The Faceless Woman by Emma Hamm (i love reading .txt) 📕

had a way of making people see the world the way she saw it. More than that, her gentle touches and unabashed bravery had worn away at the sharp edges of his anger.

Seelie Fae saw him as an animal. Unseelie Fae saw him as a pretty meld of human and animal without any bite. Aisling saw him as a man, and she was the first person to take a step toward acknowledging he had a soul.

“She’s bleeding,” he quietly said. “We should get her help.”

“Can you stay upright if you follow me?”

Probably not, but he squared his shoulders and nodded.

They made their way across the rocky shore, picking their way over seaweed-laden stone and algae-filled crevices. He nearly slipped a few times but caught himself at the last second. When they reached the top of a small rise, the sea fell away. Emerald green grass spread out before them like a blanket laid out for a god.

A fortress jutted from the earth in the distance. Made out of black stone, it had earned its name. The Fortress of Shadows was the home to the most powerful women in all the Otherworld. Kings had begged for their support, then for their training, but only one had ever managed to convince these women to bend a knee.

Even then, it hadn’t ended well for him.

Letting out a breath, he followed close on Elva’s heels as she made her way up the meandering dirt path and entered the home of the great Lady Scáthach.

Bran vividly remembered the stories told of her. How she had taken down an army by herself. How she had risen from the ground a grown woman, her arms powerful, her sword sharp, and her soul that of a woman crying out for revenge.

She was feared throughout the Otherworld, not because she was evil, but because she was vengeance personified.

Dark walls jutted out of the earth and towered above them. Elva walked past with little reaction to the archer’s who pointed drawn bows at them.

Women peered out of their tents laid out across the fortress grounds. Each and every one of them was training to be just as deadly as Scáthach. Many would succeed and go out into the world to take over their own kingdom, to kill those who wronged them, to train husbands and sons in the true art of war.

Compared to them, he felt small. Bran was no little man. He was tall and broad, although lean in a way his siblings were not. But these women were powerful in every sense of the word. Muscles bulged in their necks and biceps flexed as they crossed their arms and stared him down.

Armor clinked as the breeze shifted their chainmail. Even in their home, they were prepared for battle.

A chicken rushed past, strangely silent as it fled some hidden force. It didn’t bode well. Bran gritted his teeth and hoped that Aisling’s strange familiar had made himself scarce. The last thing he needed was a black cat to cross his path.

The doors banged open, and Scáthach herself strode from the fortress and made her way toward them. She was a giant of a woman with red hair like a bloom of fire, terrifying in her height and power in her every movement. Muscles flexed, armor creaked, but above all else, it was the storm hidden in her gaze that made Bran’s feathers raise on his arm.

“Be at peace, Unseelie,” she called out. “I have not the energy to deal with you yet. Bring me the girl.”

Elva raced toward the mistress and deposited her sister into the outstretched arms. “She is badly wounded.”

“Cursed?”

“In many ways,” Bran called out. “A spell to keep her asleep. It slows the poison.”

“Not entirely useless then.” Scáthach pressed her ear to Aisling’s lips and then straightened. “She’ll live.”

The warrior woman turned on her heel and strode toward the fortress. Bran moved to follow her, only to halt when Elva’s hand slapped hard against his chest.

“No man enters the Fortress of Shadows.”

“Does this not count?”

“You know you are within the surrounding walls. Stop trying to mince words, Bran, and keep your feet anchored to the ground.”

Heavy doors closed behind Scáthach. The reverberating thrum echoed in his head, but all he could feel was the distance between himself and the strange witch who had wiggled her way into his heart.

Elva’s gaze burned. “You aren’t yourself,” she mused. “Come with me. I’ll get you something to eat, and perhaps we can slow the effects from the binding curse.”

“I thought you told me to stay put.” He wouldn’t mind, even though it surprised him, but a part of him wanted to stare at the doors until they opened again.

Could Scáthach actually save her? Or had he brought them both to their doom?

Elva shoved him forward. “Come on then. Stop staring like a love-sick puppy. You know I always hated it when you did that.”

“I’m not staring at you.”

“No, you’re staring at my baby sister, and that’s even worse.”

She had a point. He couldn’t imagine what was running through her head. With all the history between them…

Bran cursed. Not one memory had crossed his mind since coming here. Really since meeting Aisling. How could he have forgotten the deep river of broken engagements, childhood dreams, and promises whispered in the dead of night?

Fool. He was such a fool.

Ducking his head, he followed her through the crowds of women standing and eyeing him as if he were candy. A few times Elva knocked one back with her shoulder, others she grinned at as she led him to her tent.

When Elva pointed to a small carpeted area in front of her home, he sat without question. He drummed his fingers on his knees. His gaze flicked toward the fortress every few heartbeats. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Scáthach—she was a warrior woman capable of much more than he knew—but worry gnawed in his belly regardless.

“She will heal,” Elva said. She pulled the sword from her back and set it on the