Beneath the House of Faces, the dead are no longer content to whisper.
Power was never the danger. Want was.
On Samhain night, with treachery seated beside the throne and the dead stirring beneath the House of Faces, Macha felt him at her back—steady, lethal, far too close. She was meant to hold Ulaid together, not crave the man sworn to protect her. But desire turned every choice into something dangerous.
Ruairi had already crossed death once. Macha was far more dangerous.
Macha stood before him with fire in her eyes while Ulaid cracked apart around her, and every vow he’d sworn strained toward breaking. He was her blade, her shield, the last thing standing between her and the darkness rising through the court. He was never meant to want her like this.
The dead had always spoken to Breda. She never expected them to speak his name.
As the House of Faces began to fracture, the whispers pulled her toward truths long buried within Ulaid—and toward a shadowed man who felt more like a warning than salvation. The dead were no longer content to whisper.
Cian lived with the damage he helped create—and the woman he could not save.
Old magic bound him to grief, guilt, and a past that refused to stay buried. Love had failed them before. It might fail them again.
As Samhain descends, loyalties fracture, the dead grow restless, and Ulaid begins to unravel.
