Page 52 of Crownless Heirs

Once across, Kyron led them through the immaculate streets of Finías, a city untouched by the corruption of mortal hands. It was a flawless haven. The people moved with a quiet, unburdened confidence, their smiles easy and unhurried. Gold coins and glittering valuables lay openly on unattended market stalls. Shops left their finest wares on display without a single guard in sight. Here, no one took what wasn’t theirs. Not out of a fear of punishment, but because the concept of theft simply didn’t exist.

There was no place like this in Eadartha. And as Sorcha took in the pristine paradise, a quiet, suffocating unease settled deep in her chest. The absolute safety of the city didn’t comfort her; it only served as a bitter reminder of the fragile, easily corrupted world they had left behind to bleed.

The walk to the council hall felt longer than Sorcha had anticipated. It was likely just nerves, but the moment she crossed the threshold, the anxiety slipped away, replaced by awe.

Inside, the cathedral like space was layered with elegant gold trim that fluidly traced the massive curves of the dome. High above, an impossible painting stretched across the ceiling, depicting the Second Battle of Mag Tuired. It was vibrant and life like; the painted sun shone blindingly bright on Lugh as he hurled his legendary spear, bringing the ancient war to its violent end while the Fomorians fell beneath him.

Beneath the masterpiece, the gods sat.

The moonstone floor gleamed under Sorcha’s boots, catching the light as if infused with the very magic of the realm. At the exact center of the hall stood a massive table of Connemara marble; a lush, vibrant green stone whose depth reminded Sorcha of the endless forests of Lumora. There, seated in high amethyst chairs, was the Council.

As they approached, a large, bearded man with giant stature, unkempt hair, and a hooded cloak lifted his gaze from the other members, then looked back at them as if to let them know he had seen them but was in the middle of something that his attention.

Kyron leaned in and whispered to Sorcha, “That’s the Dagda, the God King.”

Maelan hissed back, his eyes narrowing, “I know who they are!”

“It wasn’t for you,” Kyron snapped under his breath. “I’m telling Sorcha.”

Sorcha ignored their bickering, keeping her eyes fixed on the row of deities as Kyron continued to guide her through the names.

“Next to Dagda is Morrigan, the battle goddess. Beyond her is Nuada, the first king of the Tuatha, his silver arm was forged after he lost his in battle. The woman beside him is his mother, Danu, the mother goddess.”

Sorcha absorbed every detail, burning their faces into her memory. She gave a slight nod. “Okay… who are the rest?”

Kyron nodded toward a handsome young man with fair skin, golden hair, and striking blue eyes, clad in gleaming armor and a crimson robe. “That is Aengus, the God of summer, love, and youth. Next to him is Manannán Mac Lir.”

Manannán was impossibly handsome, his powerful, muscular frame evident even beneath his belted robe. “He protects sailors, commands the sea, and provides the crops,” Kyron explained. “Then there is Goibniu, the God of metalwork and hospitality.”

Sorcha’s gaze lingered on Goibniu, taking note of his black, soot covered hands. His bearded face was both calm and rugged, his presence just as breathtaking as the rest.

“Then we have Ogma, the champion of the gods,” Kyron whispered, finishing the line. “And Donn, the wise man clothed in white. He is the God of the dead.”

As they waited in the heavy silence, the Dagda finally rose.

“Welcome, children of both realms. Aine has already told us you would seek council.”

A tremor ran through Sorcha’s limbs. The God king’s voice was deep, reverberating through the moonstone floor and straight into her soul. He motioned for them to sit. Stepping forward slowly, the three of them took their places around the green marble table. Sorcha closed her eyes for a brief second, exhaling slowly.

Danu was the first to speak. “Child of the Sun, what has brought you before the Tuatha Dé Danann?”

Ringing clear through the vast hall. “Your hypocrisy.” She stated.

The council froze.

“I stand here because my father, Lugh, was murdered by his own blood,” Sorcha said, refusing to let them interrupt. “Bres’s son, Vaelric, slaughtered him to drain his magic. And right now, Vaelric is hunting in the shadows of the mortal realm and here. He is tracking down your bastard children. He’s going to force them to fight in his army, and if they refuse, he is going to slaughter them.”

Aengus spoke low. “Of course they would hide children from us. They hated one another! And after the loss of her son!”

Danu turned on him, her glare sharp as a blade. “How dare you speak so lowly of your kin! You have more bastard children in the world than any of us!” She pointed at him, her voice dripping with accusation.

Nuada slammed his hand down. “How could no one have known of them?!”

“I tried to find my children, do not mix me in with this lot.” Manannán replied, his fists balling by his sides. “You wouldn’t let me bring them here.” He spat at the Dagda.

The room descended into absolute chaos. Voices clashed like thunder, chairs scraped violently against the floor, and the very air quivered with divine tension. Sorcha’s hands shook. She balled them into tight fists on her lap, trying desperately to hide the storm of anger and fear raging inside her. She exchanged a wary glance with Kyron and Maelan. Maelan looked deeply uncomfortable as the shouting grew more violent especially when Morrigan drew a gleaming blade, threatening to cut Aengus down where he sat.

Then, the Dagda stood. His voice didn’t just fill the room, it shook the very foundations of the hall. “I will not have this Council behaving like children. Sit down.”