Prologue

Cycles of the Kings - Ríocht na Meon, Éire

The wailing screams of a woman caught the attention of everyone waiting inside Hayes Bakery. Silence descended as the customers briefly watched out the windows as guards of the First Order chased a young woman down the street, her bright blonde hair trailing behind her. Customers whispered of the druids as a general sense of fear momentarily washed over them.

“Free samples!” Fergus Hayes called out to his customers. “Sorcha, dear, cut up those cinnamon buns for the customers. That’ll calm ’em.”

“Was that a scream, Pa?” Sorcha asked.

“Nothing to worry your sweet face about.” Fergus wiped a bit of sugar from his daughter’s cheek.

Buns and bread were displayed in a glass case, their aroma chasing away the customers’ worried frowns, replacing them with eager smiles. Sorcha, taller than most in their tenth year, fetched the bread knife and cut each bun into quarters. She savored the taste of cinnamon as she licked the sweet syrup from her fingers and placed the sample plate on the counter. Unable to resist the meat pies, she reached for one, still steaming, but her father’s warning voice stopped her. Yanking back her hand, she wiped her sticky palms on her newly finished apron. Her fingers still throbbed from pricking them a dozen times over, but she was proud of the design she’d created with threads of yellow and a blue as bright as the summer sky.

Sorcha deftly slipped under the bar separating herself from the customers, haphazardly shoving a few rolls and a fresh loaf of bread in a small basket for Fiona, who was sure to arrive with her father today. Hayes Bakery was a regular stop on Noah’s delivery route, and as a longtime friend, Sorcha and her family provided baskets of freshly baked goods for Noah’s large, ever-growing family.

But for the last few deliveries, Fiona had stayed home to care for her new baby sister. It made Sorcha wonder what it would be like to be a big sister. When her mother announced her pregnancy, Sorcha had thrown a fit, though she was too old for such behavior. It had been the three of them all her life, and she feared they’d love her little sister or brother more.

The small bell above the door chimed as Noah entered with a large bag slung over his shoulder, Fiona clutching his free hand. She was shorter than Sorcha, with silver-blonde hair pulled back into a neat, tight bun. Her icy blue eyes lit up as she spotted Sorcha. The two threw themselves at each other and embraced. The aroma from Fiona’s farm clung to her, and Sorcha wrinkled her nose while squeezing the air from her lungs.

Sorcha turned to her father with pleading eyes. “Can we go play, Pa, please?”

With a glance at Noah, Sorcha’s father gave a nod. She grabbed Fiona’s hand and dashed through the front door as Noah called out: “Only for a few minutes!”

Sorcha regularly played behind her father’s bakery while he worked, and her mother rested at home. Her toys leaned against the fence beside the bakery, awaiting her. This was the best way for her to keep out of trouble and not get in the way since she burned any bread or pastries she helped bake, always too distracted to stay focused.

A string of carriages raced past the bakery stirring up more dust. The storefront faced the road, allowing for easy access for townsfolks and travelers. Aligning along the main road, to the left of the bakery, were small stalls and more shops selling wares and goods.  To the right, slightly set back from the main road, stood Sorcha and Fiona. They gagged as their eyes watered from the dust. The girls dropped the toys and hurried to the roadside as people gathered along the cobblestone streets to peek at the carriages heading toward the castle, only to disappear into the cloud of dirt.

“Stop them!” The bellowing rage of a shopkeeper’s voice pulled the crowd’s attention.

A wall of First Order guards emerged as the dust settled. Merchants plastered on false smiles, children scurried away, and the townsfolk gave a wide berth, afraid to give the guards an excuse to ruin their day. But Sorcha’s attention wasn’t on the guards—instead, she watched two frightened girls sneaking behind a stall directly across the street from them.

“They have the same face,” Fiona whispered to Sorcha, also noticing.

The two girls had eyes of onyx. One looked around the market frantically and noticed Sorcha and Fiona staring. The girls’ eyes watered in fear, silently begging Sorcha for help. Their dark brown complexion was covered in cuts and grime. The girls were most likely orphans, runaways, or dearmad, the forgotten children of druids.

Rumors of the dearmad ran rampant through the Meon. After authorities captured people for practicing arcane magic, their children had nowhere to go and wandered the streets, ignored or forgotten. People feared taking them in, worried they’d manifest one of the four eilimintí, putting them and their families in danger.

No child should live without their parents, and the urge to help those two cowering girls burned Sorcha’s eyes as she held back tears.

“There you are!” the shopkeeper shouted, then yanked the arm of the girl with cropped black hair, and called out to the guards. “I have a thief for you.”

Some fled the scene, rushing into the safety of their homes and shops. The First Order were on the hunt for a druid, and held most of the townsfolk spellbound, freezing them in place and making it impossible to look away. Sorcha stared in shocked realization that the girls were likely dearmad, since that was the First Order’s reason for existing. The one with cropped hair fought back, kicking and screaming. The guard threw her over his shoulder, while another guard shoved the girl with long locs to the ground.

The dearmad with cropped hair went still, and the guard’s grip slipped. She pushed off his shoulder and charged the guard crushing the other girl to the ground as he wrenched her arm back and pressed her face into the cobblestone.

The girls’ screams of pain made Sorcha’s tears spill over.

With a battle cry that made her blood run cold, the girl with the cropped hair pushed with inhuman strength and knocked the guard down with a nauseating thump as his head hit the large stone. The guards halted, mouths agape, at the dearmad’s violence. Red seeped from his head as the light disappeared from his eyes.

Fiona shivered and wept from the violence they witnessed by the men who had sworn to protect, and it enraged Sorcha. Anger simmered in her chest and the fleeting desire to throw rocks at them blurred her vision. But she knew a single rock would land her in the stocks for the day, or worse, a lashing.

“Imogen?” The dearmad with cropped hair crawled to the unconscious girl lying beside the dead guard. She cried out the name repeatedly, like a prayer, her voice echoing in the silent street.

The townsfolk could not pull their judging gaze away as the young girl crawled passed the dead guard, reaching the limp body of her sister, her hair and face covered in dust and blood.

Sorcha gasped, clasping her hand over her mouth. The guards seized the girl, but she kicked out as an Otherworldly scream wrenched from her soul, calling out her sister’s name. But Imogen didn’t move as she lay beside the dead guard, his blood now pooling around the two bodies. Even if she was a dearmad, she was too young to display any magic. But still, the guards forced her to the ground, while one retrieved chains to secure her tiny wrists. As the girl pulled at the guard’s arm, he suddenly lurched forward and fell face-first onto the ground. The townsfolk scattered at first in confusion, then in fear as the dearmad revealed herself as a druid, confirming Sorcha’s suspicion. The surviving guards put a safe distance between them and the dearmad, suspecting her touch caused the guards’ death. She curled her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth, repeating, “Imogen. Imogen. Imogen.”

“What’s going on here?” A deep baritone voice interrupted the chaos, and silence descended upon the people.

A man, well into his third decade of life with a dark brown complexion and haunting eyes, sauntered past the frightened guards who hovered around the dearmad. He stole a glance at the dead guard, halting at a sallow face with veins of black spiraling down his neck beneath his armor, weaving inky knots. The man’s attention flickered to the dearmad, then to Imogen, and his eyes softened.

“What’s your name, child?” he asked.

Tears ran down her face as she curled into herself, struggling to speak through her shock. “I didn’t mean to do it,” she finally stuttered, wiping snot from her face.

“Of course not. We all make unforgivable mistakes,” he said and then pointed behind her. “Your sister?”

“Yes, sir,” she cried.

Her sorrow was palpable. Sorcha turned away, blocking both Fiona and her view.

Fiona’s hands clenched at her chest. “It hurts,” she breathed. “Make it stop.”

“What hurts?” Sorcha panicked as tears streamed down Fiona’s face.

“Everything. Make it stop,” Fiona whimpered.

Unsure how to help, Sorcha led her away from the tragic scene, failing to push the death and violence from her mind. She’d never seen one so young with arcane magic, or that kind of power.