The Thrall Queen
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Epilogue
Leinster, Ireland — 967 AD
The king arrived at the monastery gates at dawn, alone save for the bundle wrapped in his cloak. His face was gaunt with sleeplessness and something deeper—the hollowed look of a man who had already lost everything that mattered.
Brother Cormac opened the postern gate, eyes widening at the sight of royal insignia on a man who rode without guard or retinue.
“Fetch the Abbot,” the king said. “Quickly.”
Abbot Finian met him in the scriptorium, away from curious eyes. The king laid the bundle on the writing table, and when he drew back the cloth, a pair of enormous grey-green eyes blinked up at them. The child—no more than six months old—had a downy crown of copper-red hair.
“Your Majesty.” The Abbot’s voice was careful. “Your daughter?”
“The Princess Saoirse.” The king’s hand trembled as he touched the infant’s cheek. “The Norse took my wife. My sons. My hall is ash, my lands overrun. They’re hunting for her—they know if they kill her, my bloodline ends.”
The baby made a small sound, and the king’s composure cracked. He closed his eyes.
“I cannot protect her,” he said, raw. “But you can.”
Abbot Finian looked at the child, then at the broken king before him. “How long?”
“Until I can rebuild. Until I can drive them back and reclaim what’s mine.” The king’s jaw set. “Or until she’s old enough to reclaim it herself.”