevermore.

They had come back from the last war, fragmented, broken, their cities in ruin. It had lasted a hundred years, had nearly destroyed everything they were fighting for. The war only ended when she offered herself as a tribute of peace. And for what? So they could return, in peace, to a land decimated by a century of bloodshed? To empty houses and ruined palaces, haunted by memories that would wake them in the dead of night?

"Was this worth it?" she'd asked him once, in what feels like another age ago. "Countless dead, if only for a few more centuries of peace. We will war again, and this time, it will not end in peace."

He still did not know the answer, unable to even consider one as he takes off in a sprint, feet pounding against the stones that have been stained with the blood of his people. If this was all a distraction, then he knows exactly where he'll be, knows exactly where he'll find her. The din of the battle raging around him is muffled beneath the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Their bond had long since been broken, shattered the day she'd sworn herself to another. Still, he clings onto the scraps that still remain in his heart, following the tattered bond all the way to the centre of it all.

The Autumn Court had once been a place of great beauty but now it is aflame, washed in golden fire. It doesn't stop him. He charges in without a second thought, magic forming a wall of solid wind around him as he pushes through the blazing inferno into the once-beating heart of her kingdom. The wall of wind does nothing to keep out the smoke, and he chokes on it as he stumbles blindly through the palace that had once been so unwelcoming to him.

Please, he begs in silent, fervent desperation, let her be alive. If there is any good in this world, let her be alive.

He follows their tattered bond in desperation as it leads him through winding passages, even as the ceiling threatens to collapse down upon him. If the bond yet remains, perhaps she is still alive. Perhaps he can take her far away from here, and make them all pay for their treason. He would raze Tairngire to the ground himself if it meant keeping her safe. Then—

The courtyard seems to be the only place that is untouched by the fire that had already consumed the rest of the Autumn palace if not for the embers that occasionally drift across his vision. A thousand tiles make up intricate, swirling paths that snake between the flower beds like a river of molten gold. They all converge in the centre of the courtyard, surrounding an ancient elm tree. And there, beneath the copper and orange leaves, stands Cormac, wielding a blade carved of gleaming white bone that drips crimson blood onto the golden tiles.

The prince's back is to him, but he doesn't need him to turn to know what he'd see; he's the spitting image of his father, inheriting Ruadhán's dark skin and coiled hair, but his eyes are as golden as his mother's.

"I was wondering who'd come for her," Cormac says without turning around. "My father or... you, but then he had never loved her half as much as you did."