Crown of Iron

Chapter Two

—Two thousand years later—

Anya sits in discontented silence, fingertips drumming against the grainy surface of the wooden table before her. Despite the sweltering heat outside, a fire roars in the centre of the Great Hall. She almost feels like she's suffocating, the starched collar of her shirt more constricting than ever. She hates every moment she has to spend here—hates plastering a fake smile upon her lips just to fawn over the visiting noble dignitaries so her family can afford new boots before Autumn starts to settle in, its winds cold and biting.

Play nice, she has to remind herself. You're almost finished.

For today, remains unspoken, but still hangs heavy over her head.

She wonders if any of these nobles with their frivolous indulgences know that half their people are starving as they raise the taxes each year. The gold embroidery on the hem of Lady Cara's gown alone would keep her family fed through 'til spring. Does she know that her kerchief would be enough to buy Father a proper tunic? Brigid had managed to cobble one together from an old blanket but...

Her eyes close as she lets out a quiet sigh. Just another thing they have to save up for. Eámann keeps insisting that his apprenticeship is almost over, that he'll be able to bring in some coin of his own soon, but he's been saying that for a year now. She prays that Tiarnán will manage to catch something larger than a rabbit tonight, something they can skin to sell the pelt. She doubts it'll get much at the market, but every copper counted.

She remembers last winter, when Tiarnán's traps had been empty nearly every night. Remembers the feasts Lord Rian would host weekly, indulging with reckless abandon and discarding everything not eaten. She remembers sneaking away with the few scraps she could get away with stealing, just so her family wouldn't starve.

Her hand clenches beneath the table, nails digging into the soft skin of her palms. In larger cities, mages like her would get actual, decent pay, worthy of the power they wielded, the potential they had. Here, in the backwater woods of Gods-damned nowhere, she had to content herself with two silvers a week.

Anya hisses as her nails break the surface of her skin, blood beading from pin-prick wounds. Immediately, golden tendrils of her magic seek it out, knitting the wound back together as easily as Brigid had sewn that shirt for her father.

"You're wasted here, you know," Brigid had said the other day after Anya had lit the hearth with nothing more than a thought, pocketing the flint and steel she'd been struggling with. "You could do so much more."

Magic was a rare gift, but it was a dangerous one too. Kings and queens fought to have mages in their army, training them to be living, breathing weapons that could wreak havoc on the battlefield, but at the same time, any mage that lost control would be hunted down and killed. She'd never seen it herself, but she'd heard the stories of mages losing themselves to their magic, heard of emotions eclipsing everything else around them until they'd burnt entire cities to the ground.

Anya had never lost control, never let herself get close enough to the edge to lose all grasp on her magic. She couldn't let herself, not when her family needed her. She'd seen the bodies burning on the pyres, seen the Justiciars and their blood covered blades. She won't let herself be like them—won't let herself be another name added to a Justiciar's list, even if her magic wanted to burst forth from her chest in a raging hot fury.

Once, as a child, she had told Eámann that her magic seemed to have a will of its own. His face had gone white in terror, and had made her swear to never speak those words aloud ever again.

She could do more elsewhere, Brigid had been right about that, but what was the point? She was safe here, never needing to put herself in a position that would make the Justiciars come running. She could stay here, and protect her family, and dream of a future that she'll never see.

A house, big enough for her to start a family of her own and space for her brothers when they came to visit. A garden with flowers and herbs that she could turn into potions and sell out of her house for anyone who needed them. She'd make enough that she'd never go hungry, make enough that her boots wouldn't have holes, her house would be kept warm, and she'd never have to look at another noble again.

But she couldn't do that in Mórsail, and she couldn't do that without leaving her family behind. She could do so much more, but at what cost?

So she had just smiled back at Brigid, hoping that she couldn't see the pain in her eyes, couldn't see the way that she longed and yearned for something that she'd never be able to have.

"And leave you to fend for yourselves?" she had returned. "Never."

Anya casts a look to Lord Rian to see if he'd noticed her little display of magic but he was still deep in discussion with a local merchant about the taxes on grain products. Stupid, petty squabbles when most people couldn't even afford to buy bread let alone pay the tax on it. Lady Cara casts her a glance from her seat further down the table as if to say she too was starting to become bored of all the trivial politics.

Play nice, she reminds herself again. Grit your teeth. Smile. Father needs a new shirt, and the vase you got for Eámann and Brigid's wedding hardly qualifies as a gift. Tiarnán needs a new bow. Your boots have holes—

Her thoughts come to a sputtering stop, breaking off like a shard of ice pushed along by the river in winter. She can feel magic crawling under her skin, but it isn't her own. It's raw, cold, and... hungry. Anya pushes herself to her feet, her own magic starting to pool should she need to call on it.

"What—? What are you doing?" hisses Lord Rian, his gaze turning sharply towards her. "Sit down, mage. You're making a fool of yourself."

Normally, she might have bristled at his indignation, but her attention isn't on him. It's on the pull in her chest, like an invisible thin thread that leads right out the door to something behind. There's an aching, a... longing, like she yearns for something that she'd long since forgotten, like holding onto sand as it slips through her fingers.

Anya half expects a beast, some sort of Fae creature of night and shadow, to step through into the Hall as the doors open, but the only thing that stands there is... a man.

He's a mage, of that she is certain. She can taste his magic from here, all ice and frost and cold winter's air. It rolls off of him in waves, and her own magic thrums in response almost feeling... joyous, somehow, like it had been reunited with something it had lost long ago.

Anya narrows her eyes in suspicion, but she can't hide the way her heart leaps when he glances her way. His eyes are the colour of iron, of lead—dark grey and silver at the same time, shifting in the light with every step he takes. His hair is woven strands of night, stark against skin as pale as snow. There's something else, though. Something she can't quite put her finger on. Something otherworldly and ethereal about him. The way he moves through the room like smoke, soft, gentle, and effortless. His cruel, angular features that would be unbecoming on anyone else. A glow that he has about him that isn't from any magic she's familiar with.

He seems familiar, like she had seen him once in a dream she'd long since forgotten.

"Sit down," hisses Lord Rian again, his black eyes flashing with irritation. "Remember your place."

But Anya does no such thing. Her attention is locked on the man as he approaches the Lord's table, ignoring or perhaps not hearing the hushed murmurs of the gossiping crowd who wonder the identity of this handsome stranger. He doesn't have eyes for any of them, but for the briefest of seconds their gazes meet, and something within her burns in a bright, glorious blaze. The magic she'd always had such careful control over slips from her grasp for but a moment, and she has to clasp her hands behind her back so Lord Rian does not see the faint glow surrounding her fingertips.

It does not escape the stranger's attention, though, and a ghost of a smile washes over his lips, disappearing almost as soon as it had come. Then, he turns his focus to Lord Rian who sits beside her, irritated beyond disbelief, and bows.