A dozen sword forms, and Eoghan still felt like punching something.

He lowered his sword and sucked air into his lungs, wishing for the quiet of the mind that came only from pushing his body to its absolute limits. But he felt nothing. For the last two months, he’d spent nearly all day every day with the men in the training yard. It would take much more than a few sword forms to reach that point of blissful exhaustion, yet he dared not return to Carraigmór with this roiling anger burning in his gut.

When you can bring yourself to embrace your calling, then we can talk.

He adjusted his grip on the sword and launched into yet another form, the memory of Conor’s scorn churning inside him. There were perhaps three men that he respected, three men he had loved in this world. One of them was dead, sacrificed for Ard Dhaimhin. The other two —Conor and Conor’s father, Riordan —stood opposed to him. They thought he was shirking his duty, avoiding Comdiu’s calling.

They were right.

Conor, Aine, and Riordan —the entire Conclave, in fact —accepted that Eoghan was meant to be High King. Daimhin’s own writing stated that the man who would sit the Rune Throne would hear the voice of Comdiu, and he was the only one who fit that description.

So why could he not bring himself to embrace it?

He broke off the form and lowered his sword. It was no use. A dozen forms or a thousand —they would still not exorcise this feeling of failure or bring the peace he sought.

You’re seeking peace where there is none to be found.

Comdiu’s piercing presence stopped the thoughts in their tracks. “What shall I do, then? What do You want from me?”

Your obedience.

“I’ve done everything You’ve asked of me.”

Have you?

“Aye.”

That was a lie, though, and it didn’t take word from Comdiu to tell him. His entire life, he had been raised to do his duty, groomed to take leadership from Liam. But when Conor had beaten the Ceannaire in a challenge match to earn freedom from his oaths, he’d dared to hope that perhaps his duty was done, that he could be free.

You worry about losing a life that did not belong to you. Why do you doubt Me?

I don’t doubt You. I’m not needed here. Liam’s plans for me failed. Conor was doing a fine job in the position of Ceannaire, and the city ran as smoothly as it ever had under Liam’s command, even considering the presence of the kingdoms’ subjects. Few people would question Conor should he decide to step forward and claim the kingship.

Men’s most foolish decisions are made from fear.

I am not afraid.

Are you not? Then you are foolish.

What do You want from me, Comdiu? Do You want me to be afraid, or do You want me to be courageous? Even in his mind, Eoghan’s voice took on a petulant tone that made him cringe.

Comdiu’s next words came with a tinge of amusement. You are afraid because you believe you are alone. Do I not walk with you? Do I not speak to you? Why do you think you have been chosen? My leaders must be of My heart, My mind. Why do you rely on your own strength when you have Me?

The chastisement, kind as it was, filled him with shame. Eoghan bowed his head.

Which do you think better achieves My glory: your pride or My strength?

The shame only intensified, raising a lump in his throat. He had been focusing on his own shortcomings, his own desires. Did he think Comdiu wasn’t aware of his weaknesses?

I have not given this gift since Daimhin’s time. I have given it to you for a purpose. Will you obey?

What choice did he have? There was no way to outrun Comdiu’s plans, even if he wanted to. And hadn’t he learned long ago that he was far better off within Comdiu’s will than outside it?

Yet the fear grew in his chest, squeezing out the kernel of assurance that Comdiu’s words had placed in him. Tell me what I must do. Give me a sign.

Eoghan expected Comdiu to chastise him for his lack of faith. Instead, He merely said, Return to Carraigmór.

“Carraigmór? I had planned on —” He cut himself off. One would think that a lifetime of discipline and service would have left him more prepared to obey.

Instead of turning toward the practice yard where he had been spending his days, he turned toward Carraigmór. “Very well, Lord. Direct all my steps. I will obey.”

He climbed the long flight of slick steps to Carraigmór, nodded to the brother on guard as he passed, and entered the great hall. Even having been raised here, the technology that had managed to carve an entire fortress from a granite cliff still awed him. Each room was like a cavern, the corridors that connected them rounded like tunnels and smoothed and polished by hundreds of years of feet and hands. What kind of knowledge must Daimhin have possessed to accomplish such a thing in an age where hardened steel had just been discovered?

Eoghan turned into an intersecting corridor that led to his chamber on the south side of the fortress, his mind fixed so firmly on the past that he nearly collided with a figure coming from the opposite direction. He reached out to steady his victim before he realized it was Aine.

Abruptly, he dropped his hands from her shoulders, his face burning. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“Clearly.” Her wry tone set an uncomfortable squirming in his gut. He swallowed and struggled for something noncommittal to say but only managed an awkward silence.

Aine’s smile faded, making him think she was all too aware of his thoughts. But that only made him focus on the concern tracing her pretty face, the way her braided hair fell over her shoulder and tangled in the chain of her ivory charm. His hand was on its way to pull the braid free before he realized what he was doing and jerked his hand back.

Her gray gaze collided with his, and her eyes widened. Then her shock gave way to determination. “Eoghan, we need to talk.”

“Not necessary, my lady.” If he could melt into the stone wall behind him and save them this embarrassment, he would. He had tried to suppress his feelings for her to no avail. Each time he managed to convince himself it was just a passing infatuation, one look at her would make him feel like pledging his undying devotion. Even more humiliating, both Conor and Aine were fully aware of it.

Truly, he was the worst sort of man.

“You are not the worst sort of man,” she said softly.

Their eyes snapped together once more, and this time she flushed at being caught using her mind powers on him.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lady.” He gave a stiff bow and brushed past her before he could embarrass himself further.

He barely made it a few steps down the corridor before he caught a glimmer from the corner of his eye. He stopped and scanned his surroundings. What had he seen? Maybe it had been a trick of the light, a torch reflecting off a patch of minerals in the stone. Or perhaps his sword forms had brought him closer to exhaustion than he’d thought. He shook his head and continued down the corridor.

But once more, that tiny spark caught his eye, clearly coming from the wall this time. He squinted at the stone and spread his hands over the span of granite. “Aine?” He retrieved a torch from its stand and held it close to the rock while Aine stretched up on tiptoes beside him.

“A rune,” she breathed.

His breath seized in his chest. It was unmistakably a rune, barely visible in the speckled gray stone, a finely etched circle with several intersecting lines.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

The answer came with a swiftness that could only be attributed to Comdiu. “Soft.”

Their gazes met again, an unspoken question in her eyes. He looked away, uncomfortable. She and Conor had spent months poring over texts from the Hall of Prophecies, and he had just deciphered a rune at first sight.

So why this? Why now? The only other time Comdiu had revealed the runes’ meanings to him was when they’d reassembled the pins in Conor’s harp. And those had been objects of power, needed to reinstate the wards around Ard Dhaimhin. This was just a random scrawling of ancient symbols on the inside of a corridor. And soft? Why soft?

Eoghan traced the pattern with his fingertip again. His nail caught the edge of a curve. A sliver of rock fell to the ground.

No, that’s impossible. He squinted at the gouge in the granite. He scratched his nail over another part of it and came away with his fingers covered in powder.

“The rune made the rock soft,” he murmured.

Again, Aine pressed in beside him, stretching to see the gouge in the rock. “So that’s how they carved out the hill. I’ve always suspected it was magic.”

The wonder in her voice echoed his own. They’d known Daimhin had relied on old, forgotten magic to secure his kingdom, and they’d suspected it had something to do with runes. But to find evidence of the practical uses —this went far beyond anything they’d ever imagined.

“Why this? Why now?” Aine said, echoing his musings of moments before.

But Eoghan knew this small revelation would be the key to something important. And it seemed he was the first to bear this knowledge since Daimhin, the first and only High King of Seare.

Like it or not, Eoghan had his sign.