Chapter 36

CHAPTER 36

G WYDION RAN.

He ran as though all of Annwvyn were giving chase—because they would be. It was only a matter of time until word reached Arawn and Pwyll. They would be gathering their forces, sending out scouts to chase the wayward trickster.

Every part of him ached. Pain had been a companion for much of his life, but now it nipped at his every step like an overeager hound. He drank his fill at a stream, using those precious moments to catch his breath.

You will break a throne.

Those words echoed within him. He’d always hated tales of prophecies. It seemed a cruel trick of fate to tell a person their future without giving them the tools to avert it.

He remembered Pryderi’s prophecy—and then he quashed that thought so viciously that he winced.

He would not think of Pryderi.

He would not think of Branwen.

He would think of Gwynedd. Of the kingdom he was going to build. He would help shape it, grow it as he had grown his gardens. With Arianrhod as queen, they would make a world where villagers did not have to fear mercenaries raiding them or afancs stealing children. He could not change the past. He could only move forward, and he had set out on this path long before he met the huntress.

But it hurt. It hurt so badly he thought he might collapse under the weight of the agony. He could see Branwen’s face when she realized the depths of his betrayal, how he had willingly given her fealty to the Hunt.

That was his worst regret. That he had left her behind.

No , he thought. Once the rings were safely with Arianrhod, once her rule was secured, Gwydion would return to the mountains. He did not know what it would take—trickery, fighting—but he would retrieve her brooch. It was the least he owed her.

But for now, all he could do was flee.

As he ran, he reached out to the forest. He went barefoot so that he could feel the breath and pulse of the wood. Talk to me , he thought. Tell me what is to come.

The trees creaked, shivered, and whispered of an oncoming storm. The forces of Annwvyn were mustering. They would be nimble—immortals could flit through the forest as swift as deer. Even with the trees guiding his way, with undergrowth moving aside for him, the folk would catch up.

And Gwydion could not fight them.

His steps slowed. Every breath felt like fire in his chest, and his legs shook with exertion. His strength was flagging, and he knew he would not reach the edge of the forest before the otherfolk came for him.

As if summoned by his thoughts, he heard the baying of hounds. Shouts rang out, far too close for his comfort.

They were not simply coming—they were here .

Gwydion uttered a quiet curse.

This was the true Wild Hunt: a single mortal pursued through a forest by monsters and hunters. A memory flickered back to him—that small gray fox Amaethon had tried so hard to kill.

Gwydion was that fox now. He needed help. But there was no one to turn to.

No.

He would not give up. He had come too far, given up too much, paid too high a cost. He could not fail.

He was Gwydion .

He was not just a trickster, not just a hunter, not just the sickly boy with the broken hand.

He was the youngest son of D?n. He had been born to the most powerful diviner of nature that had ever walked the land. Forests were his birthright. It did not matter to whom the land belonged—everything that grew upon it was his.

This time, he did not sing nor hum. This was no gentle power, no caress of magic to coax a leaf into unfurling or a flower to bloom.

Gwydion fell to his knees and screamed .

He screamed his defiance, his anger, his loss. He screamed for the child he had been, for the mother he mourned, for the sister who had tried so hard to protect him, for the nephews he had tried to protect in turn, for the friend he had slain, and for her. For the huntress.

A shock wave rippled through the wood. The trees shivered, and the birds went silent.

For a heartbeat, all was still. Gwydion was on his knees, his chest heaving and throat raw. The world spun around him; he had never used so much power. He could only hope it would be enough.

A young alder tree shuddered. An oak creaked and groaned. A willow branch whipped back and forth, like a soldier loosening their arms before battle. A rowan shivered as its roots curled through the ground.

The magic had gone far deeper than even Gwydion imagined.

Every tree, every bramble, every flower and thorn—they all woke from their winter sleep.

And the forest went to war.