For weeks, no one saw her.
Not in the mountains.Not in the skies.Not in the palace, where fear now sat heavier than the crown.
Whispers spread faster than fire.
The hanged queen had returned.She grew wings of stone and vanished into the clouds.She cursed the king—turned his sword arm to rock.
None knew where she went.
But Éirinn knew.
The cliffs of Carn Úrail were not on any map.A jagged maze of black stone and broken wind, veiled by stormclouds, forgotten by time.
Here, the air stung of salt and magic.Here, Éirinn made her nest.
Not of twigs.
Of obsidian and fury.
She no longer needed food. Not like before. Her fire sustained her, curled deep in her belly like a second heart.
By the third night, her body had fully changed.
Not dragon—Not woman—Something between.
Her limbs lengthened with strength. Her wings grew heavier, stronger, edged with blue firelight in the dusk. Her reflection in the rain-slick stones showed a creature shaped by grief, veined with vengeance.
And still, her memories burned hotter than her breath.
Cianán's face.
His silence.
His voice when he said, "She means nothing to me."
She should have turned him to stone completely.
She had wanted to.
She almost did.
But when she saw him paralyzed on the ground, cradling his petrified arm, she had faltered.
Not out of mercy.
Out of rage.Because she wanted him to live.To suffer.
To remember.
She left him half-whole because half-whole was worse than dead.
The days bled together.
At night, she dreamt of fire. Of wings. Of her voice echoing across the mountains in a tongue she did not know but somehow understood.
A name came to her.
Clíodhna.
The first of the Stoneborn.
A woman-turned-dragon who, in ancient scrolls, had once consumed a king and vanished into the sea.
Was she Éirinn's ancestor? Her blood? Her shadow?
She didn't know.
But she could feel her in her bones.
Calling.
Waiting.
The kingdom above her teetered.
The nobles were restless. The people were terrified. And Cianán, now bearing a stone arm and a wound that would not heal, locked himself in the old war chamber and read every scroll on dragon myths the royal library held.
But he found no answers.
Only shame.
And a truth that clawed at him every night.
Éirinn had not poisoned him.
It was Aithne—the courtier he had welcomed, trusted, kissed behind Éirinn's back. She had meant to weaken him, so Ronan's uprising could take hold.
And when it failed?
They pinned it on the one woman who had no alibi, no allies, and no voice.
His wife.
His queen.
His execution.
He sent scouts to the mountains.
They returned with broken maps, charred boots, and wild stories.
"She guards a maze of stone," one said. "And anyone who gets too close turns to marble."
"She doesn't sleep," whispered another. "She watches. She waits."
"Her eyes glow like the old gods," said a third. "She's not the same."
Cianán only asked one question:
"Does she remember?"
None dared to answer.
Then came the bandits.
Desperate men, foolish and cruel, who believed the stories of treasure in the cliffs.
They climbed the black paths with torches and blades.
They never returned.
Not as men.
The next traveler found them as statues—frozen in horror, mid-scream, their weapons still clutched in petrified fists.
Éirinn had not touched them.
She had only breathed.
A year passed.
Cianán came himself.
Alone. Cloaked. Pale.
He followed the broken trail to the edge of her stone sanctuary.
He did not speak.
He merely sat on the rock she once bit him beside, and waited.
One night passed. Then two.
On the third, she came.
Her wings stirred the fog. Her scales glinted like wet iron. Her eyes burned.
She landed before him like the end of an era.
He did not rise.
He knelt.
"My queen," he whispered. "Forgive me."
She bared her teeth.
He did not flinch.
"I was a coward. I let them break you. And I watched you fall."
She stepped closer.
Her breath fogged his cheek with venom.
"I would take your stone arm as my penance. I would give you both."
He looked up. Calm. Waiting.
She leaned down, fangs bared—poison humming beneath her tongue.
But when her teeth hovered over his other arm, her body froze.
Not because of pity.
Because of pain.
Her chest burned.
Tears spilled from her eyes before she could stop them.
She dropped him.
Screamed—not with rage, but with grief.
And in that broken sound was every day in the tower, every silent meal, every kiss he gave and every one he withheld.
She collapsed beside him.
And for the first time in months, she slept.
He built a tent near the mouth of the cave.
He did not leave.
Not for a week.
Not for a month.
Each day, she awoke, still in her dragon form, silent and wary.
Each night, he whispered stories. Old memories. The way she laughed when it rained. How he once braided her hair and got tangled in it. How he held the green dress for days after she died.
And slowly, she softened.
He reached for her hand one morning—and she let him.
And in that moment, she shifted.
Back into flesh.
Into Éirinn.
Her human body collapsed into his arms, trembling and cold.
Her voice was raw. Quiet. But real.
"I remember everything."
He held her tighter.
"I do, too."